“You don’t know what an actress is,” said my aunt.
“Oh, yes, I do. Rachel is an actress!”
“You know Rachel?” asked mamma, getting up.
“Oh, yes, she came to the convent once, to see little Adèle Sarony. She
went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down
because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to
bring her round, and she was so pale, oh, so pale! I was very sorry for
her and Sister Appoline told me that what she did was killing her, for
she was an actress, and so I won’t be an actress, I won’t.”
I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my voice
hard.
I remembered all that Sister Appoline had told me, and Mother Ste.
Sophie, too. I remembered, also, that when Rachel had gone out of the
garden, looking very pale, and holding a lady’s arm for support, a
little girl had put her tongue out at her. I did not want people to put
out their tongues at me when I was grown up.
_Conservatoire!_ That word alarmed me. The duke had wanted me to be an
actress and he had now gone away so that I could not talk things over
with him. He went away smiling and tranquil, after caressing me in the
usual friendly way. He had gone—caring little about the scraggy child
whose future had been discussed.
“Send her to the _Conservatoire_!”
That sentence uttered so carelessly had come like a bomb into my life.
I, the dreamy child, who that morning was ready to repulse princes and
kings; I, whose trembling fingers had that morning told over chaplets of
dreams, who only a few hours ago had felt my heart beating with emotion
hitherto unknown to me; I, who had got up expecting some great event to
take place, was to see everything disappear, thanks to that phrase as
heavy as lead and as deadly as a bullet: “Send her to the
_Conservatoire_!”
And I divined that this phrase was to be the signpost of my life. All
those people had gathered together at the turning of the crossroads.
“Send her to the _Conservatoire_!” I wanted to be a nun and this was
considered absurd, idiotic, unreasonable. “Send her to the
_Conservatoire_” had opened out a field for discussion, the horizon of
the future. My uncle, Félix Faure, and Mlle. Brabender were the only
ones against this idea. They tried in vain to make my mother understand
that with the hundred thousand francs that my father had left me I might
marry. But my mother had replied that I had declared I had a horror of
marriage, and that I should wait until I was of age to go into a
convent.
“Under these conditions,” she said, “Sarah will never have her father’s
money.”
“No, certainly not,” put in the notary.
“Then,” continued my mother, “she would enter the convent as a servant
and I will not have that! My money is an annuity, so that I cannot leave
anything to my children. I, therefore, want them to have a career of
their own.” My mother was now exhausted with so much talking and lay
back in an armchair. I got very much excited and my mother asked me to
go away.
Mlle. Brabender and Mme. Guérard were arguing in a low voice, and I
thought of the aristocratic man who had just left us. I was very angry
with him, for this idea of the _Conservatoire_ was his.
Mlle. Brabender tried to console me. Mme. Guérard said that this career
had its advantages. Mlle. Brabender considered that the convent would
have a great fascination for so dreamy a nature as mine. The latter was
very religious and a great churchgoer; “_ma petite dame_,” was a pagan
in the purest acceptation of that word, and yet the two women got on
very well together, thanks to their affectionate devotion to me.
Mme. Guérard adored the proud rebelliousness of my nature, my pretty
face, and the slenderness of my figure; Mlle. De Brabender was touched
by my delicate health. She endeavored to comfort me when I was jealous
for not being loved as much as my sister, but what she liked best about
me was my voice. She always declared that my voice was modulated for
prayers and my delight in the convent appeared to her quite natural. She
loved me with a gentle, pious affection, and Mme. Guérard loved me with
bursts of paganism. These two women, whose memory is still dear to me,
shared me between them and made the best of my good qualities and my
faults. I certainly owe to both of them this study of myself and the
vision I have of myself.
The day was destined to end in the strangest of fashions. Mme. Guérard
had gone back to her apartment upstairs and I was lying on a little
straw armchair which was the most ornamental piece of furniture in my
room. I felt very drowsy and was holding Mlle. De Brabender’s hand in
mine, when the door opened and my aunt entered, followed by my mother. I
can see them now, my aunt in her dress of puce silk trimmed with fur,
her brown velvet hat tied under her chin with long, wide strings, and
mamma, who had taken off her dress and put on a white woolen dressing
gown. She always detested keeping on her dress in the house, and I
understood by her change of costume that everyone else had gone, and
that my aunt was ready to leave. I got up from my armchair, but mamma
made me sit down again.
“Rest yourself thoroughly,” she said, “for we are going to take you to
the theater this evening, to the Français.” I felt sure that this was
just a bait and I would not show any sign of pleasure, although in my
heart I was delighted at the idea of going to the Français. The only
theater I knew anything of was the Robert Houdin, to which I was taken
sometimes with my sister, and I fancy that it was for her benefit we
went as I was really too old to care for that kind of performance.
“Will you come with us?” mamma said, turning to Mlle. De Brabender.
“Willingly, madame,” replied this dear creature. “I will go home and
change my dress.”
My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.
“Little fraud,” she said, as she went away, “you are hiding your
delight. Ah, well, you will see some actresses to-night!”
“Is Rachel going to act?” I asked.
“Oh, no, she is ill.”
My aunt kissed me and went away, saying she would see me again later on,
and my mother followed her out of the room. Mlle. De Brabender then
hurriedly prepared to leave me. She had to go home to dress and to tell
them that she would not be in until quite late, for, in her convent,
special permission had to be obtained when one wished to be out later
than ten at night. When I was alone I swung myself backward and forward
in my armchair which, by the way, was anything but a rocking-chair. I
began to think, and for the first time in my life my critical
comprehension came to my aid. And so all these serious people had been
inconvenienced, the notary fetched from Hâvre, my uncle dragged away
from working at his book, the old bachelor, M. Meydieu, disturbed in his
habits and customs, my godfather kept away from the Stock Exchange, and
that aristocratic and skeptical Duc de Morny cramped up for two hours in
the midst of our bourgeois surroundings, and all to end in this
decision: “_She shall be taken to the theater!_” I do not know what part
my uncle had taken in this burlesque plan, but I doubt whether it was to
his taste. All the same, I was glad to go to the theater; it made me
feel more important. That morning on waking up I was quite a child, and
now events had taken place which had transformed me into a young girl. I
had been discussed by everyone, and I had expressed my wishes, without
any result, certainly, but all the same I had expressed them, and now it
was deemed necessary to humor and indulge me in order to win me over.
They could not force me into agreeing to what they wanted me to do; my
consent was necessary, and I felt so joyful and so proud about it that I
was quite touched and almost ready to yield. However, I said to myself
that it would be better to hold my own and let them ask me again.
After dinner we all squeezed into a cab—mamma, my godfather, Mlle. De
Brabender, and I. My godfather made me a present of some white gloves.
On mounting the steps at the Théâtre Français I trod on a lady’s dress.
She turned round and called me a “stupid child.” I moved back hastily
and came into collision with a very stout old gentleman who gave me a
rough push forward.
When once we were all installed in a box facing the stage, mamma and I
in the first row with Mlle. De Brabender behind me, I felt more
reassured. I was close against the partition of the box, and I could
feel Mlle. De Brabender’s sharp knees through the velvet of my chair.
This gave me confidence, and I leaned against the back of the chair,
purposely to feel the support of those two knees.
When the curtain slowly rose, I thought I should have fainted. It was as
though the curtain of my future life were being raised. Those
columns—“Britannicus” was being played—were to be my palaces, the
friezes above were to be my skies, and those boards were to bend under
my frail weight. I heard nothing of “Britannicus,” for I was far, far
away, at Grandchamps in my dormitory there.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked my godfather, when the curtain
fell. I did not answer and he laid his hand on my head and turned my
face round toward him. I was crying, big tears rolling slowly down my
cheeks, those tears that come without any sobs and without any hope of
ever ceasing.
My godfather shrugged his shoulders, and getting up, left the box,
banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience with me,
proceeded to review the house through her opera glass, Mlle. De
Brabender passed me her handkerchief; my own had fallen down and I had
not the courage to pick it up.
* * * * *
The curtain had been raised for the second piece, “Amphytrion,” and I
made an effort to listen, for the sake of pleasing my governess, who was
so gentle and conciliating. I can only remember one thing, and that is
that _Alcinène_ seemed to me to be so unhappy that I burst into loud
sobs, and that the whole house, very much amused, looked at our box. My
mother, deeply annoyed, took me out, and Mlle. De Brabender went with
us. My godfather was furious, and muttered: “She ought to be shut up in
a convent and left there! Good Heavens, what a little idiot the child
is!”
This was the début of my artistic life!
CHAPTER V
I RECITE “THE TWO PIGEONS”
I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to
me from everywhere: Racine, Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne.... I
opened them, but as I did not understand them at all, I quickly closed
them again, and read my little La Fontaine, which I loved passionately.
I knew all his fables, and one of my delights was to make a bet with my
godfather or with M. Meydieu, our learned and tiresome friend. I used to
bet that they would not recognize all the fables, if I began with the
last verse and went backward to the first one, and I often won the bet.
A line from my aunt arrived one day, telling my mother that M. Auber,
who was then Director of the _Conservatoire_, was expecting us the next
day at nine in the morning. I was about to put my foot in the stirrup.
My mother sent me with Mme. Guérard. M. Auber received us very affably,
as the Duc de Morny had spoken to him of me. I was very much impressed
by him, with his refined face and white hair, his ivory complexion and
magnificent black eyes, his fragile and distinguished look, his
melodious voice and the celebrity of his name. I scarcely dared answer
his questions. He spoke to me very gently, and told me to sit down.
“You are very fond of the stage?” he began.
“Oh, no, monsieur!” I answered.
This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Mme. Guérard from under
his heavy eyelids, and she at once said:
“No, she does not care for the stage, but she does not want to marry,
and consequently she will have no money, as her father left her a
hundred thousand francs, which she can only have on her wedding-day. Her
mother, therefore, wants her to have some profession, for Mme. Bernhardt
only has an annuity, a fairly good one, but it is only an annuity, and
so she will not be able to leave her daughters anything. On that account
she wants Sarah to become independent. Sarah would like to enter a
convent.”
“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said M. Auber,
slowly. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Fourteen and a half,” replied Mme. Guérard.
“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.”
The kind old man smiled.
“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less about the
exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long
enough, he rose.
“It appears,” he said to Mme. Guérard, “that this little girl’s mother
is very beautiful?”
“Oh, very beautiful!” she replied.
“You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and
my thanks for having so thoughtfully sent you.” He thereupon kissed Mme.
Guérard’s hand, and she colored slightly.
This conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of
it, every movement and every gesture of M. Auber’s, for this little man,
so charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking
hand. He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said:
“Come, courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some
day for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad; life is well worth
beginning, seriously, but gayly.”
I stammered out a few words of thanks, and, just as I was making my
exit, a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She was heavy and
extremely bustling, though, and M. Auber bent his head toward me and
said quietly:
“Above all things don’t let yourself get stout like this singer.
Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an _artiste_.”
The manservant was now holding the door open for us, and, as M. Auber
returned to his visitor, I heard him say:
“Well, ... most ideal of women....”
I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in the carriage.
Mme. Guérard told my mother about our interview, but the latter did not
even let her finish, and only said: “Good, good; thank you.”
The examination was to take place a month after this visit. The
difficulty was to choose a piece for the examination. My mother did not
know any theatrical people. My godfather advised me to learn “Phèdre,”
but Mlle. De Brabender objected, as she thought it a little offensive,
and refused to help me if I chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend,
wanted me to work at _Chimène_, in “Le Cid,” but first he declared that
I clenched my teeth too much for it. It was quite true that I did not
make the O open enough, and did not roll the R sufficiently, either. He
wrote a little notebook for me, which I am copying exactly, as my poor,
dear Guérard kept religiously everything concerning me, and she gave me,
later on, a quantity of papers which are very useful now.
The following are my old friend’s instructions:
“Every morning instead of do ... re ... mi ... practice te ... de ...
de ... in order to learn to vibrate....
“Before breakfast repeat forty times over:
Un-très-gros-rat-dans-un-très-gros-trou—in order to vibrate the R.
“Before dinner repeat forty times: Combien ces six saucisses-ci? C’est
six sous, ces six saucisses-ci. Six sous ces six saucisses-ci? Six
sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-là; six sous ces six
saucisses-ci!—in order to learn not to whizz the S.
“At night when going to bed repeat twenty times: Didon, dina dit-on du
dos d’un dodu dindon.... And twenty times: Le plus petit papa petit
pipi petit popo petit pupu.... Open the mouth square for the D, and
pout for the P....”
He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. De Brabender, who
quite seriously wanted me to practice it. My governess was charming, and
I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when,
after making me go through the “te ... de ... de” exercise, which went
fairly well, and then the “très-gros-rat,” etc., she started on the
_saucisses_ (sausages). Ah, no, that was a cacophony of hisses in her
toothless mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl! And when she
began with the “Didon” ... accompanied by the “plus petit papa,” I
thought my dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her
eyes, her face was red, her mustache bristled up, she put on a
sententious, hurried manner, her mouth widened out and looked like the
slit in a money box, or else it was creased up into a little ring, and
she purred and hissed and chirped without ceasing. I flung myself
exhausted into my wicker-work chair, choking with laughter, and great
tears poured from my eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out
right and left until they were useless, and rocked myself backward and
forward, screaming with laughter.
My mother, attracted by the noise I was making, half opened the door.
Mlle. De Brabender explained to her very gravely that she was showing me
M. Meydieu’s method. My mother expostulated with me, but I would not
listen to anything, as I was nearly beside myself with laughter. She
then took Mlle. De Brabender away and left me alone, for she feared that
I would finish with hysterics. When once I was by myself, I began to
calm down. I closed my eyes and thought of my convent again. The “te ...
de ... de” got mixed up in my enervated brain with the “Our Father,”
which I used to have to repeat some days fifteen or twenty times as a
punishment. Finally, I came to myself again, got up, and, after bathing
my face in cold water, went to my mother, whom I found playing whist
with my governess and godfather. I kissed Mlle. De Brabender, and she
returned my kiss with such indulgent kindness that I felt quite
embarrassed by it.
Ten days passed by and I did none of M. Meydieu’s exercises, except the
“te ... de ... de” at the piano. My mother came and woke me every
morning for this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn
“Aricie,” but I understood nothing of what he told me about the verses.
He considered, and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an
intonation, and that the value must only be put on the rhyme. His
theories were boring to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I
could not understand _Aricie’s_ character, for it did not seem to me
that she loved _Hippolyte_ at all, and she appeared to me to be a
scheming flirt. My godfather explained to me that in olden times this
was the way people loved each other, and when I remarked that _Phèdre_
appeared to love in a better way than that, he took me by the chin, and
said:
“Just look at this naughty child. She is pretending not to understand,
and would like us to explain to her....”
This was simply idiotic. I did not understand, and had not asked
anything, but this man had a _bourgeois_ mind, and was sly and lewd. He
did not like me because I was thin, but he was interested in me because
I was going to be an actress. That word evoked for him the weak side of
our art. He did not see the beauty, the nobleness of it, nor yet its
beneficial power.
I could not fathom all this at that time, but I did not feel at ease
with this man, whom I had seen from my childhood, and who was almost
like a father to me. I did not want to continue learning “Aricie.” In
the first place, I could not talk about it with my governess, as she
would not discuss the piece at all.
I then learned the “Ecole des Femmes,” and Mlle. De Brabender explained
_Agnes_ to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole
story appeared to her of childlike simplicity, and when I said the
lines: “He has taken from me, he has taken from me the ribbon you gave
me,” she smiled in all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed
heartily.
Finally the examination day arrived. Everyone had given me advice, but
no one any really helpful counsel. It had not occurred to anyone that I
ought to have had a professional to prepare me for my examination. I got
up in the morning with a heavy heart and an anxious mind. My mother had
had a black silk dress made for me. It was slightly low-necked, and was
finished with a gathered bertha. The frock was rather short, and showed
my drawers. These were trimmed with embroidery, and came down to my
brown kid boots. A white guimpe emerged from my black bodice and was
fastened round my throat, which was too slender. My hair was parted on
my forehead, and then fell as it liked, for it was not held by pins or
ribbons. I wore a large straw hat, although the season was rather
advanced. Everyone came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and
round twenty times at least. I had to make my courtesy for everyone to
see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. My _petite dame_
came downstairs, with her grave husband, and kissed me. She was deeply
affected. Our old Marguerite made me sit down, and put before me a cup
of cold beef tea, which she had simmered so carefully for a long time
that it was then a delicious jelly, and I swallowed it in a second. I
was in a great hurry to start. On rising from my chair I moved so
brusquely that my dress caught on an invisible splinter of wood, and was
torn. My mother turned to a visitor who had arrived about five minutes
before, and had remained in contemplative admiration ever since.
“There,” she said to him in a vexed tone, “that is a proof of what I
told you. All your silks tear with the slightest movement.”
“Oh, no,” replied our visitor quickly, “I told you that this one was not
well ‘dressed,’ and let you have it at a low price on that account.”
The man who spoke was the most extraordinary individual imaginable. I do
not mean as regards his appearance, as he was like a not too ugly young
Jew. He was shy and a Dutchman; never violent, but tenacious. I had
known him from my childhood. His father, who was a friend of my
grandfather’s on my mother’s side, was a rich tradesman, and the father
of a tribe of children. He gave each of his sons a small sum of money,
and sent them all out to make their fortune where they liked. Jacques,
the one of whom I am speaking, came to Paris. He had commenced by
selling Passover cakes, and, as a boy, had often brought me some of them
to the convent, together with the dainties that my mother sent me. Later
on, my surprise was great on seeing him offer my mother rolls of
oilcloth such as is used for tablecloths for early breakfast. I remember
one of those cloths, the border of which was formed of medallions
representing the French kings. It was from that oilcloth that I learned
my history best. For the last month he had owned quite an elegant
vehicle, and he sold “silks that were not well dressed.” At present he
is one of the leading jewelers of Paris.
The slit in my dress was soon mended and, knowing now that the silk was
not well dressed, I treated it with respect. Finally we started—Mlle. De
Brabender, Mme. Guérard, and I in a carriage that was only intended for
two persons, and I was glad that it was so small, for I was close to two
people who were fond of me, and my silk frock was spread carefully over
their knees.
When I entered the waiting room that leads into the recital hall of the
_Conservatoire_, there were about twenty young men and about thirty
girls there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father,
aunt, brother, or sister. There was an odor of pomade and vanilla that
made me feel sick.
When we were shown into this room, I felt that everyone was looking at
me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Mme. Guérard drew me gently
along, and I turned to take Mlle. De Brabender’s hand. She came shyly
forward, blushing more, and still more confused than I was. Everyone
looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her
direction. One of them suddenly got up and moved across to her mother.
“Oh, mercy, look at that old sight!” she said.
My poor governess felt most uncomfortable, and I was furious. I thought
she was a thousand times nicer than all those fat, dressed-up,
common-looking mothers. Certainly she was different from other people in
her appearance, for Mlle. De Brabender was wearing a salmon-colored
dress, an Indian shawl drawn tightly across her shoulders, and fastened
with a very large cameo brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches so
close together that it looked like a nun’s headgear. She certainly was
not at all like these dreadful people in whose society we found
ourselves, and among whom there were not more than ten exceptions to the
rule. The young men were standing in compact groups near the windows.
They were laughing and, I suspect, making remarks in doubtful taste.
The heavy, red baize door opened, and a girl with a red face and a young
man perfectly scarlet came back after acting their scene. They each went
to their respective friends and then chattered away, finding fault with
each other. A name was called out—Mlle. Dica Petit—and I saw a tall,
fair, distinguished-looking girl move forward without any embarrassment.
She stopped on her way to kiss a pretty woman, stout, with a
pink-and-white complexion, and very much dressed up.
“Don’t be afraid, mother dear,” she said, and then she added a few words
in Dutch before disappearing, followed by a young man and a very thin
girl who were to give her her cues.
This was explained to me by Leautaud, who called over the names of the
pupils and took down the names of those who were to act and those who
were to give the cues. I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was
to give me the cues for _Agnes_. He mentioned several young men, but I
interrupted him.
“Oh, no,” I said, “I will not ask anyone. I do not know any of them, and
I will not ask.”
“Well, then, what will you recite, mademoiselle?” asked Leautaud, with
the most _outré_ accent possible.
“I will recite a fable,” I replied.
He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the title, “Deux
Pigeons,” which I gave him. I heard him still laughing under his heavy
mustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the
_Conservatoire_, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so that
Mme. Guérard was anxious about me, as my health, unfortunately, was very
delicate. She made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of _eau de
Cologne_ behind my ears.
“There, that will teach you to wink like that!” were the words I
suddenly heard, and a girl with the prettiest face imaginable had her
ears boxed soundly. Nathalie Mauvoy’s mother was correcting her
daughter. I sprang up, trembling with fright and indignation, and was as
angry as a young turkey cock. I wanted to go and box the horrible
woman’s ears in return, and then to kiss the pretty girl who had been
insulted in this way, but I was held back firmly by my two guardians.
Dica Petit now returned, and this caused a diversion in the waiting
room. She was radiant and quite satisfied with herself. Oh, very well
satisfied, indeed! Her father held out a little flask to her in which
was some kind of cordial, and I should have liked some of it, too, for
my mouth was dry and burning. Her mother then put a little woolen square
over her chest before fastening her coat for her, and then all three of
them went away. Several other girls and young men were called before my
turn came.
Finally, the call of my name made me jump as a sardine does when pursued
by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake my hair back, and my _petite
dame_ stroked my “badly dressed” silk. Mlle. De Brabender reminded me
about the O and the A, the R, the P, and the T, and I then went alone
into the hall. I had never been alone an hour in my life. As a little
child I was always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the convent I
was always with one of my friends or one of the Sisters; at home either
with Mlle. De Brabender or Mme. Guérard, or if they were not there, in
the kitchen with Marguerite. And now, there I was alone in that
strange-looking room, with a platform at the end, a large table in the
middle, and, seated round this table, men who either grumbled, growled,
or jeered. There was only one woman present, and she had a loud voice.
She was holding an eyeglass, and, as I entered, she dropped it and
looked at me through her opera glass. I felt everyone’s gaze on my back
as I climbed up the few steps to the platform. Leautaud bent forward and
whispered:
“Make your bow and commence, and then stop when the chairman rings.”
I looked at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I had forgotten
that he was Director of the _Conservatoire_, just as I had forgotten
everything else. I at once made my bow, and began:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant....”
A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a ventriloquist muttered:
“It isn’t an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting
fables!”
It was Beauvallet, the thundering tragedian of the Comédie Française. I
stopped short, my heart beating wildly.
“Go on, my child,” said a man with silvery hair. This was Provost.
“Yes, it won’t be as long as a scene from a play,” exclaimed Augustine
Brohan, the one woman present.
I began again:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant au logis....”
“Louder, my child, louder,” said a little man with curly white hair, in
a kindly tone. This was Samson. I stopped again, confused and
frightened, seized suddenly with such a foolish fit of nervousness that
I could have shouted or howled. Samson saw this, and said to me: “Come,
come, we are not ogres!” He had just been talking in a low voice with
Auber.
“Come, now, begin again,” he said, “and speak up.”
“Ah, no,” put in Augustine Brohan, “if she is to begin again, it will be
longer than a scene!” This speech made all the table laugh, and that
gave me time to recover myself. I thought all these people unkind to
laugh like this at the expense of a poor, little, trembling creature who
had been delivered over to them, bound hand and foot.
I felt, without exactly defining it, a slight contempt for these
pitiless judges. Since then I have very often thought of that trial of
mine, and I have come to the conclusion that individuals who are kind,
intelligent, and compassionate become less estimable when they are
together. The feeling of personal irresponsibility encourages their evil
instincts, and the fear of ridicule chases away their good ones.
When I had recovered my will power I began my fable again, determined
not to mind what happened. My voice was more liquid on account of
emotion, and the desire to make myself heard caused it to be more
resonant. There was silence, and before I had finished my fable the
little bell rang. I bowed, and came down the few steps from the platform
thoroughly exhausted. M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.
“Well, little girl,” he said, “that was very good indeed. M. Provost and
M. Beauvallet both want you in their class.”
I recoiled slightly when he told me which was M. Beauvallet, for he was
the “ventriloquist” who had given me such a fright.
“Well, which of these two gentlemen should you prefer?” he asked.
I did not utter a word, but pointed to M. Provost.
“Ah, well, that’s all right! Get your handkerchief out, my poor
Beauvallet, and I shall intrust this child to you, my dear Provost.”
It was only at that moment that I comprehended, and, wild with joy, I
exclaimed:
“Then I have passed?”
“Yes, you have passed, and there is only one thing I regret, and that is
that such a pretty voice should not be for music.”
I did not hear anything else, for I was beside myself with joy. I did
not stay to thank anyone, but bounded to the door.
“_Ma petite dame!_ Mademoiselle! I have passed!” I exclaimed, and when
they shook hands and asked me no end of questions I could only reply:
“Oh, it’s quite true—I have passed, I have passed!”
I was surrounded and questioned.
“How do you know that you have passed? No one knows beforehand.”
“Yes, yes, I know, though. M. Auber told me. I am to go into M.
Provost’s class. M. Beauvallet wanted me, but his voice is too loud for
me!”
A disagreeable girl exclaimed: “Can’t you stop that? And so they all
want you!”
A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came nearer and
asked me gently what I had recited.
“The fable of the ‘Two Pigeons,’” I replied.
She was surprised, and so was everyone; while, as for me, I was wildly
delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on my head, shook my
frock out, and dragging my two friends along, ran away dancing. They
wanted to take me to the confectioner’s to have something, but I
refused. We got into a cab, and I should have liked to push that cab
along myself. I fancied I saw the words “I have passed” written up over
all the shops. When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab had to
stand, it seemed to me that the people stared at me, and I caught myself
tossing my head as though telling them all that it was quite true I had
passed my examination. I never thought any more about the convent, and
only experienced a feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first
venturesome enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had depended only
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265
Rue St. Honoré. I kept putting my head out of the window and saying:
“Faster, cabby; faster, please!” At last we reached the house, and I
sprang out of the cab and hurried along to tell the good news to my
mother. On the way I was stopped by the daughter of the hall porter. She
was a staymaker, and worked in a little room on the top floor of the
house, the window of which was opposite our dining-room where I used to
do my lessons with my governess, so that I could not help seeing her
ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never spoken to her, but I knew
who she was.
“Well, Mlle. Sarah, are you satisfied?” she called out.
“Oh, yes, I have passed,” I answered, and I could not resist stopping a
minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I
then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand,
anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petite
dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting
to my mother who was leaning out of the window: “Yes, yes, she has
passed!” I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with
rage, for I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with
the joyful surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on
arriving at the door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I
felt sure she would say: “Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are
so foolish!” and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and
said: “It isn’t true, it isn’t true; I have passed!” I had pictured to
myself her face brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather
laughing heartily, and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Mme.
Guérard sounding her trumpet and spoiling all my effects that I had
prepared so well.
I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived (that is
the greater part of my life) spoiling all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I told a good
story and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I started on a story with
a very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh,
roll her eyes, and murmur: “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” so that I always missed
the effect I was counting on. Still more often, when anything was being
guessed and I asked people for the answer, she would reply before anyone
else, as she was always in my confidence, and I had perhaps told her the
answer a second before. All this used to exasperate me to such a degree
that, before beginning a story or a game, I used to ask her to go out of
the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of the
blunder she would make if there.
Furious, then, on this occasion, and abusing Mme. Guérard, I went
upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open door. She kissed me
affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked if I was not
satisfied.
“Yes,” I replied, “but I am furious with Guérard. Be nice, mamma, and
pretend you don’t know. Shut the door, and I will ring.”
She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my
mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived,
and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, “I
have passed!” everyone shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had made
my effect anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me unawares.
My sister Régina, whom the Sisters would not have in the convent and so
had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learned this in the country
when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every occasion she danced
it, finishing always with this couplet:
My little dear, rejoice,
Everything is for you....
Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child with her serious air.
Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played over
her thin lips and over her mouth, which was too small. Nothing could be
more comic than to see her, looking grave and rough, dancing the jig.
She was funnier than ever that day, as she was excited by the general
joy. She was four years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was
both timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, but if
made to go in the dining-room she embarrassed people by her crude
remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers and her kicks and
blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair, dark complexion,
blue eyes too large for her face, and thick lashes which made a shadow
on her cheeks when she lowered the lids, and joined her eyebrows when
her eyes were open. She would be four or five hours sometimes without
uttering a word, without answering any question she was asked, and then
she would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as she
could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good temper, for she
kissed me affectionately and opened her thin lips to smile. My sister
Jeanne kissed me, and made me tell her about my examination. My
godfather gave me a hundred francs, and M. Meydieu, who had just arrived
to find out the result, promised to take me the next day to
Barbédienne’s to choose a clock for my room, as that was one of my
dreams.
CHAPTER VI
I DECLINE MATRIMONY AND WED ART
The great change began in me from that day. For rather a long time,
indeed, my soul remained childlike, but my mind discerned life more
distinctly. I felt the need of creating a personality for myself. That
was the first awakening of my will. I wanted to be some one. Mlle. De
Brabender declared to me that this was pride. It seemed to me that it
was not quite that, but I could not then define what the sentiment was
which imposed this wish on me. I did not understand until a few months
later why I wished to be some one.
A friend of my godfather’s made me an offer of marriage. This man was a
rich tanner, and very kind, but so dark and with such long hair and such
a beard that he disgusted me. I refused him, and my godfather then asked
to speak to me alone. He made me sit down in my mother’s boudoir, and
said to me:
“My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse M. B——. He has sixty thousand
francs a year and expectations.”
It was the first time I had heard this use of the word, and when the
meaning was explained to me I wondered if that was the right thing to
say on such an occasion.
“Why, yes,” replied my godfather, “you are idiotic with your romantic
ideas. Marriage is a business affair, and must be considered as such.
Your future father and mother-in-law will have to die, just as we shall,
and it is by no means disagreeable to know that they will leave two
million francs to their son, and consequently to you, if you marry him.”
“I shall not marry him, though.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not love him.”
“But you never love your husband before—” replied my practical adviser.
“You can love him after.”
“After what?”
“Ask your mother. But listen to me now, for it is not a question of
that. You must marry. Your mother has a small income which your father
left her, but this income comes from the profits of the manufactory
which belongs to your grandmother, and she cannot bear your mother, who
will therefore lose that income, and then have nothing and three
children on her hands. It is that accursed lawyer who is arranging all
this. The whys and wherefores would take too long to explain. Your
father managed his business affairs very badly. You must marry,
therefore, if not for your own sake, for the sake of your mother and
sisters. You can then give your mother the hundred thousand francs your
father left you, which no one else can touch. M. B—— will allow you
three hundred thousand francs. I have arranged everything, so that you
can give this to your mother if you like, and with four hundred thousand
francs she will be able to live very well.”
I cried and sobbed, and asked to have time to think it over. I found my
mother in the dining-room.
“Has your godfather told you?” she asked gently, in rather a timid way.
“Yes, mother; yes, he has told me. Let me think it over, will you?” I
said, sobbing, as I kissed her neck lingeringly.
I then locked myself in my bedroom, and, for the first time for many
days, I regretted the separation from my convent. All my childhood rose
up before me, and I cried more and more, and felt so unhappy that I
wished I could die. Gradually, however, I began to get calm again and
realized what had happened, and what my godfather’s words meant. Most
decidedly I did not want to marry this man. Since I had been at the
_Conservatoire_, I had learned a few things vaguely, very vaguely, for I
was never alone, but I understood enough to make me not want to marry
without being in love. I was, however, destined to be attacked in a
quarter from which I should not have expected it. Mme. Guérard asked me
to go up to her room to see the embroidery she was doing on a frame for
my mother’s birthday.
My astonishment was great to find M. B—— there. He begged me to change
my mind. He made me very wretched, for he pleaded with tears in his
eyes.
“Do you want a larger marriage settlement?” he asked. “I would make it
five hundred thousand francs.”
But it was not that at all, and I said in a very low voice:
“I do not love you, monsieur.”
“If you do not marry me, mademoiselle,” he said, “I shall die of grief.”
I looked at him and repeated to myself the words, “die of grief.” I was
embarrassed and desperate, but at the same time delighted, for he loved
me just as a man does in a play. Phrases that I had read or heard came
to my mind vaguely, and I repeated them without any real conviction, and
then left him without the slightest coquetry.
M. B—— did not die. He is still living, and has a very important
financial position. He is much nicer now than when he was so black, for
at present he is quite white.
I had just passed my first examination with remarkable success,
particularly in tragedy. M. Provost, my professor, had not wanted me to
compete in “Zaïre,” but I had insisted. I thought that scene with
_Zaïre_ and her brother _Nivestan_ very fine, and it suited me. But when
_Zaïre_, overwhelmed with her brother’s reproaches, falls on her knees
at his feet, Provost wanted me to say the words, “Strike, I tell you! I
love him!” with violence, and I wanted to say them gently, perfectly
resigned to a death that was almost certain. I argued about it for a
long time with my professor, and finally I appeared to give in to him
during the lesson. But on the day of the competition I fell on my knees
before _Nerestan_ with a sob so real, my arms outstretched, offering my
heart so full of love to the deadly blow that I expected, and I murmured
with such tenderness, “Strike, I tell you! I love him!” that the whole
house burst into applause and demanded it twice over.
The second prize for tragedy was awarded me, to the great
dissatisfaction of the public, as it was thought that I ought to have
had the first prize. And yet it was only just that I should have the
second, on account of my age and the short time I had been studying. I
had a first _accessit_ for comedy in “La Fausse Agnes,” and Sarcey wrote
an article about it.
I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse M. B——. My future lay
open before me, and consequently my mother would not be in want if she
should lose her present income. A few days later, M. Régnier, professor
at the _Conservatoire_ and secretary of the Comédie Française, came to
ask my mother whether she would allow me to play in a piece of his at
the Vaudeville. The piece was “Germaine,” and the managers would give me
twenty-five francs for each performance. I was amazed at the sum! Seven
hundred and fifty francs a month for my first appearance! I was wild
with joy. I besought my mother to accept the offer made by the
Vaudeville, and she told me to do as I liked in the matter.
I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Beaux-Arts, to allow me to
recite something to him, and, as my mother always refused to accompany
me, Mme. Guérard went with me. My little sister, Régina, begged me to
take her, and very unwisely I consented. We had not been in the
director’s office more than five minutes before my sister, who was only
six years old, began to climb on the furniture. She jumped on a stool,
and finally sat down on the floor, pulling the paper basket, which was
under the desk, toward her, and proceeded to spread all the torn papers
which it contained about the room. On seeing this, Camille Doucet mildly
observed that she was not a very good little girl. My sister, with her
head in the basket, answered in her husky voice:
“If you bother me, monsieur, I shall tell everyone that you are there to
give out holy water that is poison—my aunt says so.”
My face turned purple with shame, and I stammered out:
“Please do not believe that, M. Doucet, my little sister is telling an
untruth.”
Régina sprang to her feet and, clenching her fists, rushed at me like a
little fury:
“Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You are telling the
untruth ... why, she said it to M. De Morny, and he answered....”
I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de Morny
answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand over my sister’s
mouth and took her quickly away. She howled like a wildcat, and we
rushed like a hurricane through the waiting room which was full of
people. I then gave way to one of those violent fits of temper to which
I had been subject in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that
passed the door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such
fury that Mme. Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her own body,
receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms, and feet, for in my
anger, rage, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My rage
was all the more profound from the fact that I was very fond of Camille
Doucet. He was gentle and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had
refused my aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being
refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing to do
with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet would think. And
then, too, I had not asked him about the Vaudeville.
All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this little monster,
who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who had just shattered my
hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self-willed
face, and her thin lips compressed, she was gazing at me under her long
lashes with half-closed eyes. On reaching home I told my mother all that
had happened, and she declared that my little sister should have no
dessert for two days. Régina was greedy, but her pride was greater than
her greediness. She turned round on her little heels and, dancing her
jig, began to sing, “My little stomach isn’ at all glad,” until I wanted
to rush at her and shake her.
A few days later, during my lessons, I was told that the Ministry
refused to allow me to act at the Vaudeville.
M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in kindly tone:
“Oh, but, my dear child, the _Conservatoire_ thinks a lot of you!
Therefore you need not worry too much.”
“I am sure that Camille Doucet is at the bottom of it,” I said.
“No, he certainly is not,” answered M. Régnier, “Camille Doucet was our
warmest advocate, but the Ministry will not, upon any account, hear of
anything that might be detrimental to your début next year.”
I at once felt most grateful to Camille Doucet for his kindness in
bearing no ill-will after my little sister’s stupid behavior. I began to
work again with the greatest zeal, and did not miss a single lesson.
Every morning I went to the _Conservatoire_ with my governess. We
started early, as I preferred walking to taking the omnibus, and I kept
the franc which my mother gave me every morning, part of which was for
the omnibus and part for cakes. We were to walk home always, but every
other day we took a cab with the two francs I had saved for this
purpose. My mother never knew about this little scheme, but it was not
without remorse that my kind Brabender consented to be my accomplice.
As I said before, I did not miss a lesson, and I even went to the
deportment class, at which poor old M. Elie, duly curled, powdered, and
adorned with lace frills, presided. This was the most amusing lesson
imaginable. Very few of us attended this class, and M. Elie avenged
himself on us for the abstention of the others. At every lesson each one
of us was called forward. He addressed us by the familiar term of
_thou_, and considered us as his property. There were only five or six
of us, but we each had to mount the stage. He always stood up with his
little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he should have this
stick.
[Illustration: LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE ET DE DECLAMATION,
PARIS.]
“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up,
on tiptoes—that’s it—perfect. One, two, three, march.”
And we marched along on tiptoes with heads up and eyelids drawn over our
eyes as we tried to look down in order to see where we were walking. We
marched along like this with all the stateliness and solemnity of
camels! He then taught us to make our exit with indifference, dignity,
or fury, and it was amusing to see us going toward the doors either with
a lagging step or in an animated or hurried way, according to the mood
in which we were supposed to be. Then we heard: “Enough! _Go!_ Not a
word!” for M. Elie would not allow us to murmur a single word.
“Everything,” he used to say, “is in the look, the gesture, the
attitude!” Then there was what he called “_l’assiette_,” which meant the
way to sit down in a dignified manner, to let oneself fall into a seat
wearily, or the “_assiette_,” which meant: “I am listening, monsieur;
say what you wish.” Ah, that was distractingly complicated, that way of
sitting down! We had to put everything into it: the desire to know what
was going to be said to us, the fear of hearing it, the determination to
go away, the will to stay. Oh, the tears that this “_assiette_” cost me!
Poor old M. Elie! I do not bear him any ill-will, but I did my utmost
later on to forget everything he had taught me, for nothing could have
been more useless than those deportment lessons. Every human being moves
about according to his or her proportions. Women who are too tall take
long strides, those who stoop walk like the Eastern women; stout women
walk like ducks, short-legged ones trot; very small women skip along,
and the gawky ones walk like cranes. Nothing can be done for them, and
the deportment class has very wisely been abolished. The gesture must
depict the thought, and it is harmonious or stupid, according to whether
the _artiste_ is intelligent or null. For the theater one needs long
arms; it is better to have them too long than too short. An _artiste_
with short arms can never, never make a fine gesture. It was all in vain
that poor Elie told us this or that. We were always stupid and awkward,
while he was always comic; oh, so comic, poor old man!
I also took fencing lessons. Aunt Rosine put this idea into my mother’s
head. I had a lesson once a week from the famous Pons. Oh, what a
terrible man he was! Brutal, rude, and always teasing, he was an
incomparable fencing master, but he disliked giving lessons to “brats”
like us, as he called us. He was not rich, though, and I believe, but am
not sure of it, that this class had been organized for him by a
distinguished patron of his. He always kept his hat on, and this
horrified Mlle. De Brabender. He smoked his cigar, too, all the time,
and this made his pupils cough, as they were already out of breath from
the fencing exercise. What torture those lessons were! He brought with
him sometimes friends of his who delighted in our awkwardness. This gave
rise to a scandal, as one day one of these gay spectators made a most
violent remark about one of the pupils named Châtelain, and the latter
turned round quickly and gave him a blow in the face. A skirmish
immediately occurred, and Pons, on endeavoring to intervene, received a
blow or two himself. This made a great stir, and from that day forth
visitors were not allowed to be present at the lesson. I persuaded my
mother to let me discontinue attending this class, and this was a great
relief to me.
I very much preferred Régnier’s lessons to any others. He was gentle,
had nice manners, and taught us to be natural in what we recited, but I
certainly owe all that I know to the variety of instruction which I had,
and which I followed up in the most devoted way.
Provost taught a broad style, with diction somewhat pompous but
sustained. He especially emphasized freedom of gesture and inflection.
Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything that was good. He had
a deep, effective voice, but that he could not give to anyone. It was an
admirable instrument, but it did not give him any talent. He was awkward
in his gestures, his arms were too short, and his face common. I
detested him as a professor.
Samson was just the opposite. His voice was not strong, but piercing. He
had a certain acquired distinction, but was very correct. His method was
simplicity. Provost emphasized breadth; Samson exactitude, and he was
very particular about the finals. He would not allow us to drop the
voice at the end of the phrase. Coquelin, who is one of Régnier’s
pupils, I believe, has a great deal of Samson’s style, although he has
retained the essentials of his first master’s teaching. As for me, I
remember my three professors, Régnier, Provost, and Samson, as though I
had heard them only yesterday.
The year passed by without any great change in my life, but two months
before my second examination I had the misfortune to have to change my
professor. Provost was taken ill, and I went in to Samson’s class. He
counted very much on me, but he was authoritative and persistent. He
gave me two very bad parts in two very bad pieces: _Hortense_, in
“L’Ecole des Vieillards,” by Casimir Delavigne, for comedy, and “La
Fille du Cid,” for tragedy. This piece was also by Casimir Delavigne. I
did not feel at all in my element in these two rôles, both of which were
written in hard, emphatic language.
The examination day arrived, and I did not look at all nice. My mother
had insisted on my having my hair done up by her hairdresser, and I had
cried and sobbed on seeing this “Figaro” make partings all over my head
in order to separate my rebellious mane. Idiot that he was, he had
suggested this style to my mother, and my head was in his stupid hands
for more than an hour and a half, for he never before had to deal with a
mane like mine. He kept mopping his forehead every five minutes, and
muttering: “What hair! Good heavens! it is horrible—just like tow! It
might be the hair of a white negress!” Turning to my mother, he
suggested that my head should be entirely shaved, and the hair then
trained as it grew again. “I will think about it,” replied my mother in
an absent-minded way. I turned my head so abruptly to look at her when
she said this that the curling irons burned my forehead. The man was
using the irons to _uncurl_ my hair. He considered that it curled
naturally in such a disordered style that he must get the natural curl
out of it and then wave it, as this would be more becoming to the face.
“Mademoiselle’s hair is stopped in its growth by this extreme curliness.
All the Tangiers girls and negresses have hair like this. As
mademoiselle is going on the stage, she would look better if she had
hair like madame,” he said, bowing with respectful admiration to my
mother, who certainly had the most beautiful hair imaginable. It was
fair and so long that, when standing up, she could tread on it and not
bend her head. It is only fair to say, though, that my mother was very
short.
Finally, I was out of the hands of this wretched man, and was nearly
dead with fright after an hour and a half’s brushing, combing, curling,
hairpinning, with my head turned from left to right and from right to
left. I was completely disfigured at the end of it all, and did not
recognize myself. My hair was drawn tightly back from my temples, my
ears were very visible and stood out, looking positively improper in
their nakedness, while on the top of my head was a parcel of little
sausages arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem.
I was perfectly hideous. My forehead, of which I caught a glimpse under
the golden mass of my hair, seemed to me immense, implacable. I did not
recognize my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them veiled by the shadow
of my hair. My head seemed to weigh two or three pounds. I was
accustomed to do my hair as I still do, with two hairpins, and this man
had put five or six packets in it. All this was heavy for my poor head.
I was late, and so I had to dress very quickly. I cried with anger, and
my eyes grew smaller, my nose larger, and my veins swelled. But it was
the climax when I had to put my hat on. It would not go on the pile of
sausages, and my mother wrapped my head up in a lace scarf and hurried
me to the door.
On arriving at the _Conservatoire_, I hurried with my _petite dame_ to
the waiting room, while my mother went direct to the hall. When once I
was in the waiting room I tore off the lace, and, seated on a bench,
after relating the Odyssey of my hairdressing, I gave my head up to my
companions. All of them adored and envied my hair, because it was so
soft and light and golden. All of them took pity on my sorrow, and were
touched by my ugliness. Their mothers, however, were spluttering in
their own fat with joy.
The girls began to take out my hairpins, and one of them, Marie Lloyd,
whom I liked best, took my head in her hands and kissed it
affectionately.
“Oh, your beautiful hair, what have they done to it!” she exclaimed,
pulling out the last of the hairpins. This sympathy made me once more
burst into tears.
Finally, I stood up triumphant, without any hairpins and without any
sausages. But my poor hair was heavy with the beef marrow the wretched
man had put on it, and it was full of the partings he had made for the
creation of the sausages. It fell now in mournful-looking, greasy flakes
around my face. I shook my head for five minutes in mad rage. I then
succeeded in making the hair more loose, and I put it up as well as I
could with a couple of hairpins.
The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth to be called. I could
not remember what I had to say. Mme. Guérard moistened my temples with
cold water, and Mlle. De Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not
recognize me, and was looking about for me everywhere. She had broken
her leg nearly three months ago, and had to support herself on a crutch,
but she had wished to come.
Mme. Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama of the hair
when my name echoed through the room. “Mlle. Chara Bernhardt!” It was
Leautaud, who later on was prompter at the Comédie Française, and who
had a strong Auvergne accent. “Mlle. Chara Bernhardt!” I heard again,
and I then sprang up without an idea in my mind and without uttering a
word. I looked round for the pupil who was to give me my answers, and
together we made our entry.
I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not recognize. I
had cried so much that it had affected my voice, and I spoke through my
nose.
I heard a woman’s voice say:
“Poor child, she ought not to have been allowed to compete; she has an
atrocious cold, her nose is running, and her face is swollen.”
I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the midst of very
feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a somnambulist, and on
reaching Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender fainted away in their arms.
Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumor that “the
little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was sitting far
back in a box bored to death.
When I came to myself again, I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s pretty
face, with tears hanging on her long lashes. I laid my head against hers
and cried quietly, but this time the tears were refreshing, not salt
ones that burned my eyelids.
I stood up, shook out my dress, and looked at myself in the greenish
mirror. I was certainly less ugly now, for my face was rested, my hair
was once more soft and light, and altogether there was a general
improvement in my appearance.
The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had
no recompense at all, but my last year’s second prize had been
mentioned. I felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment,
as I had quite expected things to be like this. Several persons had
protested in my favor. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had
argued a long time for me to have a first prize in spite of my bad
recitation. He said that my examination reports ought to be taken into
account, and they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class
reports. Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced that
day by my nasal voice, my swollen face, and my heavy flakes of hair.
After half an hour’s interval, during which I drank a glass of port wine
and ate cakes, the signal was given for the comedy competition. I was
down as the fourteenth for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My
fighting instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of
injustice made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize that day,
but it seemed to me that I ought to have received it nevertheless.
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF HER COIFFEUR.]
I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for comedy, and with
the exaggeration that I have always put into everything, I began to get
excited, and I said to myself that if I did not have the first prize I
must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My love of mysticism and
weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever.
“Yes,” I said to myself, “I will go back to the convent, but only if I
do not get the first prize”; and then the most foolish, illogical strike
imaginable was waged in my weak, girl’s brain. I felt a genuine vocation
for the convent when distressed about losing the prize, and a genuine
vocation for the theater when I was hopeful about winning the prize.
With a very natural partiality I discovered in myself the gift of
absolute self-sacrifice, renunciation, and devotion of every
kind—qualities which would win for me easily the post of Mother Superior
in the Grandchamps Convent. Then with the most indulgent generosity I
attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the fulfillment of my
other dream, namely, to become the first, the most celebrated, and the
most envied of actresses. I counted on my fingers all my qualities:
gracefulness, charm, distinction, beauty, mystery, piquancy. Oh, yes, I
found I had all these, and when my reason and my honesty raised any
doubt or suggested a “but” to this fabulous inventory of my qualities,
my combative and paradoxical _ego_ at once found a plain decisive answer
which admitted of no further argument.
It was under these special conditions and in this frame of mind that I
went on to the stage when my turn came. The choice of my rôle for this
competition was a very stupid one. I had to represent a married woman
who was reasonable and given to reasoning, and I was a mere child, and
looked much younger than I was. In spite of this, I was very brilliant;
I argued well, was very gay, and had immense success. I was transfigured
with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt of a first prize.
I never doubted for a moment that it would be awarded to me unanimously.
When the competition was over, the committee met to discuss the awards,
and in the meantime I asked for something to eat. A cutlet was brought
from the pastry cook patronized by the _Conservatoire_, and I devoured
it, to the great joy of Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender, for I
detested meat, and always refused to eat it.
The members of the committee at last went to their places in the state
box, and there was silence in the hall. The young men were called first
on to the stage. There was no first prize awarded to them. Parfouru’s
name was called for the second prize for comedy. Parfouru is known
to-day as M. Paul Porel, director of the Vaudeville Theater, and
Réjane’s husband. After this came the turn for the girls.
I was in the doorway, ready to rush up to the stage. The words “first
prize for comedy” were uttered, and I made a step forward, pushing aside
a girl who was a head taller than I was. “First prize for comedy awarded
unanimously to Mlle. Marie Lloyd.” The tall girl I had pushed aside now
went forward, slender and beaming, toward the stage.
There were a few muttered protests, but her beauty, her distinction, and
her modest charm won the day with everyone, and Marie Lloyd was cheered.
She passed me on her return, and kissed me affectionately. We were great
friends, and I liked her very, much, but I considered her a nonentity as
a pupil. I do not remember whether she had received any prize the
previous year, but certainly no one expected her to have one now, and I
was simply petrified.
“Second prize for comedy: Mlle. Bernhardt.”
I had not heard this, and was pushed forward by my companions. On
reaching the stage I bowed, and all the time I could see hundreds of
Marie Lloyds dancing before me. Some of them were making grimaces,
others were throwing me kisses—some were fanning themselves and others
bowing. They were very tall, all these Marie Lloyds—too tall for the
ceiling, and they walked over the heads of all the people and came
toward me, crushing me, stifling me, so that I could not breathe. My
face, it seems, was whiter than my dress.
On returning to the green room, I sat down without uttering a word and
looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was greatly
complimented by everyone. She was wearing a pale blue tarlatan dress,
with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the bodice and another in her black
hair. She was very tall, and her delicate, white shoulders emerged
modestly from her dress, which was cut very low, as for her this did not
matter. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud expression, was
charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she had more womanly
charm than all of us. Her large brown eyes had a certain play in them,
her little round mouth gave a smile which was full of mischief, and the
nostrils of her wonderfully cut nose dilated. The oval of her beautiful
face was intercepted by two little pearly, transparent ears of the most
exquisite shape. She had a long, flexible white neck, and the pose of
her head was charming. It was a beauty prize that the jury had
conscientiously awarded to Marie Lloyd. She had come on the stage gay
and fascinating, in her rôle of _Célimène_, and in spite of the monotony
of her delivery, the carelessness of her elocution, the impersonality of
her acting, she had carried off all the votes because she was the very
personification of _Célimène_, that coquette of twenty years of age who
was unconsciously so cruel. She had realized for everyone the ideal
dreamed of by Molière.
All these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain, and this
first lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of great service to
me in my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd’s prize, and every time that
I had to create a rôle, the physical body of the character always
appeared before me dressed, with her hair done, walking, bowing, sitting
down, getting up. But this was only a vision which lasted a second, for
my mind always thought of the soul governing this personage. When
listening to an author reading his work, I tried to define the intention
of his idea, endeavoring to identify myself with that intention. I have
never played an author false with regard to his idea, and I have always
tried to represent the personage according to history, whenever it is a
historical personage, and when it is an invention, according to the
author.
I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth, and
to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, thanks
to its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality; but the
public never followed me. I soon realized that legend remains victorious
in spite of history, and this is perhaps a good thing for the mind of
the crowd. Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet,
and Napoleon I have all entered into legend.
It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the Virgin Mary
accomplishing humiliating human functions. They lived the life that we
are living. Death chilled their sacred limbs, and it is not without
rebellion and grief that we accept this fact. We start off in pursuit of
them in an ethereal heaven, in the infinite of our dreams. We cast down
all the dross of humanity in order to let them, clothed in the ideal, be
seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the rustic,
bold, peasant woman, repulsing violently the old soldier who wants to
joke with her, sitting astride her big steed like a man, laughing
readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers, submitting to the lewd
promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in which she lived, and having, on
that account, all the more merit in remaining a most heroic maiden.
We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile
woman guided by a divine soul. Her girl’s arm which holds the heavy
banner is sustained by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is
something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors
get their strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so
the legend remains triumphant.
But to return to the _Conservatoire_. Nearly all the pupils had gone
away, and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my bench. Marie Lloyd came
and sat down by me.
“Are you unhappy?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is
unjust.”
“I do not know whether it is just or not,” answered Marie Lloyd, “but I
assure you that it is not my fault.”
I could not help laughing at this.
“Shall I come home with you to luncheon?” she asked, and her beautiful
eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an orphan and unhappy, and on
this day of triumph she felt the need of a family. My heart began to
melt with pity and affection. I threw my arms round her neck, and we all
four went away together—Marie Lloyd, Mme. Guérard, Mlle. De Brabender,
and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone on home.
In the cab my “don’t-care” character won the day once more, and we
chatted gayly about one and another of the people we had seen during the
morning. “Oh, how ridiculous such and such a person was!” “Did you see
her mother’s bonnet?” “And old Estebenet, did you see his white gloves?
He must have stolen them from some policeman!” And hereupon we laughed
like idiots, and then began again. “And that poor Châtelain had had his
hair curled!” said Marie Lloyd. “Did you see his head?”
I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of how my own
hair had been uncurled, and that it was thanks to that I had not won the
first prize for tragedy.
On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather, our old
friend Meydieu, Mme. Guérard’s husband, and my sister Jeanne with her
hair all curled. This gave me a pang, for she had straight hair, and it
had been curled to make her prettier, although she was charming without
that, and the curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked
uglier.
My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished
indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss over her,
for success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young
friend a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty,
nor yet touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us
that he had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd’s triumph. He then
came to me, put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him.
“Well, you were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now in going in for
the theater? You are thin and small, your face is rather nice close to,
but ugly in the distance, and your voice does not carry!”
“Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather is right. You
had better marry the flour man who proposed, or that imbecile of a
Spanish tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty
eyes. You will never do anything on the stage! You’d better marry!”
M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty
years of age, and Mme. Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and shy; he had been awarded the distinction of the Legion of
Honor, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, had aristocratic gestures,
and was private secretary to M. De la Tour Desmoulins, a deputy very
much in favor. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I owe a great deal
to his kindness.
Jeanne whispered to me:
“Sister’s godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as
possible.” Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her
away, and we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to
go back to the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon
was so tired that I had to go to bed.
When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs,
my head heavy and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I tried
to consider my wretched situation, but sleep, the great restorer, came
to the rescue and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I awoke I
could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it was, and
looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep since three
o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but everything
was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small tray on
which was a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing paper was
placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up, for I never
received any letters. With great difficulty, by my night light, I
managed to read the following words, written by Mme. Guérard:
“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother
that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged
for the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear
child, but have faith in the future. Your _petite dame_.”
I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and
rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was
black to everyone else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I
looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest.
I went back toward my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it,
holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I
then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake.
Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary
at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her
my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation.
I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her
foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the obscurity of the room
I looked for my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I
threw kisses to it. I then took up the letter again from my _petite
dame_ and went to sleep with it in my mind. I do not remember what my
dreams were that memorable night.
The next day everyone was very kind to me. My godfather, who arrived
early, nodded his head in a contented way.
“She must have some fresh air,” he said. “I will pay for a landau.” The
drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart’s content,
as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage.
Two days later, our old servant, Marguerite, breathless with excitement,
brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope there was a wide
stamp around which stood the magic words: “Comédie Française.” I glanced
at my mother and she nodded, as a sign that I might open the letter,
after blaming Marguerite for giving me a letter before obtaining her
permission to do so.
“It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!” I exclaimed. “I am to go there
to-morrow, look—read it!”
My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I danced round with
them singing, “It is to-morrow, it’s to-morrow.” My youngest sister was
eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs to the
flat on the top floor to tell Mme. Guérard. She was just soaping her
children’s white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands and
kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with a soapy lather
and left a snowy patch on each side of my head. I rushed downstairs
again in that condition, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My
godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just commencing
whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a little lather on their faces, at
which I laughed heartily. But I was allowed to do anything that day, for
I had become a personage.
The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français at one
o’clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director.
What was I to wear? That was the great question. My mother had sent for
the milliner, who had arrived with various hats. I chose a white one
trimmed with pale blue, a white _bavolet_ and blue strings. Aunt Rosine
had sent one of her dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks
were too childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was
hideous cabbage green with black velvet put on in Grecian pattern. I
looked like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged to wear it.
Fortunately it was covered by a mantle of black grosgrain stitched all
round with white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a
grown-up person, and all my clothes were suitable only for a child.
Mlle. De Brabender gave me a pair of white gloves, and Mme. Guérard a
sunshade. My mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring.
Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat, uncomfortable in
my green dress, but comforted by my mantle, I went with Mme. Guérard to
M. Thierry’s. My aunt lent me her carriage for the occasion, as she
thought it would look better to arrive in a private carriage. Later on I
found that this arrival in my own carriage, with a footman, made a very
bad impression. What all the theater people thought, I never cared to
consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must really have
preserved me from all suspicion.
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT WHEN SHE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY.]
M. Thierry received me very kindly and made a little nonsensical speech.
He then unfolded a paper, which he handed to Mme. Guérard, asking her to
look at it and then to sign it. This paper was my engagement, and my
_petite dame_ explained that she was not my mother.
“Ah!” said M. Thierry, getting up, “then will you take it with you and
have it signed by mademoiselle’s mother?”
He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at the touch of his,
for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I
quickly took mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face,
and eyes that avoided one’s gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin,
who, hearing I was there, had waited to see me. He had made his début a
year before with great success.
“Well, it’s settled, then?” he said gayly.
I showed him the engagement and shook hands with him. I went quickly
down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theater, found myself in
the midst of a group in the doorway.
“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice, which I recognized as M.
Doucet’s.
“Oh, yes, monsieur, thank you so much,” I answered.
“But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said.
“Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we count on
you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked:
“What do you think, your Excellency?”
“I think that this child will be a very great _artiste_,” he replied.
There was silence for a moment.
“Well, you have got a turnout!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He was the
first tragedian of the Comédie, and the worst-bred man in France or
anywhere else.
“This turnout belongs to mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet,
shaking hands with me gently.
“Oh, well, I would much rather it belonged to her than to me,” answered
the tragedian.
I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theater, and drove away. On reaching home I took the engagement to
my mother. She signed it without reading it, and I then fully made up my
mind to be some one, _quand-même_.
A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française, my aunt gave a
dinner party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet,
the Minister of the Beaux-Arts, M. De Walewski, Rossini, my mother,
Mlle. De Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people
came. My mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time
I had worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Everyone
paid me great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I
consented willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I
chose Casimir Delavigne’s poem “L’âme du Purgatoire.”
“That should be said with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini,
when I came to an end. Everyone approved this idea, and Walewski said:
“Mademoiselle will begin again and you could improvise an accompaniment,
_cher maître_.”
There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini
improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My
tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end
my mother kissed me, saying: “This is the first time that you have
really moved me.”
As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini’s
improvisation that had moved her.
The Comte de Kératry was also present, an elegant young Hussar, who paid
me great compliments, and invited me to go and recite some poetry at his
mother’s house.
My aunt then sang a song which was very much in vogue, and had great
success. She was coquettish and charming and just a trifle jealous of
this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her admirers
for a few minutes.
When I returned home I was quite another being. I sat down, dressed as I
was, on my bed and remained for a long time deep in thought. Hitherto
all I had known of life had been through my family and my work. I had
now just had a glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the
hypocrisy of some of the people, and the conceit of others. I began to
wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was. I thought of
my mother. She did not do anything, though. She was indifferent to
everything. I thought of my Aunt Rosine, who, on the contrary, liked to
mix in everything.
I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a whirl, and
feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until I was thoroughly
cold.
CHAPTER VII
I MAKE MY DÉBUT AND EXIT
The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at _Iphigénie_, as M. Thierry had told me I was to make my début in
this rôle.
At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to be at the
rehearsal of _Iphigénie_. Oh, that first notice, how it made my heart
beat! I could not sleep at night, and daylight did not come quickly
enough for me. I kept getting up to look at the time. It seemed to me
that the clock had stopped. I had dozed, and I fancied it was the same
time as before. Finally, a streak of light coming through the
windowpanes was, I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I
got up at once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my rôle while
dressing.
I thought of rehearsing with Mme. Devoyod, the first actress at the
Comédie Française for tragedy, with Maubant, with ... I trembled as I
thought of all this, for Mme. Devoyod was not supposed to be very
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my rôle.
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with conviction.
“Come and rehearse it. Would you like to?” and he took me to the stage.
I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the
_foyer_ of the _artistes_ to the stage. He told me the names of the
celebrities represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before
that of Adrienne Lecouvreur.
“I love that _artiste_,” I said.
“Do you know her story?” he asked.
“Yes, I have read all that has been written about her.”
“That’s quite right, my child,” said the worthy man. “You ought to read
all that concerns your art. I will lend you some very interesting
books.”
He took me on toward the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared
up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of
weights, ropes, trees, friezes, harrows overhead, the yawning house
completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and
the vaultlike chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not
seem to me to be part of that brilliant frame for the living _artistes_
who every night won the applause of the house by their merriment or
their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead glories, and
the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the illustrious ghosts
of those whom the manager had just mentioned. With my highly strung
nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking something, now saw them
advance toward me, stretching out their hands. These specters wanted to
take me away with them. I put my hands over my eyes and stood still.
“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.
“Oh, yes, thank you, it was just a little giddiness.”
His voice had chased away the specters, and I opened my eyes and paid
attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in hand, he explained to me
where I was to stand, and my changes of place. He was rather pleased
with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At
the line:
“_Euripide à l’autel, conduisez la victime_,” he said: “Mlle. Favart was
very effective there....”
The _artistes_ gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They
glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any
further notice of me at all.
I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
a few words that sounded to me coarse, used by one or another of the
_artistes_. I was not accustomed to such language, as at home everyone
was rather scrupulous, and at my aunt’s a trifle affected, while at the
convent it is unnecessary to say I had never heard a word that was out
of place. It is true that I had been through the _Conservatoire_, but I
had not associated intimately with any of the pupils, with the exception
of Marie Lloyd and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta,
who is now an associate of the Comédie Française.
When the rehearsal was over, it was decided that there should be another
one at the same hour the following day, in the public _foyer_.
The costume maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my
costume. Mlle. De Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went
up with me to the costume room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but
the costume maker told her gently that this was impossible for tragedy.
A dress of white woolen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and
the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on,
but this, too, was so ugly that I refused to wear it.
“Well, then, mademoiselle,” said the costume maker dryly, “you will have
to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume
supplied by the Comédie.”
“Very well,” I answered, blushing, “I will get them myself.”
On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as she was always
very generous, she promptly bought me a veil of white _barège_ that fell
in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a wreath of hedge roses which, at
night, looked very soft and white. She also ordered me buskins from the
shoemaker employed by the Comédie.
The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother
had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my fellow student at the
_Conservatoire_. I went with Mme. Dica Petit to M. Massin, a
manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Léontine
Massin, another _Conservatoire_ pupil.
We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réamur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words: “Massin, Manufacturer of Make-up
Boxes.” I knocked and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognized Léontine’s sister, as she had come several times to the
_Conservatoire_.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a surprise for us! Titine,” she then called
out, “here is Mlle. Sarah!”
Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanor. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming:
“How glad I am to see you! And so you are coming out at the Comédie. I
saw it in the paper.”
I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the paper.
“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she talked away at
such a rate that I was bewildered. Mme. Petit did not enter into all
this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an
indifferent “Thanks” to Léontine’s inquiries about her daughter’s
health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to
say, Mme. Petit remarked:
“You must order your box; we have come here for that, you know.”
“Ah! then you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the
passage, and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going
to rehearsal at the Variétés later on.”
Mme. Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.
“Don’t wait, mademoiselle,” she said, “it will be impossible for us to
stay afterwards.”
Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, she turned her back
on my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely
to Mme. Petit, remarked:
“Good-by, Mme. _Gros-tas_, and I hope I shall never see you again.” She
then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Mme. Petit mutter a few
disagreeable words in Dutch, but I did not understand the meaning of
them at the time. We then went to the workshop and found old Massin at
his workbench, planing some small planks of white wood. His hunchback
daughter kept coming in and out, humming gayly all the time. The father
was glum and harassed, and had an anxious look. As soon as we had
ordered the box we took our leave. Mme. Petit went out first and
Léontine’s sister then put her hand into mine and said quietly:
“Father was not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted
my sister to be at the Théâtre Français.”
I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the
painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of
this humble home.
On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my début, I was in the Rue
Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then
just at the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honoré. On the
poster of the Comédie Française I read the words: “Début of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt.”... I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the
letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every
person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I
blushed to the very roots of my hair.
At five o’clock I went to the theater. I had a dressing-room on the top
floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblance. This room was on the other
side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comédie
Française. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage
and means of communication for us to reach the theater.
I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. My _petite dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
De Brabender considered that I had too much color. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theater, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.
When we were told that the play was about to commence I broke out into a
cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint away. I
went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I
arrived on the stage the curtain was being raised. That curtain, which
was raised so slowly and solemnly, was, to me, like the veil being torn
which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep, gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to
encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.
Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one
of Molière’s comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was
tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson
was small, precise, dainty, his shiny white hair curled firmly and
closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of
protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was, nevertheless,
so full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will,
which was always struggling for the victory over my physical weakness.
They knew that my device “_Quand-même_” had not been adopted by me
merely by chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise
of will power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this
device at the age of nine, after a formidable jump over a ditch which no
one could jump, and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had
hurt my face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. While I was
being carried home I exclaimed furiously: “Yes, I would do it again,
_quand-même_, if anyone dared me again. And I will always do what I want
to do all my life.” In the evening of that day, my aunt, who was grieved
to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any pleasure. My
poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and
quite consoled I whispered in a coaxing way: “I should like to have some
writing paper with a motto of my own.”
My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for
a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a
furious “_Quand-même_” that my Aunt Faure started back muttering, “What
a terrible child!”
Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage; but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my catchword on the stage and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried toward _Agamemnon_, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, _Clytemnestre_. I got through my part, and on
leaving the stage I tore up to my room and began to undress.
Mme. Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only played
in one scene and there were four more. I realized then that it would
really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own
motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I
ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a
state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.
The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at
Sarcey’s article in _L’Opinion Nationale_, and she now read me the
following lines.... “Mlle. Bernhardt, who made her début yesterday in
the rôle of _Iphigénie_, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure
and a very pleasing expression, the upper part of her face is remarkably
beautiful. She holds herself well, and her enunciation is perfectly
clear. This is all that can be said for her at present.”
“The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her. “You were
charming.”
She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so. When my godfather arrived in the
afternoon, he exclaimed:
“Good heavens! my poor child, what thin arms you have!”
As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when,
stretching out my arms, I had said the famous lines in which Favart had
made her famous “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly had made
no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be
reckoned such.
My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did have some slight
success.
My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following effusion
from the pen of the same Sarcey:
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT THE TIME OF HER DÉBUT IN “LES FEMMES
SAVANTES.”]
_L’Opinion Nationale_, September 12th.... “The same evening ‘Les Femmes
Savantes’ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third appearance, and
she took the rôle of _Henriette_. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of _Junie_ (he had made a mistake, as
it was _Iphigénie_ I had played) and of _Valérie_, both of which rôles
had been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not so much matter. She is a
débutante, and among the number presented to us it is only natural that
some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the comedians
playing with her were not much better than she was, and they are
_Sociétaires_ of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than their
young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are just
as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays at the
Comédie Française.”
I did not stay there, though; for one of those nothings which change a
whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie expecting to remain
there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about
the various stages of my career.
“The child will have so much during the first five years,” he said, “and
so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have
the pension given to Associates, that is, if she ever becomes an
Associate.” He appeared to have his doubts about this.
My sister Régina was the cause, though quite involuntarily this time, of
the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It was Molière’s anniversary,
and all the _artistes_ of the Français had to salute the bust of the
great writer, according to the tradition of the theater. It was to be my
first appearance at a “ceremony” and my little sister, on hearing me
tell about it at home, besought me to take her to it.
My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to
accompany us. All the members of the Comédie were assembled in the
_foyer_. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the
famous doctor’s cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about
to commence, and everyone hurried to the corridor where the busts were.
I was holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was the
very fat and very solemn Mme. Nathalie. She was a _Sociétaire_ of the
Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.
Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger’s cloak, stepped on
to Nathalie’s, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a
violent push that she was knocked against a column holding a bust.
Régina screamed out, and, as she turned back to me, I saw that her
pretty face was bleeding.
“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman, and, as she
turned round to reply, I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to
faint; there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval,
stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity from those _artistes_ who were
mothers, for the poor child, etc. Two groups were formed, one around the
wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around
little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather
strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women fanning
the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs or fans. A young, but
severe-looking _Sociétaire_ was sprinkling her with drops of water.
Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over her
face and muttered in a far-away voice:
“How stupid! You’ll spoil my make-up!”
The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice:
“I did not do it on purpose, sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old
cow, and she just kicked for nothing at all!”
Régina was a fair-haired seraph who might have made the angels envious,
for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but her language was by
no means choice, and nothing in the world could change it. Her coarse
speech made the friendly group burst out laughing, while all the members
of the enemy’s camp shrugged their shoulders. Bressant, who was the most
charming of the comedians and a general favorite, came up to me and
said:
“We must arrange this little matter, mademoiselle, for Nathalie’s short
arms are really very long. Between ourselves you were a trifle hasty,
but I like that, and then that child is so droll and pretty,” he added,
looking at my little sister.
The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused
twenty minutes’ delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at
once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying: “You are a plucky little comrade!”
Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring: “How dared you do it! She is a
_Sociétaire_!”
As for me, I was not very clear about what I had done, but my instinct
warned me that I should pay dearly for it.
The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call
at the Comédie at one o’clock about a matter concerning me privately. I
had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than
from remorse, and I was more particularly annoyed at the idea of the
attacks I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my
mother see the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie
she had given me full liberty. I received my letters now direct, without
her supervision, and I went about alone.
At one o’clock precisely I was shown into the manager’s office. M.
Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his eyes more crafty,
preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my want of discipline, absence of
respect, and scandalous conduct, and finished his pitiful harangue by
advising me to beg Mme. Nathalie’s pardon.
“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must apologize to her
before three _Sociétaires_ belonging to the Committee. Is she consents
to forgive you the Committee will then consider whether to fine you or
to cancel your engagement.”
I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother in distress,
my godfather laughing in his bourgeois way, and my Aunt Faure
triumphant, with her usual phrase: “That child is terrible!” I thought,
too, of my beloved Brabender with her hands clasped, her mustache
drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute
supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Mme. Guérard arguing with
everyone, so courageous she was always in her confidence in my future.
“Well, mademoiselle?” said M. Thierry curtly.
I looked at him without speaking and he began to get impatient.
“I will go and ask Mme. Nathalie to come here,” he said, “and I beg you
will do your part as quickly as possible, for I have other things to
attend to than to put your blunders right.”
“Oh, no, do not fetch Mme. Nathalie,” I said at last, “I shall not
apologize to her. I will leave. I will cancel my engagement at once.”
He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for the
ungovernable, willful child who was about to ruin her whole future for
the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once gentler and more
polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had not hitherto done, and he
sat down himself opposite to me and spoke to me gently about the
advantages of the Comédie, and of the danger that there would be for me
in leaving that illustrious theater which had done me the honor of
admitting me. He gave me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which
softened me. When he saw the effect he had made, he wanted to send for
Mme. Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.
“Oh, don’t let her come here, I should slap her again!” I exclaimed.
“Well, then, I must ask your mother to come,” he said.
“My mother would never come,” I replied.
“Then I will go and call on her.”
“It will be quite useless,” I persisted, “my mother has given me my
liberty, and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone am responsible
for all that I do.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, I will think it over,” he said rising to show
me that the interview was at an end. I went back home determined to say
nothing to my mother, but my little sister when questioned about her
wound had told everything in her own way, exaggerating, if possible, the
brutality of Mme. Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done. Rosa
Baretta, too, had been to see me and had burst into tears, assuring my
mother that my engagement would be canceled. The whole family was very
much excited and distressed when I arrived, and when they began to argue
with me it made me still more nervous. I did not take calmly the
reproaches which one and another of them addressed to me, and I was not
at all willing to follow their advice. I went to my room and locked
myself in.
The following day no one spoke to me and I went up to Mme. Guérard to be
comforted and consoled.
Several days passed by and I had nothing to do at the theater. Finally,
one morning, I received a notice requesting me to be present for the
reading of a play. It was “Dolorès,” by M. De Bornier. This was the
first time I had been asked to the reading of a new piece. I was
evidently to have the creation of a rôle. All my sorrows were at once
dispersed like a cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and
she naturally concluded that as I was asked to go to a reading, my
engagement was not to be canceled and I was not to be asked again to
apologize to Mme. Nathalie.
I went to the theater, and to my utter surprise I received from M.
Davennes the rôle of _Dolorès_, the chief part in Bornier’s play. I knew
that Favart, who should have had this rôle, was not well, but there were
other _artistes_ for it, and I could not get over my joy and surprise.
Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible presentiment has always
warned me of any troubles about to come upon me.
I had been rehearsing for five days when one morning, on going upstairs,
I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie, seated under
Gérôme’s portrait of Rachel, known as “The Red Pimento.” I did not know
whether to go downstairs again or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed
by the spiteful woman.
“Oh, you can go by, mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The rôle that you like so much is not to be left to
you after all.”
I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by her speech,
which I guessed would prove true.
I did not mention this incident to anyone, but continued rehearsing. It
was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me, and on Friday I was
disappointed to hear that Davennes was not there and that there was to
be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting into my cab the hall porter ran
out to give me a letter from Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to
come himself and give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful
to me.
He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme youth—the
importance of the rôle—such responsibility for such young shoulders—as
Mme. Favart had recovered from her illness, it was wiser, etc. I
finished reading the letter through blinding tears, but very soon anger
took the place of grief. I rushed back again and up to the manager’s
office. He could not see me just then, but I said I would wait. At the
end of an hour, thoroughly impatient, taking no notice of the office boy
and the secretary, who wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door
of M. Thierry’s office and walked in. I was desperate, and all that
anger with injustice and fury with falsehood could inspire me with, I
let him have in a stream of eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The
manager gazed at me in bewilderment. He could not conceive of such
daring and such violence in a girl so young.
When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down on an armchair, he tried
to calm me, but all in vain.
“I will leave at once,” I said. “Give me back my engagement and I will
send you back mine.”
Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary in,
gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my
engagement.
“Here is your mother’s signature, mademoiselle. I leave you free to
bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not
receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the
theater. But, believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over within
the next forty-eight hours.”
I did not answer but went out of his office. That very evening I sent
back to M. Thierry the engagement bearing his signature and tore up the
one with that of my mother.
I had left Molière’s Theater and was not to re-enter it until twelve
years later.
CHAPTER VIII
CASTLES IN SPAIN
This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it
completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth
among my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my violence.
Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being made by
my aunt and my little sisters. My godfather, whom I had once for all
requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me openly,
but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any peace
for me except at Mme. Guerard’s, and so I was constantly with her. I
enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to make
cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something else to
think about, and I soon recovered my gayety.
One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She
kept looking at the clock and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who
lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived.
“It’s very strange,” my mother said, “for last night after whist he said
he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It’s very strange
indeed.”
She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and
when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should
serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait.
Finally, the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister
was evidently in the secret.
“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his
hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.”
He handed me a letter stamped with the words “_Théâtre du Gymnase_.” It
was from Montigny, the manager at this theater, to M. De Gerbois, a
friend of my godfather’s, whom I knew very well. The letter was very
friendly, as far as M. De Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with
the following words: “I will engage your _protégée_ in order to be
agreeable to you ... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.”
I blushed as I read these lines and I thought my godfather was wanting
in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided wounding me
in this way; but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever lived. My
mother seemed very much pleased, so that I kissed her pretty face, and
thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face, which
was always so cool, and always slightly dewy! When I was a little child
I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long
lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her
eyes, tickling my cheeks while I lay back breathless with delight.
The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some
little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical
old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then
interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard,
but I very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to
me, and of taking stock of me generally, roused my ire at once. I
answered his questions curtly and our conversation, which seemed likely
to take an aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny,
the manager.
“Which of you is Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked.