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diff --git a/9100-0.txt b/9100-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45e4898 --- /dev/null +++ b/9100-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20495 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt + +Author: Sarah Bernhardt + +Release Date: October 1, 2005 [eBook #9100] +[Most recently updated: February 27, 2023] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Richard Tonsing, Sharon Joiner, Suzanne Shell, Sandra +Brown, TBC and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY DOUBLE LIFE *** + + + + + MEMOIRS OF + + SARAH BERNHARDT + + + + + PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS + OF + HENRY IRVING + + _New and Cheaper Edition + Price Six Shillings Net_ + + BY BRAM STOKER + + _Illustrated_ + + Mr. William Archer in the _Tribune_.—“A book + that counts .... Irving the manager and the + man-of-the-world lives in these pages.... We + have here, in brief, the ideal Irving from + an inside point of view—the Irving of the + inner circle.” + + LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN + 21 Bedford Street, W.C. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ADRIENNE LECOUVREUR” + + BY WALTER SPINDLER +] + + + + + _MY DOUBLE LIFE_ + MEMOIRS + OF + SARAH BERNHARDT + + + WITH MANY PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS + +[Illustration] + + LONDON + WILLIAM HEINEMANN + 1907 + + + + + _Copyright London 1907 by William Heinemann, and Washington, U.S.A., + D. Appleton and Company_ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. CHILDHOOD 1 + + II. AT BOARDING SCHOOL 6 + + III. CONVENT LIFE 16 + + IV. MY DÉBUT 27 + + V. THE SOLDIER’S SHAKO 38 + + VI. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE 46 + + VII. MY CAREER—FIRST LESSONS 59 + + VIII. THE CONSERVATOIRE 64 + + IX. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE 73 + + X. MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT 88 + + XI. MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE + THEREFROM 98 + + XII. AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN 107 + + XIII. FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON 118 + + XIV. “LE PASSANT”—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT 135 + + XV. THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR 151 + + XVI. SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE 160 + + XVII. PARIS BOMBARDED 172 + + XVIII. A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES 189 + + XIX. MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE 216 + + XX. VICTOR HUGO 226 + + XXI. A MEMORABLE SUPPER 231 + + XXII. AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN—SCULPTURE 244 + + XXIII. A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE + AS PHÈDRE—THE DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION 259 + + XXIV. ALEXANDRE DUMAS—“L’ETRANGÈRE”—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON 272 + + XXV. “HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON 280 + + XXVI. THE COMÉDIE GOES TO LONDON 291 + + XXVII. LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE 303 + + XXVIII. MY PERFORMANCE IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD + ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE 309 + + XXIX. THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S + COMMENTS ON ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY 326 + + XXX. MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE—PREPARATIONS FOR + MY FIRST AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON 331 + + XXXI. A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS” + OF SARAH BERNHARDT 342 + + XXXII. EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO + NEW YORK 352 + + XXXIII. ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM + HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT + MENLO PARK 361 + + XXXIV. AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE 380 + + XXXV. MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN + ESCAPADE ON THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER 388 + + XXXVI. SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES + BETWEEN ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 398 + + XXXVII. NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE + FALLS OF NIAGARA 414 + + XXXVIII. THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE 433 + + INDEX 443 + + + + + LIST OF PLATES + + + _To face page_ + + Sarah Bernhardt as Adrienne Lecouvreur _Frontispiece_ + + Sarah Bernhardt and her Mother 4 + + The Grand Champ Convent, from the Garden 18 + + Le Conservatoire National de Musique et de Déclamation, + Paris 66 + + Sarah Bernhardt in the Hands of her Coiffeur, before + going to the Conservatoire Examination 82 + + Sarah Bernhardt on Leaving the Conservatoire 90 + + An Early Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt; Sarah Bernhardt in + _Les Femmes Savantes_; Sarah Bernhardt as the Duc de + Richelieu 100 + + Sarah Bernhardt in _François le Champi_ 128 + + Sarah Bernhardt in a Fancy Costume 136 + + Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait in the Théâtre + Français_ 176 + + Skull in Sarah Bernhardt’s Library, with Autograph + Verses by Victor Hugo 232 + + Sarah Bernhardt at a Fancy-dress Ball 240 + + Sarah Bernhardt at Work on her _Médée_ 244 + + Sarah Bernhardt Painting (1878–9) 252 + + Sarah Bernhardt in her Coffin 256 + + A Corner of the Library 264 + + Library in Sarah Bernhardt’s House 268 + + Sarah Bernhardt at Home. _From the Painting by Walter + Spindler_ 276 + + Sarah Bernhardt as Dona Sol in _Hernani_ 282 + + A Corner of the Hall, with a Painting by Chartran of + Sarah Bernhardt as Gismonda 288 + + Sarah Bernhardt in Riding Costume 304 + + “Ophelia.” Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt 314 + + Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Mlle. Louis + Abbema_ 318 + + Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Jules Bastien- + Lepage_ 324 + + Sarah Bernhardt (1879) 334 + + Sarah Bernhardt as Andromaque 338 + + Sarah Bernhardt in Travelling Costume (1880) 342 + + Sarah Bernhardt and Members of her Company out Shooting 400 + + Bust of Victorien Sardou, by Sarah Bernhardt 440 + + Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s Handwriting 442 + + + + + I + CHILDHOOD + + +My mother was fond of travelling: she would go from Spain to England, +from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to +Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for +Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for +herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: “Look +after little Sarah; I shall return in a month’s time.” A month later she +would write to another of her sisters: “Go and see the child at her +nurse’s; I shall be back in a couple of weeks.” + +My mother’s age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts +were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and +the eldest was twenty-eight; but the last one lived at Martinique, and +was the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather +dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no +idea why he had gone there. + +My youthful aunts always promised to come to see me, but rarely kept +their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany, and lived near Quimperlé, in +a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild gilly- +flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a +child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and sad- +looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun. + +Brittany is a long way off, even in our epoch of velocity! In those days +it was the end of the world. Fortunately my nurse was, it appears, a +good, kind woman, and, as her own child had died, she had only me to +love. But she loved after the manner of poor people, when she had time. + +One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather +in potatoes; the over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time +to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his +Breton bedstead suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman +had placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the +wooden peg which supported the narrow table for my toys. She threw a +faggot in the grate, and said to me in Breton language (until the age of +four I only understood Breton), “Be a good girl, Milk Blossom.” That was +my only name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the +wooden peg which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally +I succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the +ground, but—poor little me!—I fell into the fire, which was burning +joyfully. + +The screams of my foster-father, who could not move, brought in some +neighbours. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk. +My aunts were informed of what had happened: they communicated the news +to my mother, and for the next four days that quiet part of the country +was ploughed by stage-coaches which arrived in rapid succession. My +aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest +alarm, hastened from Brussels, with Baron Larrey, one of her friends, +who was a young doctor, just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house +surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since +that nothing was so painful to witness and yet so charming as my +mother’s despair. The doctor approved of the “mask of butter,” which was +changed every two hours. + +Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we +shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such +charming fashion how those kind folks loved Milk Blossom. And he could +never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was +butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards, +on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the +neighbours used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom. + +Mother, adorably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair +and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on +her cheeks when she looked down. + +She distributed money on all sides. She would have given her golden +hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her life itself, in +order to save her child. And she was as sincere in her despair and her +love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to +Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and the surgeon with me. Forty- +two days later, mother took back in triumph to Paris the nurse, the +foster-father, and me, and installed us in a little house at Neuilly, on +the banks of the Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears. My skin was +rather too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy and +trustful once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of my +aunts. + +Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of +horrible dahlias growing close together and coloured like wooden balls. +My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bon-bons, and +toys. The foster-father died, and my nurse married a concierge, who used +to pull open the door at 65 Rue de Provence. + +Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my +nurse—without telling any of my friends—took me with her to her new +abode. + +The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I +remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse’s abode was just over +the doorway of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and +monumental door. From outside I thought it was beautiful, and I began to +clap my hands on reaching the house. It was towards five o’clock in the +evening, in the month of November, when everything looks grey. I was put +to bed, and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my +recollections of that day. + +The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no +window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and +escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could +go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an +immense “bull’s eye” above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow +against the glass, and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no +box-weed, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone—cold, grey, ugly +stone—and panes of glass opposite me. “I want to go away! I don’t want +to stay here! It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the +ceiling of the street!” and I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up +in her arms, and, folding me in a rug, took me down into the courtyard. +“Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See—there is the ceiling of +the street!” + +It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly +place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale +and became anæmic, and should certainly have died of consumption if it +had not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I +was playing in the courtyard with a little girl, called Titine, who +lived on the second floor, and whose face or real name I cannot recall, +when I saw my nurse’s husband walking across the courtyard with two +ladies, one of whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their +backs, but the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my heart to +stop beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous excitement. + +“Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?” she asked. + +“Yes, Madame, those four,” he replied, pointing to four open ones on the +first floor. + +The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy. + +“Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!” I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the +pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing, +laughing, and tearing her wide lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight. She +took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the concierge, +she stammered out to her friend: “I can’t understand what it all means! +This is little Sarah! My sister Youle’s child!” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER +] + +The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their +windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the concierge’s lodge, in +order to come to an explanation. My poor nurse told her about all that +had taken place, her husband’s death, and her second marriage. I do not +remember what she said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was +deliciously perfumed, and I would not let go of her. She promised to +come the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any +longer in that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse. My +aunt stroked my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did +not understand. She tried in vain to explain something to me; I do not +know what it was, but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at +once. In a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real +affection, she said all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her +gloved hands, patted my frock, which was turned up, and made any amount +of charming, frivolous little gestures, but all without any real +feeling. She then went away, at her friend’s entreaty, after emptying +her purse in my nurse’s hands. I rushed towards the door, but the +husband of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it again. My +nurse was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she opened the window, +saying to me, “Don’t cry, Milk Blossom. Look at your pretty aunt; she +will come back again, and then you can go away with her.” Great tears +rolled down her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the +dark, black hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit +of despair I rushed out to my aunt, who was just getting into a +carriage. After that I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark, there +was a noise in the distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had +managed to escape from my poor nurse, and had fallen down on the +pavement in front of my aunt. I had broken my arm in two places, and +injured my left knee-cap. I only came to myself again a few hours later, +to find that I was in a beautiful, wide bed which smelt very nice. It +stood in the middle of a large room, with two lovely windows, which made +me very joyful, for I could see the ceiling of the street through them. + +My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me, +and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little +brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so +fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by +one single person. + +As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I was two years +recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time was nearly +always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my life, which +have left me only a vague memory of being petted and of a chronic state +of torpor. + + + + + II + AT BOARDING SCHOOL + + +One day my mother took me on her knees and said to me, “You are a big +girl now, and you must learn to read and write.” I was then seven years +old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years +with the old nurse and two years ill. “You must go to school,” continued +my mother, playing with my curly hair, “like a big girl.” I did not know +what all this meant, and I asked what a school was. + +“It’s a place where there are many little girls,” replied my mother. + +“Are they ill?” I asked. + +“Oh no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they play together, and +are very gay and happy.” + +I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing +tears in my mother’s eyes I flung myself in her arms. + +“But what about you, Mamma?” I asked. “You will be all alone, and you +won’t have any little girl.” + +She bent down to me and said: “God has told me that He will send me some +flowers and a little baby.” + +My delight was more and more boisterous. “Then I shall have a little +brother!” I exclaimed, “or else a little sister. Oh no, I don’t want +that; I don’t like little sisters.” + +Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember, +in a blue corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus +in all my splendour, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine’s carriage, +which was to take us to Auteuil. + +It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an +hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys +being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by +the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When +my aunt’s magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in, +slowly and calmly. I got in when my turn came, giving myself airs, +because the concierge and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt +then sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders +in English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a +paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours, +in which three men were seated: Régis L——, a friend of my father’s, +General de P——, and an artist, named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of +horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then. + +I heard on the way that these gentlemen were to make arrangements for a +little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in +being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet +them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt +said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either +English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was +greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window +and my eyes wide open I gazed out eagerly at the grey muddy road, with +its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all +very beautiful, because it kept changing. + +The carriage stopped at 18 Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a +long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma +said, “You will be able to read that soon, I hope.” My aunt whispered to +me, “Boarding School, Madame Fressard,” and very promptly I said to +mamma, “It says ‘Boarding School, Madame Fressard.’” + +Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my +assurance, and we entered the house. Madame Fressard came forward to +meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather +stout, and her hair turning grey, _à la Sévigné_. She had beautiful +large eyes, rather like George Sand’s, and very white teeth, which +showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked +healthy, spoke kindly; her hands were plump and her fingers long. She +took my hand gently in hers, and half kneeling, so that her face was +level with mine, she said in a musical voice, “You won’t be afraid of +me, will you, little girl?” I did not answer, but my face flushed as red +as a cockscomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply. +They all gathered round me. “Speak, child—— Come, Sarah, be a good +girl—— Oh, the naughty little child!” + +It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was +then made, to the bedrooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the +usual exaggerated compliments were paid. “How beautifully it is all +kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!” and a hundred stupidities of +this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother +went aside with Madame Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she +could not walk. “This is the doctor’s prescription,” she said, and then +followed a long list of things that were to be done for me. + +Madame Fressard smiled rather ironically. “You know, Madame,” she said +to my mother, “we shall not be able to curl her hair like that.” + +“And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it,” replied my mother, +stroking my head with her gloved hands. “It’s a regular wig, and they +must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could +not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too +much. What do you give the children at four o’clock?” she asked, +changing the subject. + +“Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them.” + +“There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam,” said my mother, “but +she must have jam one day, and chocolate another, as she has not a good +appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of +chocolate.” Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical +way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the name of +the maker. + +“Ah! from Marquis’s! What a spoiled little girl it is!” She patted my +cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar +she looked surprised. “That’s cold cream,” said my mother. “I make it +myself, and I should like my little girl’s face and hands to be rubbed +with it every night when she goes to bed.” + +“But——” began Madame Fressard. + +“Oh, I’ll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets,” interrupted my +mother impatiently. (Ah, my poor mother! I remember quite well that my +sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.) + +The farewell moment came at last, and every one gathered round mamma, +and finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing and with all +kinds of consoling words. “It will be so good for her—it is just what +she needs—you’ll find her quite changed when you see her again”—&c. &c. + +The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and +tossed me in the air. + +“You little chit,” he said; “they are putting you into barracks, and +you’ll have to mind your behaviour!” + +I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the +direction of Madame Fressard, who had a slight moustache, “You mustn’t +do that to the lady, you know!” + +My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and +the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and +farewells, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be +imprisoned. + +I spent two years at this pension. I was taught reading, writing, and +reckoning. I also learnt a hundred new games. I learnt to sing +_rondeaux_ and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was +relatively happy there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and +Sundays, and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in +the street seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large +garden belonging to the pension. Besides, there were little festivities +at Madame Fressard’s which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella +Colas, who had just made her _début_ at the Théâtre Français, came +sometimes on Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a +wink the night before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair +carefully and get ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in order +to listen to something I did not understand at all, but which +nevertheless left me spell-bound. Then, too, there was quite a legend +attached to this pretty girl. She had flung herself almost under the +horses’ feet as the Emperor was driving along, in order to attract his +attention and obtain the pardon of her brother, who had conspired +against his sovereign. + +Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Madame Fressard’s, and this sister, +Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlou, Under Secretary of State +in the Treasury Department. Stella was slight and fair, with blue eyes +that were rather hard but expressive. She had a deep voice, and when +this pale, fragile girl began to recite Athalie’s Dream, it thrilled me +through and through. How many times, seated on my child’s bed, did I +practise saying in a low voice, “_Tremble, fille digne de moi_”—I used +to twist my head on my shoulders, swell out my cheeks, and commence: + +“_Tremble—trem-ble—trem-em-ble——_” + +But it always ended badly, and I would begin again very quietly, in a +stifled voice, and then unconsciously speak louder; and my companions, +roused by the noise, were amused at my attempts, and roared with +laughter. I would then rush about to the right and left, giving them +kicks and blows, which they returned with interest. + +Madame Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline (whom I chanced to +meet a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon), would +then appear on the scene. Angry and implacable, she would give us all +kinds of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get +locked up for three days: that was followed by my being detained on the +first day we were allowed out. And in addition I would receive five +strokes with a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler strokes of Mlle. +Caroline’s! I reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five +years later. She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and +hold our hands straight out to her, and then bang came her wide ebony +ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, sharp blow which made the +tears spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was +beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a +very white complexion, and very black hair, which she wore in waved +_bandeaux_. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives +brought her to my house and said, “I am sure you will not recognise this +lady, and yet you know her very well.” I was leaning against the large +mantelpiece in the hall, and I saw this tall woman, still beautiful, but +rather provincial-looking, coming through the first drawing-room. As she +descended the three steps into the hall the light fell on her protruding +forehead, framed on each side with the hard, waved _bandeaux_. + +“Mademoiselle Caroline!” I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish +movement I hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw her again, for +the grudge I had owed her from my childhood must have been apparent +under my politeness as hostess. + +As I said before, I was not unhappy at Madame Fressard’s, and it seemed +quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite a grown- +up girl. My uncle, Félix Faure, who has entered the Carthusian +monastery, had stipulated that his wife, my mother’s sister, should +often take me out. He had a very fine country place at Neuilly, with a +stream running through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours, +together with my two cousins, a boy and girl. + +These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any other events +than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole pension and +always left me in the infirmary for two or three days. These outbursts +of temper were like attacks of madness. + +One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly to take me away altogether. My +father had written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and +these orders were imperative. My mother was travelling, so she had sent +word to my aunt, who had hurried off at once, between two dances, to +carry out the instructions she had received. + +The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard to my own +wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled +about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out +all kinds of reproaches, blaming mamma, my aunts, and Madame Fressard +for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two +hours, and while I was being dressed I escaped twice into the garden and +attempted to climb the trees and to throw myself into the pond, in which +there was more mud than water. + +Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off, +sobbing, in my aunt’s carriage. + +I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that my life was +said to be in danger. + +My father used to come to my aunt Rosine’s, who was then living at 6 Rue +de la Chaussée d’Antin. He was on friendly terms with Rossini, who lived +at No. 4 in the same street. He often brought him in, and Rossini made +me laugh with his clever stories and comic grimaces. + +My father was as “handsome as a god,” and I used to look at him with +pride. I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him +for his seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded a +certain respect, and I noticed that even my exuberant aunt calmed down +in his presence. + +I had recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that I could +now be moved without any fear of ill effects. + +We had been waiting for my mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My aunt +offered to accompany us if my father would take me to the convent, but +he refused, and I can hear him now with his gentle voice saying: + +“No; her mother will take her to the convent. I have written to the +Faures, and the child is to stay there a fortnight.” + +My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied: + +“It’s quieter there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity +more than anything else.” + +I went that very evening to my aunt Faure’s. I did not care much for +her, as she was cold and affected, but I adored my uncle. He was so +gentle and so calm, and there was an infinite charm in his smile. His +son was as turbulent as I was myself, adventurous and rather hare- +brained, so that we always liked being together. His sister, an +adorable, Greuze-like girl, was reserved, and always afraid of soiling +her frocks and even her pinafores. The poor child married Baron Cerise, +and died during her confinement, in the very flower of youth and beauty, +because her timidity, her reserve, and narrow education had made her +refuse to see a doctor when the intervention of a medical man was +absolutely necessary. I was very fond of her, and her death was a great +grief to me. At present I never see the faintest ray of moonlight +without its evoking a pale vision of her. + +I stayed three weeks at my uncle’s, roaming about with my cousin and +spending hours lying down flat, fishing for cray-fish in the little +stream that ran through the park. This park was immense, and surrounded +by a wide ditch. How many times I used to have bets with my cousins that +I would jump that ditch! The bet was sometimes three sheets of paper, or +five pins, or perhaps my two pancakes, for we used to have pancakes +every Tuesday. And after the bet I jumped, more often than not falling +into the ditch and splashing about in the green water, screaming because +I was afraid of the frogs, and yelling with terror when my cousins +pretended to rush away. + +When I returned to the house my aunt was always watching anxiously at +the top of the stone steps for our arrival. What a lecture I had, and +what a cold look. + +“Go upstairs and change your clothes, Mademoiselle,” she would say, “and +then stay in your room. Your dinner will be sent to you there without +any dessert.” + +As I passed the big glass in the hall I caught sight of myself, looking +like a rotten tree stump, and I saw my cousin making signs, by putting +his hand to his mouth, that he would bring me some dessert. + +His sister used to go to his mother, who fondled her and seemed to say, +“Thank Heaven you are not like that little Bohemian!” This was my aunt’s +stinging epithet for me in moments of anger. I used to go up to my room +with a heavy heart, thoroughly ashamed and vexed, vowing to myself that +I would never again jump the ditch, but on reaching my room I used to +find the gardener’s daughter there, a big, awkward, merry girl, who used +to wait on me. + +“Oh, how comic Mademoiselle looks like that!” she would say, laughing so +heartily that I was proud of looking comic, and I decided that when I +jumped the ditch again I would get weeds and mud all over me. When I had +undressed and washed I used to put on a flannel gown and wait in my room +until my dinner came. Soup was sent up, and then meat, bread, and water. +I detested meat then, just as I do now, and threw it out of the window +after cutting off the fat, which I put on the rim of my plate, as my +aunt used to come up unexpectedly. + +“Have you eaten your dinner, Mademoiselle?” she would ask. + +“Yes, Aunt,” I replied. + +“Are you still hungry?” + +“No, Aunt.” + +“Write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times, you little +heathen.” This was because I had not been baptized. A quarter of an hour +later my uncle would come upstairs. + +“Have you had enough dinner?” he would ask. + +“Yes, Uncle,” I replied. + +“Did you eat your meat?” + +“No; I threw it out of the window. I don’t like meat.” + +“You told your aunt an untruth, then.” + +“No; she asked me if I had eaten my dinner, and I answered that I had, +but I did not say that I had eaten my meat.” + +“What punishment has she given you?” + +“I am to write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times before going +to bed.” + +“Do you know them by heart?” + +“No, not very well; I make mistakes always.” + +And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our Father” and the +“Creed,” and I copied it in the most devoted way, as he used to dictate +with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious indeed, +this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a +Carthusian monk. As I write these lines, ill and aged as he is, and bent +with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of +the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, of +his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all +that is best in me. I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect +for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have +thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my +aunt quarrelled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of +me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally, +too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very +straightforward and full of indulgence and common sense. + +Recently I went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge. +A friend of mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words +he had dictated to be repeated to me. + +To return to my story. After my uncle’s visit, Marie, the gardener’s +daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent, but with her +pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had +sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all +the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts, and I +would eat them when I had finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She +sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under +the table in case my aunt returned. But my aunt did not come again, as +she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano, whilst +my uncle taught his son mathematics. + +Finally, my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great +excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk was packed in +readiness. + +The Grand-Champs Convent, which I was about to enter, had a prescribed +uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my things with the +initials S. B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver spoon, fork, and +goblet, and these were all marked 32, which was the number under which I +was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woollen muffler in shades of +violet, which she had been knitting for me in secret for several days. +My aunt put round my neck a little scapulary which had been blessed, and +when my mother and father arrived everything was ready. + +A farewell dinner was given, to which two of my mother’s friends, Aunt +Rosine, and four other members of the family were invited. + +I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had just this +feeling of importance which was quite enough for me. Every one at table +talked about me; my uncle kept stroking my hair, and my cousin from her +end of the table threw me kisses. Suddenly my father’s musical voice +made me turn towards him. + +“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said. “If you are very good at the convent, I +will come in four years and fetch you away, and you shall travel with me +and see some beautiful countries.” + +“Oh, I will be good!” I exclaimed; “I’ll be as good as Aunt Henriette!” + +This was my aunt Faure. Everybody smiled. + +After dinner, the weather being very fine, we all went out to stroll in +the park. My father took me with him, and talked to me very seriously. +He told me things that were sad, which I had never heard before. I +understood, although I was so young, and my eyes filled with tears. He +was sitting on an old bench and I was on his knee, with my head resting +on his shoulder. I listened to all he said and cried silently, my +childish mind disturbed by his words. Poor father! I was never, never to +see him again. + + + + + III + CONVENT LIFE + + +I did not sleep well that night, and the following morning at eight +o’clock we started by diligence for Versailles. I can see Marie now, +great big girl as she then was, in tears. All the members of the family +were assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my little trunk, +and then a wooden case of games which my mother had brought, and a kite +that my cousin had made, which he gave me at the last moment, just as +the carriage was starting. I can still see the large white house, which +seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther we drove away from it. I +stood up, with my father holding me, and waved his blue silk muffler +which I had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage +and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the heavy-looking +door of the Grand-Champs Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect +my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked curiously +around me. The paving-stones of the street were round and small, with +grass growing everywhere. There was a wall, and then a great gateway +surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing whatever to be +seen. To the left there was a house, and to the right the Satory +barracks. Not a sound to be heard—not a footfall, not even an echo. + +“Oh, Mamma,” I exclaimed, “is it inside there I am to go? Oh no! I would +rather go back to Madame Fressard’s!” + +My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus +explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him, +and he took me by the hand as he rang the bell. The door opened, and he +led me gently in, followed by my mother and Aunt Rosine. + +The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to +be seen, and windows from which children’s faces were gazing curiously +at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she +took us into the parlour. This was large, with a polished floor, and was +divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the +room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall, and a few +chairs and arm-chairs near the grating. On the walls were a portrait of +Pius IX., a full length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My +teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some +book the description of a prison, and that it was just like this. I +looked at my father and my mother, and began to distrust them. I had so +often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to rule +me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My aunt Faure had so +often repeated, “That child will come to a bad end, she has such mad +ideas,” &c. &c. “Papa, papa!” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror; +“I won’t go to prison. This is a prison, I am sure. I am frightened—oh, +I am so frightened!” + +On the other side of the grating a door had just opened, and I stopped +to see who was coming. A little round, short woman made her appearance +and came up to the grating. Her black veil was lowered as far as her +mouth, so that I could scarcely see anything of her face. She recognised +my father, whom she had probably seen before, when matters were being +arranged. She opened a door in the grating, and we all went through to +the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified eyes full +of tears, she gently took my hand in hers and, turning her back to my +father, raised her veil. I then saw the sweetest and merriest face +imaginable, with large child-like blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing +mouth with full lips and beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so +kind, so energetic, and so happy that I flung myself at once into her +arms. It was Mother St. Sophie, the Superior of the Grand-Champs +Convent. + +“Ah, we are friends now, you see,” she said to my father, lowering her +veil again. What secret instinct could have told this woman, who was not +coquettish, who had no looking-glass and never troubled about beauty, +that her face was fascinating and that her bright smile could enliven +the gloom of the convent? + +“We will now go and see the house,” she said. + +We at once started, she and my father each holding one of my hands. Two +other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was the Mother Prefect, a tall, +cold woman with thin lips, and the other Sister Séraphine, who was as +white and supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We entered the +building, and came first to the large class-room in which all the pupils +met on Thursdays at the lectures, which were nearly always given by +Mother St. Sophie. Most of them did needlework all day long; some worked +at tapestry, others embroidery, and still others decalcography. + +The room was very large, and on St. Catherine’s Day and other holidays +we used to dance there. It was in this room, too, that once a year the +Mother Superior gave to each of the sisters the _sou_ which represented +her annual income. The walls were adorned with religious engravings and +with a few oil paintings done by the pupils. The place of honour, +though, belonged to St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving +depicted the conversion of this saint, and oh, how often I have looked +at that engraving. St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much +emotion and greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired the +cleanliness of the refectory. She asked to see which would be my seat at +table, and when this was shown to her she objected strongly to my having +that place. + +“No,” she said; “the child has not a strong chest, and she would always +be in a draught. I will not let her sit there.” + +My father agreed with my mother, and insisted on a change being made. It +was therefore decided that I should sit at the end of the room, and the +promise given was faithfully kept. + +When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories she was +aghast. It was very, very wide, and the steps were low and easy to +mount, but there were so many of them before one reached the first +floor. For a few seconds mamma hesitated and stood there gazing at them, +her arms hanging down in despair. + +“Stay down here, Youle,” said my aunt, “and I will go up.” + +“No, no,” replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. “I must see where the +child is to sleep—she is so delicate.” + +My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up, and we then went +into one of the immense dormitories. It was very much like the dormitory +at Madame Fressard’s, but a great deal larger, and there was a tiled +floor without any carpet. + +[Illustration: + + THE GRAND CHAMP CONVENT, FROM THE GARDEN +] + +“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma. “The child cannot sleep +here; it is too cold; it would kill her.” + +The Mother Superior, St. Sophie, gave my mother a chair and tried to +soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already very much affected. + +“We will put your little girl in this dormitory, Madame,” she said, +opening a door that led into a room with eight beds. The floor was of +polished wood, and this room, adjoining the infirmary, was the one in +which delicate or convalescent children slept. Mamma was reassured on +seeing this, and we then went down and inspected the grounds. There were +three woods, the “Little Wood,” the “Middle Wood,” and the “Big Wood,” +and then there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye +could see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children +lived. They were taught gratis, and every week they helped with the +laundry for the convent. + +The sight of these immense woods, with swings, hammocks, and a +gymnasium, delighted me, for I thought I should be able to roam about at +pleasure there. Mother St. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood +was reserved for the older pupils, and the Middle Wood for the little +ones, whilst the Big Wood was for the whole convent on holidays. Then +after telling us about the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering +of the acacia, Mother St. Sophie informed us that every child could have +a small garden, and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger +one. + +“Oh, can I have a garden of my own?” I exclaimed—“a garden all to +myself?” + +“Yes, one of your own.” + +The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man, +with the exception of the chaplain, who was on the convent staff. + +“Père Larcher,” said the kind woman, “here is a little girl who wants a +beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it.” + +“Very good, Reverend Mother,” answered the honest fellow, and I saw my +father slip a coin into his hand, for which the man thanked him in an +embarrassed way. + +It was getting late, and we had to separate. I remember quite well that +I did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of nothing but my garden. +The convent no longer seemed to me like a prison, but like paradise. I +kissed my mother and my aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment +in a close embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full +of tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a hearty +kiss and whispered, “I am going to be very, very good and work well, so +that I can go with you at the end of four years.” I then went towards my +mother, who was giving Mother St. Sophie the same instructions she had +given to Madame Fressard about cold cream, chocolate, jam, &c. &c. +Mother St. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only fair +to say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously. + +When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the Mother Superior +took me by the hand and, leading me to the Middle Wood, showed me where +my garden would be. That was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for +we found Père Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner +of the wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The corner +was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which bounded the railway +line on the left bank of the river which cuts the Satory woods in two. +The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent +were part of the beautiful Satory forest. + +They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had +altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père +Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled, and sent for the +Mother Treasurer and Mother St. Appoline. I had to hand all my money +over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me, +saying, “When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from +me.” + +Mother St. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of +flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why, I wanted every sort that +grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson by explaining +that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the +Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher, +telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some +seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was +delighted, and I then went with Mother St. Sophie to the refectory to +have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second, +amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there, +standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother +Superior appeared, every one bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were +turned on me. Mother St. Sophie took me to the seat which had been +chosen for me at the end of the room, and then returned to the middle of +the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an +audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room every one +bowed again, and I then found myself alone, quite alone, in this cage of +little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten +to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins +from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardaños. They had +only been in the convent two months, and appeared to be as timid as I +was. The dinner was composed of soup made of everything, and of veal +with haricot beans. I detested soup, and I have always had a horror of +veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun +who waited on us turned it round again and poured the hot soup in, +regardless of scalding me. + +“You must eat your soup,” whispered my right hand neighbour, whose name +was Pepa. + +“I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud. The +inspectress was passing by just at that moment. + +“You must eat your soup, Mademoiselle,” she said. + +“No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered. + +She smiled, and said in a gentle voice, “We must like everything. I +shall be coming round again just now. Be a good girl and take your +soup.” + +I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and ate +up the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed +her satisfaction. I was furious, and put my tongue out, and this made +all the table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end +of the table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the +eldest, said to her in a low voice, “It’s the new girl making grimaces.” +The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my +portion found its way to the plate of Dolores. I wanted to keep the +haricot beans, though, and we almost came to a quarrel over them. She +gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few beans which I +tried to keep on my plate. + +An hour later we had evening prayers, and afterwards all went up to bed. +My bed was placed against the wall, in which there was a niche for the +statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was always kept burning in the niche, +and the oil for it was provided by the children who had been ill and +were grateful for their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at +the foot of the little statue. The pots were of terra-cotta and the +flowers of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided +that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell asleep, to +dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of distant +countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an impression on my mind. + +The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up so early. +Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque window-panes. I +grumbled as I dressed, for we were allowed a quarter of an hour, and it +always took me a good half-hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing +that I was not ready, came towards me, and before I knew what she was +going to do snatched the comb violently out of my hand. + +“Come, come,” she said; “you must not dawdle like this.” She then +planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a handful of it. Pain, +and anger at seeing myself treated in this way, threw me immediately +into one of my fits of rage which always terrified those who witnessed +them. I flung myself upon the unfortunate sister, and with feet, teeth, +hands, elbows, head, and indeed all my poor little body, I hit and +thumped, yelling at the same time. All the pupils, all the sisters, and +indeed every one, came running to see what was the matter. The sisters +made the sign of the cross, but did not venture to approach me. The +Mother Prefect threw some holy water over me to exorcise the evil +spirit. Finally the Mother Superior arrived on the scene. My father had +told her of my fits of wild fury, which were my only serious fault, and +my state of health was quite as much responsible for them as the +violence of my disposition. She approached me as I was still clutching +Sister Marie, though I was exhausted by this struggle with the poor +woman, who, although tall and strong, only tried to ward off my blows +without retaliating, endeavouring to hold first my feet and then my +hands. + +I looked up on hearing Mother St. Sophie’s voice. My eyes were bathed in +tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet +face that, without altogether letting go, I ceased fighting for a +second, and all trembling and ashamed, said very quickly, “She commenced +it. She snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked woman, and tore +out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked, wicked woman.” +I then burst into sobs, and my hands loosed their hold. The next thing I +knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed, with Mother St. +Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice lecturing me +gently. All the others had gone, and I was quite alone with her and the +Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother St. Sophie had an +immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her, and Sister +Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the whole +convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little stool, I +listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to the +instructive story she told me. Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and +how I love to recall her to my memory! + +I adored her as a child adores the being who has entirely won its heart, +without knowing, without reasoning, without even being aware that it was +so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since +then, however, I have understood and admired her, realising how unique +and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set exterior and happy +face of that holy woman. I have loved her ever since for all that she +awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the letters which she +wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over again. I love her +also because, imperfect as I am, it seems to me that I should have been +one hundred times more so had I not known and loved that pure creature. + +Once only did I see her severe and felt that she was suddenly angry. In +the little room used as a parlour, leading into her cell, there was a +portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was stamped with a certain +nobility. + +“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her. + +“No,” she answered, turning quickly towards me; “it is the King; it is +Henri V.” + +It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All +the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognised sovereign. +They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day +when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of bon- +bons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded to +all the colleges, boarding schools, and convents. Politics were a dead +letter to me, and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother St. +Sophie. + +Then, too, I was a favourite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did +my compositions for me. I did not care for any studies, except geography +and drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and +I thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid, and quite lost my +head when questioned unexpectedly. + +I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me, +in small cardboard boxes or cages that I manufactured myself, adders, of +which our woods were full, crickets that I found on the leaves of the +tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails +broken, as, in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid +of the box a little, and on seeing this the lizards rushed to the +opening. I shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such +assurance, and _crac!_ in a twinkling, either at right or left, there +was nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and +whilst one of the sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the +blackboard, the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard’s tail in +my hand, how I could fasten it on again. I had some _toc-marteau_ (death +watches) in a little box, and five spiders in a cage that Père Larcher +had made for me with some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give +flies to my spiders, and they, fat and well fed, would spin their webs. +Very often during recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little +girls, would stand round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and +watch the wonderful work of these little creatures. If one of my +schoolfellows cut herself I used to go at once to her, feeling very +proud and important: “Come at once,” I would say, “I have some fresh +spider-web, and I will wrap your finger in it.” Provided with a little +thin stick, I would take the web and wrap it round the wounded finger. +“And now, my lady spiders, you must begin your work again,” and, active +and minute, _mesdames_ the spiders began their spinning once more. + +I was looked upon as a little authority, and was made umpire in +questions that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for +fashionable trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy +thing for me in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets +and muff, and this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I +charged for my _trousseaux_, according to their importance, two pencils, +five _tête-de-mort_ nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In +short, I became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride. +I did not learn anything, and I received no distinctions. My name was +only once on the honour list, and that was not as a studious pupil, but +for a courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool. +She had fallen in whilst trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the +large orchard, on the poor children’s side of the grounds. As a +punishment for some misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent +away for two days among the poor children. This was supposed to be a +punishment, but I delighted in it. In the first place, I was looked upon +by them as a “young lady.” Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous +to bring me, on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard +some heartrending shrieks, and, rushing to the pool from whence they +came, I jumped into the water without reflecting. There was so much mud +that we both sank in it. The little girl was only four years old, and so +small that she kept disappearing. I was over ten at that time. I do not +know how I managed to rescue her, but I dragged her out of the water +with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes all filled with mud. I was told +afterwards that it was a long time before she was restored to +consciousness. As for me, I was carried away with my teeth chattering, +nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish afterwards, and Mother +St. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard her words to the doctor: + +“This child,” she said, “is one of the best we have here. She will be +perfect when once she has received the holy chrism.” + +This speech made such an impression on me that from that day forth +mysticism had great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was +extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me, +heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the +Mother of the Seven Sorrows my ideal. + + + + + IV + MY DÉBUT + + +An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of +our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I +wanted to remain for ever. + +The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of +visits to some of the communities, and ours was among the chosen ones. +The news was told us by Mother St. Alexis, the _doyenne_, the most aged +member of the community, who was so tall, so thin, and so old that I +never looked upon her as a human being or as a living being. It always +seemed to me as though she were stuffed, and as though she moved by +machinery. She frightened me, and I never consented to go near her until +after her death. + +We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays. +Mother St. Alexis, supported by two lay sisters, stood on the little +platform, and in a voice that sounded far, far off announced to us the +approaching visit of Monseigneur. He was to come on St. Catherine’s Day, +just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother. + +Our peaceful convent was from thenceforth like a bee-hive into which a +hornet had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might +have time to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall arm-chair +of carved wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and +polished. We made lamp-shades covered with crystalline. The grass was +pulled up in the courtyard—and I cannot tell what was not done in honour +of this visitor. + +Two days after the announcement made by Mother St. Alexis, the programme +of the _fête_ was communicated to us by Mother St. Sophie. The youngest +of the nuns was to read a few words of welcome to Monseigneur. This was +the delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a +pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by +Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given, +entitled _Tobit Recovering his Eyesight_. It had been written by Mother +St. Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with +age and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of +the phrases. Scene I. Tobias’s farewell to his blind father. He vows to +bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabael, one of his relatives. +Scene II. Tobias, asleep on the banks of the Tigris, is being watched +over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a monster fish which had +attacked Tobias whilst he slept. When the fish is killed the angel +advises Tobias to take its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to +preserve these religiously. Scene III. Tobias’s return to his blind +father. The angel tells him to rub the old man’s eyes with the entrails +of the fish. The father’s eyesight is restored, and when Tobit begs the +Angel Raphael to accept some reward, the latter makes himself known, +and, in a song to the glory of God, vanishes to heaven. + +The little play was read to us by Mother St. Thérèse, one Thursday, in +the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother St. +Thérèse was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid committing, +if only for a second, the sin of pride. + +I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy, +for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no +doubt that some _rôle_ would be given to me. The very thought of it made +me tremble beforehand. I began to get quite nervous; my hands became +quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I did not +approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother St. +Thérèse said in her calm voice: + +“Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen to your names and the +different parts: + + _Tobit_ EUGÉNIE CHARMEL + _Tobias_ AMÉLIE PLUCHE + _Gabael_ RENÉE D’ARVILLE + _The Angel Raphael_ LOUISE BUGUET + _Tobias’s mother_ EULALIE LACROIX + _Tobias’s sister_ VIRGINIE DEPAUL.” + +I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied, +amazed, and furious. Mother St. Thérèse then added, “Here are your +manuscripts, young ladies,” and a manuscript of the little play was +handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it. + +Louise Buguet was my favourite playmate, and I went up to her and asked +her to let me see her manuscript, which I read over enthusiastically. + +“You’ll make me rehearse, when I know my part, won’t you?” she asked, +and I answered, “Yes, certainly.” + +“Oh, how frightened I shall be!” she said. + +She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale +and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we +used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow +limpid and pearl-like from her grey, questioning eyes. + +She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd’s dog +going from one to another among the chosen ones. It had really nothing +to do with me, but I wanted to be “in it.” The Mother Superior passed +by, and as we all curtseyed to her she patted my cheek. + +“We thought of you, little girl,” she said, “but you are so timid when +you are asked anything.” + +“Oh, that’s when it is history or arithmetic,” I said. “This is not the +same thing, and I should not have been afraid.” + +She smiled distrustfully and moved on. There were rehearsals during the +next week. I asked to be allowed to take the part of the monster, as I +wanted to have some _rôle_ in the play at any cost. It was decided, +though, that César, the convent dog, should be the fish monster. + +A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless +amount of trouble cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted, +and sewing them together afterwards. I made some enormous gills, which +were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed +over for that of a stupid, big girl whose name I cannot remember. She +had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but +there were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat. I +nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume and worked +at it with two of the lay sisters, Sister St. Cécile and Sister St. +Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room. + +At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael. +She stood there stupefied on the little platform, tears dimming her +beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept +appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and, getting up, +rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was +beginning to be “in it” myself at last. + +Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress +rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but, immediately on entering, she +sank down on a bench, sobbing out in an imploring voice: + +“Oh no; I shall never be able to do it, never!” + +“Quite true, she never will be able to,” sighed Mother St. Sophie. + +Forgetting for the moment my little friend’s grief, and wild with joy, +pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the +form on which the Angel Raphael had sunk down weeping. + +“Oh, Mother, I know her part. Shall I take her place for the rehearsal?” + +“Yes, yes!” exclaimed voices from all sides. + +“Oh yes, you know it so well,” said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to put +her band on my head. + +“No, let me rehearse as I am, first,” I answered. + +They began the second scene again, and I came in carrying a long branch +of willow. + +“Fear nothing, Tobias,” I commenced. “I will be your guide. I will +remove from your path all thorns and stones. You are overwhelmed with +fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I will watch over you.” + +Whereupon Tobias, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue +muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about, +represented the Tigris. + +I then continued with a prayer to God whilst Tobias fell asleep. César +next appeared as the Monster Fish, and the audience trembled with fear. +César had been well taught by the gardener, Père Larcher, and he +advanced slowly from under the blue muslin. He was wearing his mask, +representing the head of a fish. Two enormous nut-shells for his eyes +had been painted white, and a hole pierced through them, so that the dog +could see. The mask was fastened with wire to his collar, which also +supported two gills as large as palm leaves. César, sniffing the ground, +snorted and growled, and then leaped wildly on to Tobias, who with his +cudgel slew the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back with his +four paws in the air, and then rolled over on to his side, pretending to +be dead. + +There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped and +stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and shouted, “Good +César! Clever César! Oh, good dog, good dog!” The sisters, touched by +the efforts of the guardian of the convent, shook their heads with +emotion. As for me, I quite forgot that I was the Angel Raphael, and I +stooped down and stroked César affectionately. “Ah, how well he has +acted his part!” I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the +other in my hand, whilst the dog, motionless, continued to be dead. + +The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again, and, +accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise, a duet to the +glory of God, who had just saved Tobias from the fearful monster. + +After this the little green serge curtain was drawn, and I was +surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother St. Sophie came up on to the +platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise Buguet, she was now +joyful again and her angelic face beamed. + +“Oh, how well you knew the part!” she said. “And then, too, every one +can hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!” She kissed me and I +hugged her with all my might. At last I was in it! + +The third scene began. The action took place in Father Tobit’s house. +Gabael, the Angel, and young Tobias were holding the entrails of the +fish in their hands and looking at them. The Angel explained how they +must be used for rubbing the blind father’s eyes. I felt rather sick, +for I was holding in my hand a skate’s liver and the heart and gizzard +of a fowl. I had never touched such things before, and every now and +then the nausea overcame me and the tears rose to my eyes. + +Finally the blind father came in, led by Tobias’s sister. Gabael knelt +down before the old man and gave him the ten silver talents, telling +him, in a long recital, of Tobias’s exploits in Medea. After this Tobias +advanced, embraced his father, and then rubbed his eyes with the skate’s +liver. + +Eugénie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes she exclaimed: + +“I can see, I can see. Oh! God of goodness, God of mercy! I can see, I +can see!” + +She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in an ecstatic +attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded and loving, +wept. + +All the actors except old Tobit and the Angel sank on their knees and +gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving the public, +moved by religious sentiment and discipline repeated, Amen! + +Tobias’s mother then approached the Angel and said, “Oh, noble stranger, +take up your abode from henceforth with us. You shall be our guest, our +son, our brother!” + +I advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines made known +that I was the messenger of God, that I was the Angel Raphael. I then +gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan, which was being concealed +for a final effect, and veiled myself in cloudy tissue which was +intended to simulate my flight heavenwards. The little green serge +curtain was then closed on this apotheosis. + +Finally the solemn day arrived. + +I was so feverish with expectation that I could not sleep the last three +nights. + +The dressing bell was rung for us earlier than usual, but I was already +up and trying to smooth my rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet +brush by way of making it behave better. + +Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o’clock in the morning. We therefore +lunched at ten, and were then drawn up in the principal courtyard. Only +Mother St. Alexis, the eldest of the nuns, was in front, and Mother St. +Sophie just behind her. The chaplain was a little distance away from the +two Superiors. Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls, and +then all the little children. The lay sisters and the servants were also +there. We were all dressed in white, with the respective colours of our +various classes. + +The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first +courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened, and +Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps which the footman lowered for +him. Mother St. Alexis advanced and, bending down, kissed the episcopal +ring. Mother St. Sophie, the Superior, who was younger, knelt down to +kiss the ring. The signal was then given to us, and we all knelt to +receive the benediction of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the big +gate was closed, and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the +Mother Superior. Mother St. Alexis was exhausted, and went back to her +cell. + +In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees. We then +went to the chapel, where a short Mass was celebrated, after which we +had an hour’s recreation. The concert was to commence at half-past one. +The recreation hour was devoted to preparing the large room and to +getting ready to appear before Monseigneur. I wore the angel’s long +robe, with a blue sash round my waist and two paper wings fastened on +with narrow blue straps that crossed over each other in front. Round my +head was a band of gold braid fastening behind. I kept mumbling my +“part,” for in those days we did not know the word _rôle_. People are +more familiar with the stage nowadays, but at the convent we always said +“part,” and years afterwards I was surprised, the first time I played in +England, to hear a young English girl say, “Oh, what a fine part you had +in _Hernani_!” + +The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were festoons of +green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere. Then there +were little lustres hung about with gold cord. A wide piece of red +velvet carpet was laid down from the door to Monseigneur’s arm-chair, +upon which were two cushions of red velvet with gold fringe. + +I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful! + +The concert began, and it seemed to me that everything went very well. +Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the sight of César, and +it was he who led the applause when the dog died. It was César, in fact, +who made the greatest success, but we were nevertheless sent for to +appear before Monseigneur Sibour. He was certainly the kindest and most +charming of prelates, and on this occasion he gave to each of us a +consecrated medal. + +When my turn came he took my hand in his and said, “It is you, my child, +who are not baptized, is it not?” + +“Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur,” I replied in confusion. + +“She is to be baptized this spring,” said the Mother Superior. “Her +father is coming back specially from a very distant country.” + +She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in a very low +voice. + +“Very well; if I can, I will come again for the ceremony,” said the +Archbishop aloud. I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the +old man’s ring. I then ran away to the dormitory and cried for a long +time. I was found there later on, fast asleep from exhaustion. + +From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and less +violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of Monseigneur +Sibour’s name, and reminded of his promise to come for my baptism. + +Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning in January, +when we were all assembled in the chapel for Mass, I was surprised and +had a foreboding of coming evil as I saw the Abbé Lethurgi go up into +the pulpit before commencing the Mass. He was very pale, and I turned +instinctively to look at the Mother Superior. She was seated in her +regular place. The almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion, +to tell us of the murder of Monseigneur Sibour. + +Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us, and a hundred stifled +cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant the priest’s voice. +Murdered! The word seemed to sting me personally even more than the +others. Had I not been, for one instant, the favourite of the kind old +man? It was as though the murderer, Verger, had struck at me too, in my +grateful love for the prelate, in my little fame, of which he had now +robbed me. I burst into sobs, and the organ, accompanying the prayer for +the dead, increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted. It +was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love for mysticism. +It was fortified by the religious exercises, the dramatic effect of our +worship, and the gentle encouragement, both fervent and sincere, of +those who were educating me. They were very fond of me, and I adored +them, so that even now the very memory of them, fascinating and restful +as it is, thrills me with affection. + +The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew more and more +excitable. My nervous attacks were more and more frequent—fits of tears +for no reason at all, and fits of terror without any cause. Everything +seemed to take strange proportions as far as I was concerned. One day +one of my little friends dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I +played with dolls until I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all +over, as I adored that doll, which had been given to me by my father. + +“You have broken my doll’s head, you naughty girl!” I exclaimed. “You +have hurt my father!” + +I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a +great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing, “Papa is dead! Papa is +dead!” + +Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlour, +and, making me stand in front of her, she said, “My poor little girl, I +have something to tell you that will cause you great sorrow. Papa is +dead.” + +“I know,” I said, “I know”; and the expression in my eyes, my mother +frequently told me afterwards, was such that she trembled a long time +for my reason. + +I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything, except +catechism and scripture, and I wanted to be a nun. + +My mother had succeeded in arranging that my two sisters should be +baptized with me—Jeanne, who was then six years old, and Régina, who was +not three, but who had been taken as a boarder at the convent with the +idea that her presence might cheer me up a little. + +I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week afterwards, +as I was to be confirmed one week after the event. + +My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt and Aunt Henriette Faure, my godfather +Régis, Monsieur Meydieu, Jeanne’s godfather, and General Polhes, +Régina’s godfather, the godmothers of my two sisters and my various +cousins, all came, and revolutionised the convent. My mother and my +aunts were in fashionable mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray +of lilac in her bonnet, “to enliven her mourning,” as she said. It was a +strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by other +people besides her. + +I had never before felt so far away from all these people who had come +there on my account. I adored my mother, but with a touching and fervent +desire to leave her, never to see her again, to sacrifice her to God. As +to the others, I did not see them. I was very grave and rather moody. A +short time previously a nun had taken the veil at the convent, and I +could think of nothing else. + +This baptismal ceremony was the prelude to my dream. I could see myself +like the novice who had just been admitted as a nun. I pictured myself +lying down on the ground covered over with the heavy black cloth with +its white cross, and four massive candlesticks placed at the four +corners of the cloth, and I planned to die under this cloth. How I was +to do this I do not know. I did not think of killing myself, as I knew +that would be a crime. But I made up my mind to die like this, and my +ideas galloped along, so that I saw in my imagination the horror of the +sisters and heard the cries of the pupils, and was delighted at the +emotion which I had caused. + +After the baptismal ceremony my mother wished to take me away with her. +She had rented a small house with a garden in the Boulevard de la Reine, +at Versailles, for my holidays, and she had decorated it with flowers +for this _fête_ day, as she wanted to celebrate the baptism of her three +children. She was very gently told that, as I was to be confirmed in a +week’s time, I was now to be isolated until then. My mother cried, and I +can remember now, to my sorrow, that it did not make me sad to see her +tears, but quite the contrary. + +When every one had gone and I went into the little cell in which I had +been living for the last week and wherein I was to live for another +week, I fell on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered up to God +my mother’s sorrow. “You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried, and that it +did not affect me!” Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild +exaggeration of everything that what was expected from me was the +renunciation of all affection, devotion, and pity. + +The following day Mother St. Sophie lectured me gently about my wrong +comprehension of religious duties, and she told me that when once I was +confirmed she should give me a fortnight’s holiday, to go and make my +mother forget her sorrow and disappointment. + +My confirmation took place with the same pompous ceremonial. All the +pupils, dressed in white, carried wax tapers. For the whole week I had +refused to eat. I was pale and had grown thinner, and my eyes looked +larger from my perpetual transports, for I went to extremes in +everything. + +Baron Larrey, who came with my mother to my confirmation, asked for a +month’s holiday for me to recruit, and this was granted. + +Accordingly we started, my mother, Madame Guérard, her son Ernest, my +sister Jeanne, and I, for Cauterets in the Pyrénées. + +The movement, the packing of the trunks, parcels, and packages, the +railway, the diligence, the scenery, the crowds and the general +disturbance cured me of my nerves and my mysticism. I clapped my hands, +laughed aloud, flung myself on mamma and nearly stifled her with kisses. +I sang hymns at the top of my voice; I was hungry and thirsty, so I ate, +drank, and in a word, lived. + + + + + V + THE SOLDIER’S SHAKO + + +Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It was an abominable but +charming little hole of a place, with plenty of verdure, very few +houses, and a great many huts belonging to the mountain people. There +were plenty of donkeys to be hired, that took us up the mountains by +extraordinary paths. + +I adore the sea and the plain, but I neither care for mountains nor for +forests. Mountains seem to crush me and forests to stifle me. I must, at +any cost, have the horizon stretching out as far as the eye can see and +skies to dream about. + +I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose their crushing +effect. And consequently we went up always higher and higher. + +Mamma used to stay at home with her sweet friend, Madame Guérard. She +used to read novels whilst Madame Guérard embroidered. They would sit +there together without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it +fade away, and beginning it over again. The old servant, Marguerite, was +the only domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used to accompany +us. Gay and daring, she always knew how to make the men laugh with her +prattle, the sense and crudeness of which I did not understand until +much later. She was the life of the party always. As she had been with +us from the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes +objectionably so; but I would not let her have her own way with me, +though, and I used to answer her back in most cutting fashion. She took +her revenge in the evening by giving us a dish of sweets for dinner that +I did not like. + +I began to look better for the change, and although still very +religious, my mysticism was growing calmer. As I could not exist, +however, without a passion of some kind, I began to get very fond of +goats, and I asked mamma quite seriously whether I might become a goat- +herd. + +“I would rather you were that than a nun,” she replied; and then she +added, “We will talk about it later on.” + +Every day I brought down with me from the mountain another little kid. +We had seven of them, when my mother interfered and put a stop to my +zeal. + +Finally, it was time to return to the convent. My holiday was over, and +I was quite well again. + +I was to go back to work once more. I accepted the situation willingly, +to the great surprise of mamma, who loved travelling, but detested the +actual moving from one place to another. + +I was delighted at the idea of the re-packing of the parcels and trunks, +of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing again all the +villages, towns, people, and trees, which changed all the time. I wanted +to take my goats with me, but my mother nearly had a fit. + +“You are mad!” she exclaimed. “Seven goats in a train and in a carriage! +Where could you put them? No, a hundred times no!” + +She finally consented to my taking two of them and a blackbird that one +of the mountaineers had given me. And so we returned to the convent. + +I was received there with such sincere joy that I felt very happy again +immediately. I was allowed to keep my two goats there, and to have them +out at playtime. We had great fun with them: they used to butt us and we +used to butt them, and we laughed, frolicked, and were very foolish. And +yet I was nearly fourteen at this time; but I was very puny and +childish. + +I stayed at the convent another ten months without learning anything +more. The idea of becoming a nun always haunted me, but I was no longer +mystic. + +My godfather looked upon me as the greatest dunce of a child. I worked, +though, during the holidays, and I used to have lessons with Sophie +Croizette, who lived near to our country house. This gave a slight +impetus to me in my studies, but it was only slight. Sophie was very +gay, and what we liked best was to go to the museum, where her sister +Pauline, who was later on to become Madame Carolus Duran, was copying +pictures by the great masters. + +Pauline was as cold and calm as Sophie was charming, talkative, and +noisy. Pauline Croizette was beautiful, but I liked Sophie better—she +was more gracious and pretty. Madame Croizette, their mother, always +seemed sad and resigned. She had given up her career very early. She had +been a dancer at the opera in St. Petersburg, and had been very much +adored and flattered and spoiled. I fancy it was the birth of Sophie +that had compelled her to leave the stage. Her money had then been +injudiciously invested, and she had been ruined. She was very +distinguished-looking; her face had a kind expression; there was an +infinite melancholy about her, and people were instinctively drawn +towards her. Mamma and she had made each other’s acquaintance while +listening to the music in the park at Versailles, and for some time we +saw a great deal of one another. + +Sophie and I had some fine games in that magnificent park. Our greatest +joy, though, was to go to Madame Masson’s in the Rue de la Gare. Madame +Masson had a curiosity shop. Her daughter Cécile was a perfect little +beauty. We three used to delight in changing the tickets on the vases, +snuff-boxes, fans, and jewels, and then when poor M. Masson came back +with a rich customer—for Masson the antiquary enjoyed a world-wide +reputation—Sophie and I used to hide so that we should see his fury. +Cécile, with an innocent air, would be helping her mother, and glancing +slyly at us from time to time. + +The whirl of life separated me brusquely from all these people whom I +loved, and an incident, trivial in itself, caused me to leave the +convent earlier than my mother wished. + +It was a _fête_ day, and we had two hours for recreation. We were +marching in procession along the wall which skirts the railway on the +left bank of the Seine, and as we were burying my pet lizard we were +chanting the “De Profundis.” About twenty of my little playfellows were +following me, when suddenly a soldier’s shako fell at my feet. + +“What’s that?” called out one of the girls. + +“A soldier’s shako.” + +“Did it come from over the wall?” + +“Yes, yes. Listen. There’s a quarrel going on!” + +We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears. + +“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic! It’s the Grand-Champs Convent!” + +“How am I to get my shako back?” + +These were the words we overheard, and then, as a soldier suddenly +appeared astride on our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified +children and angry exclamations from the nuns. In a second we were all +about twenty yards away from the wall, like a group of frightened +sparrows flying off to land a little farther away, inquisitive, and very +much on the alert. + +“Have you seen my shako, young ladies?” called out the unfortunate +soldier, in a beseeching tone. + +“No, no!” I cried, hiding it behind my back. + +“Oh no!” echoed the other girls, with peals of laughter, and in the most +tormenting, insolent, jeering way we continued shouting “No, no!” +running backwards all the time in obedience to the sisters, who, veiled +and hidden behind the trees, were in despair. + +We were only a few yards from the huge gymnasium. I climbed up +breathless at full speed, and reached the wide plank at the top; when +there I unfastened the rope ladder, but, as I could not raise the wooden +ladder, by which I had ascended, up to me, I unfastened the rings. The +wooden ladder fell and broke, making a great noise. I then stood up +wickedly triumphant on the plank, calling out, “Here is your shako, but +you won’t get it now!” I put it on my head and walked up and down, as no +one could get to me there, for I had pulled up the rope ladder. I +suppose my first idea had just been to have a little fun, but the girls +had laughed and clapped, and my strength had held out better than I had +hoped, so that my head was turned, and nothing could stop me then. + +The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the wall and rushed +in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way. The sisters, beside +themselves, ran to the house calling for help. The chaplain, the Mother +Superior, Father Larcher, and every one else came running out. I believe +the soldier swore like a trooper, and it was really quite excusable. +Mother St. Sophie from below besought me to come down and to give up the +shako. + +The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze and the +gymnasium rope. + +His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the sisters had in +vain tried to send away. Finally the sister who was door-keeper sounded +the alarm bell, and five minutes later the soldiers from the Satory +barracks arrived, thinking that a fire had broken out. When the officer +in command was told what was the matter, he sent back his men and asked +to see the Mother Superior. He was brought to Mother St. Sophie, whom he +found under the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence. He ordered +the soldier to return immediately to the barracks. He obeyed after +clenching his fist at me, but on looking up he could not help laughing. +His shako came down to my eyes, and was only prevented by my ears, which +were bent over, from covering my face. + +I was furious and wildly excited with the turn my joke had taken. + +“There it is, your shako!” I called out, and I flung it violently over +the wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the boundary to the +cemetery. + +“Oh, the young plague!” muttered the officer, and then, apologising to +the nuns, he saluted them and went away, accompanied by Father Larcher. + +As for me, I felt like a fox with its tail cut. + +I refused to come down immediately. + +“I shall come down when every one has gone away,” I exclaimed. + +All the classes received punishments. + +I was left alone. The sun had set. The silence in the cemetery terrified +me. The dark trees took mournful or threatening shapes. The moisture +from the wood fell like a mantle over my shoulders, and seemed to get +heavier every moment. I felt abandoned by every one, and I began to cry. + +I was angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother St. Sophie, with +the pupils who had excited me by their laughter, with the officer who +had humiliated me, and with the sister who had sounded the alarm bell. + +Then I began to think about getting down the rope ladder which I had +pulled up on to the plank. Very clumsily, trembling with fear at the +least sound, listening eagerly all the time, and with eyes looking to +the right and left, I was an enormous time, and was very much afraid of +unhooking the rings. Finally I managed to unroll it, and I was just +about to put my foot on the first step when the barking of César alarmed +me. He was tearing along from the wood. The sight of the dark shadow on +the gymnasium appeared to the faithful dog to bode no good. He was +furious, and began to scratch the thick wooden posts. + +“Why, César, don’t you know your friend?” I said very gently. He growled +in reply, and in a louder voice I said, “Fie, César, bad César; you +ought to be ashamed! Fancy barking at your friend!” + +He now began to howl, and I was seized with terror. I pulled the ladder +up again, and sat down at the top. César lay down under the gymnasium, +his tail straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat bristling, growling +in a sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to help me. I prayed +fervently, vowed to say three supplementary _Aves_, three _Credos_, and +three _Paters_ every day. + +When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice, “César! my +dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am the Angel Raphael!” Ah, +much César cared for him. He considered my presence, alone, at so late +an hour in the garden and on the gymnasium quite incomprehensible. Why +was I not in the refectory? Poor César, he went on growling, and I was +getting very hungry, and began to think things were most unjust. It was +true that I had been to blame for taking the soldier’s shako, but after +all, he had commenced. Why had he thrown his shako over the wall? My +imagination now came to my aid, and in the end I began to look upon +myself as a martyr. I had been left to the dog, and he would eat me. I +was terrified at the dead people behind me, and every one knew I was +very nervous. My chest too was delicate, and there I was, exposed to the +biting cold with no protection whatever. I began to think about Mother +St. Sophie, who evidently no longer cared for me, as she was deserting +me so cruelly. I lay with my face downwards on the plank, and gave +myself up to the wildest despair, calling my mother, my father, and +Mother St. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die there and then—— Between +my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by a voice. I got up, and, +peering through the gloom, caught a glimpse of my beloved Mother St. +Sophie. She was there, the dear saint, and had never left her rebellious +child. Concealed behind the statue of St. Augustine, she had been +praying whilst awaiting the end of this crisis, which in her simplicity +she had believed might prove fatal to my reason and perhaps to my +salvation. She had sent every one away and remained there alone, and she +too had not dined. I came down and threw myself, repentant and wretched, +into her motherly arms. She did not say a word to me about the horrible +incident, but took me quickly back to the convent. I was all damp with +the icy evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and my hands and feet +frozen. + +I had an attack of pleurisy after this, and was twenty-three days +between life and death. Mother St. Sophie never left me an instant. The +sweet Mother blamed herself for my illness, declaring as she beat her +breast that she had left me outside too long. + +“It’s my fault! It’s my fault!” she kept exclaiming. + +My aunt Faure came to see me nearly every day. My mother was in +Scotland, and came back by short stages. My aunt Rosine was at Baden- +Baden, ruining the whole family with a new “system.” “I am coming. I am +coming,” she kept saying, when she wrote to ask how I was. Dr. Despagne +and Dr. Monod, who had been called in for a consultation, did not think +there was any hope. Baron Larrey, who was very fond of me, came often. +He had a certain influence over me, and I willingly obeyed him. My +mother arrived a short time before my convalescence, and did not leave +me again. As soon as I could be moved she took me to Paris, promising to +send me back to the convent when I was quite well. + +It was for ever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but it was not +for ever that I left Mother St. Sophie. I seemed to take something of +her away with me. For a long time she was part of my life, and even to- +day, when she has been dead for years, she haunts my mind, bringing back +to me the simple thoughts of former days and making the simple flowers +of yore bloom again. + +Life for me then commenced in earnest. + +The cloister life is a life for every one. There may be a hundred or a +thousand individuals there, but every one lives a life which is the same +and the only life for all. The rumour of the outside world dies away at +the heavy cloister gate. The sole ambition is to sing more loudly than +the others at vespers, to take a little more of the form, to be at the +end of the table, to be on the list of honour. When I was told that I +was not to go back to the convent, it was to me as though I was to be +thrown into the sea when I could not swim. + +I besought my godfather to let me go back to the convent. The dowry left +to me by my father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I wanted to +take the veil. “Very well,” replied my godfather; “you can take the veil +in two years’ time, but not before. In the meantime learn all that you +do not yet know (and that means everything) from the governess your +mother has chosen for you.” + +That very day an elderly unmarried lady, with soft, grey, gentle eyes, +came and took possession of my life, my mind, and my conscience for +eight hours every day. Her name was Mlle. de Brabender, and she had +educated a grand duchess in Russia. She had a sweet voice, an enormous +sandy moustache, a grotesque nose, but a way of walking, of expressing +herself, and of bowing which simply commanded deference. She lived at +the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and this was why, in spite +of my mother’s entreaties, she refused to come and remain with us. + +She soon won my affection, and I learnt quite easily with her everything +that she wanted me to learn. I worked eagerly, for my dream was to +return to the convent, not as a pupil, but as a teaching sister. + + + + + VI + THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE + + +I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with some remote joy. It +was eight o’clock. I pressed my forehead against the window-panes and +gazed out, looking at I know not what. I had been roused with a start in +the midst of some fine dream, and I had rushed towards the light in the +hope of finding in the infinite space of the grey sky the luminous point +that would explain my anxious and blissful expectation. Expectation of +what? I could not have answered that question then, any more than I can +now after much reflection. I was on the eve of my fifteenth birthday, +and I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That +particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new era. I was +not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was settled for me. + +Hypnotised by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my +forehead pressed against the window-pane, gazing through the halo of +vapour formed by my breath at houses, palaces, carriages, jewels, and +pearls passing along in front of me—oh, what a number of pearls there +were! There were princes and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings! +Oh! how fast one’s imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always +allows it to roam on alone. In my fancy I proudly rejected the princes, +I rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared +that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite grey sky I had caught +a glimpse of the convent of Grand-Champs, of my white bedroom, and of +the small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin all +decorated with flowers by us. The king offered me a throne, but I +preferred the throne of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague +ambition to occupy it some far-off day in the distant future; the king +was heart-broken and dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu!_ I preferred to +the pearls that were offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I +was telling with my fingers; and no costume could compete in my mind +with the black barège veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy- +white cambric that encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of Grand- +Champs. I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I heard my +mother’s voice asking our old servant Marguerite if I were awake. With +one bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the sheet. Mamma +half opened the door very gently, and I pretended to wake up. + +“How lazy you are to-day!” she said. I kissed her, and answered in a +coaxing tone, “It is Thursday, and I have no music lesson.” + +“And are you glad?” she asked. + +“Oh yes,” I replied promptly. + +My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano. She was so +fond of music that although she was then nearly thirty, she took lessons +herself in order to encourage me to practise. What horrible torture it +was! I used, very wickedly, to do my utmost to set my mother and my +music mistress at variance. They were both of them as short-sighted as +possible. When my mother had practised a new piece three or four days, +she knew it by heart and played it fairly well, to the astonishment of +Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held the music in her +hand and read every note with her nose nearly touching the page. One day +I heard, with joy, a quarrel beginning between mamma and this +disagreeable Mlle. Clarisse. + +“There, that’s a quaver!” + +“No, there’s no quaver!” + +“This is a flat!” + +“No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are, Mademoiselle!” added my +mother, perfectly furious. + +A few minutes later my mother went to her room, and Mlle. Clarisse +departed, muttering as she left. + +As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bedroom, for one of my +cousins, who was a good musician, had helped me to add sharps, flats, +and quavers, and we had done it with such care that even a trained eye +would have had difficulty in discerning the fraud immediately. As Mlle. +Clarisse had been sent off, I had no lesson that day. Mamma gazed at me +a long time with her mysterious eyes, the most beautiful eyes I have +ever seen in my life, and then she said, speaking very slowly: + +“After luncheon there is to be a family council.” + +I felt myself turning pale. + +“All right,” I answered. “What frock am I to put on, Mamma?” I said this +merely for the sake of saying something, and to keep myself from crying. + +“Put your blue silk on; you look more staid in that.” + +Just at this moment my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously, and +with a burst of laughter jumped on to my bed and, slipping under the +sheets, called out, “I’m there!” + +Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and scolding. The +child had escaped from her just as she was about to bathe her, and had +announced, “I’m going into my sister’s bed.” + +Jeanne’s mirth at this moment, which I felt was a very serious one for +me, made me burst out crying and sobbing. My mother, not understanding +the reason of this grief, shrugged her shoulders, told Marguerite to +fetch Jeanne’s slippers, and taking the little bare feet in her hands, +kissed them tenderly. + +I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that mamma loved +my sister more than me, and this preference, which did not trouble me in +an ordinary way, hurt me sorely now. + +Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. I fell asleep in order to +forget, and was roused by Marguerite, who helped me to dress, as +otherwise I should have been late for luncheon. The guests that day were +Aunt Rosine, Mlle. de Brabender, my governess (a charming creature, whom +I have always regretted), my godfather, and the Duc de Morny, a great +friend of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was a mournful +meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the family council. +Mlle. de Brabender, in her gentle way and with her affectionate words, +insisted on my eating. My sister burst out laughing when she looked at +me. + +“Your eyes are as little as that,” she said, putting her small thumb on +the tip of her forefinger; “and it serves you right, because you’ve been +crying, and Mamma doesn’t like any one to cry. Do you, Mamma?” + +“What have you been crying about?” asked the Duc de Morny. I did not +answer, in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. de Brabender gave me with +her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He was gentle +and kind, but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he occupied a high +place at court, and that my family considered his friendship a great +honour. + +“Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a family council +on her behalf,” said my mother, speaking slowly. “At times it seems to +me that she is quite idiotic. She quite disheartens me.” + +“Come, come,” exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in +English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his thin +moustache. Mlle. de Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her +scoldings were like words from heaven. When at last luncheon was over, +mamma told me, as she passed, to pour out the coffee. Marguerite helped +me to arrange the cups, and I went into the drawing-room. Maître C——, +the notary from Hâvre, whom I detested, was already there. He +represented the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a way which +had never been explained, but which seemed mysterious. My childish +hatred was instinctive, and I learnt later on that this man had been my +father’s bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly, this notary; his whole +face seemed to have moved up higher. It was as though he had been +hanging by his hair for a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his +cheeks, and his nose had got into the habit of trying to reach the back +of his head. He ought to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his +features turned up, but instead of this his face was smooth and +sinister-looking. He had red hair planted in his head like couch grass, +and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the +horrible man! What a torturing nightmare the very memory of him is, for +he was the evil genius of my father, and his hatred now pursued me. My +poor grandmother, since the death of my father, never went out, but +spent her time mourning the loss of her beloved son who had died so +young. She had absolute faith in this man, who besides was the executor +of my father’s will. He had the control of the money that my dear father +had left me. I was not to receive it until the day of my marriage, but +my mother was to use the interest for my education. My uncle, Félix +Faure, was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried in an arm- +chair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He was an old +friend of the family, and he always called me _ma fil_, which annoyed me +greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me stupid, and when I +handed him his coffee he said in a jeering tone: “And it is for you, _ma +fil_, that so many honest people have been hindered in their work. We +have plenty of other things to attend to, I can assure you, than to +discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah, if it had been her +sister there would have been no difficulty,” and with his benumbed +fingers he patted Jeanne’s head as she remained on the floor plaiting +the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated. + +When the coffee had been drunk, the cups carried away and my sister +also, there was a short silence. + +The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but my mother begged him to +stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she urged, and the Duc took his +seat again near my aunt, with whom it seemed to me he was carrying on a +slight flirtation. + +Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of +her, and her beautiful clear-cut profile showing to advantage against +the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was +about to be discussed. + +The hideous notary had risen. + +My uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed to be the +exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had the same +_bourgeois_ mind, and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They were +both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I was +thin enough for a scarecrow. The door opened, and a pale, dark-haired +woman entered, a most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was +Madame Guérard, “the lady of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always +called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a patronising +way certainly, but Madame Guérard was devoted to me, and endured the +little slights to which she was treated very patiently for my sake. She +was tall and slender as a lath, very compliant and demure. She lived in +the flat above, and had come down without a hat; she was wearing an +indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown leaves. + +M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable +notary made a very curt bow to Madame Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very +gracious, for the new-comer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his +head, as Madame Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her +from head to foot. Mlle. de Brabender shook hands cordially with her, +for Madame Guérard was fond of me. + +My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and +then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a _savant_, with whom +my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.” + +Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for +Madame Guérard did not prefer my sister to me. + +“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my +godfather, looking at his watch, “we must begin and discuss what is to +be done with her.” + +I began to tremble, and drew closer to _mon petit Dame_ (as I had always +called Madame Guérard from my infancy) and to Mlle. de Brabender. They +each took my hand by way of encouraging me. + +“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh; “it appears you want to be a +nun.” + +“Ah, indeed,” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine. + +“Sh!” she retorted, with a laugh. Mamma sighed, and held her wools up +close to her eyes to match them. + +“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre +notary, “and you have not a sou.” I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender +and whispered, “I have the money that papa left.” + +The horrid man overheard. + +“Your father left some money to get you married,” he said. + +“Well, then, I’ll marry the _bon Dieu_,” I answered, and my voice was +quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my +life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had +no more fear, as every one had gone too far and provoked me too much. I +slipped away from my two kind friends, and advanced towards the other +group. + +“I will be a nun, I will!” I exclaimed. “I know that papa left me some +money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the +Saviour. Mamma says she does not care, it is all the same to her, so +that it won’t be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the +convent than you do here!” + +“My dear child,” said my uncle, drawing me towards him, “your religious +vocation appears to me to be more a wish to love——” + +“And to be loved,” murmured Madame Guérard in a very low voice. + +Every one glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders lightly. It +seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful +one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her, and, +throwing my arms round her neck, said: + +“You don’t mind my being a nun, do you? It won’t make you unhappy, will +it?” + +Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud. + +“Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that, after your +sister, I love you better than any one else in the world.” + +She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a +little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the +mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in +volume with the thawed snow until it sweeps along rocks and trees in its +course. This was the effect my mother’s clear drawling voice had upon me +at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who were all +speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of eloquence. I went +from one to the other, explaining my decision, and giving reasons which +were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost to get someone to +support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was bored, and rose +to go. + +“Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he said. “You ought +to send her to the Conservatoire.” He then patted my cheek, kissed my +aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother’s +hand I heard him say to her, “You would have made a bad diplomatist; but +follow my advice, and send her to the Conservatoire.” + +He then took his departure, and I gazed at every one in perfect anguish. + +The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean? + +I went up to my governess, Mlle. de Brabender. Her lips were firmly +pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when +my godfather told some story that she did not approve at table. My +uncle, Félix Faure, was gazing at the floor in an absent-minded way; the +notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a +very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering, +“Perhaps—yes—who knows?—hum—hum!” Madame Guérard was very pale and sad, +and she looked at me with infinite tenderness. + +What could this Conservatoire be? The word uttered so carelessly seemed +to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each one of +them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none +looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment my +godfather exclaimed brutally: + +“She is too thin to make an actress.” + +“I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed. + +“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 St. Appoline told me 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 St. Appoline had told me, and Mother St. +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. He 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!” + +And that sentence, uttered 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 sign-post of my life. All +those people had gathered together at the turning of the cross roads. +“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 a +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 100,000 francs that my father had left me I might marry. But +mother 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 +arm-chair. I got very much excited, and my mother asked me to go away. + +Mlle. de Brabender and Madame 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. de Brabender tried to console me. Madame Guérard said that this +career had its advantages. Mlle. de 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 church-goer, _mon petit 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. + +Madame 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 endeavoured to comfort me when I was jealous +at 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 Madame 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. Madame Guérard +had gone back to her apartment upstairs, and I was lying back on a +little cane arm-chair 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 +woollen dressing-gown. She always detested keeping on her dress in the +house, and I understood by her change of costume that every one had gone +and that my aunt was ready to leave. I got up from my arm-chair, but +mamma made me sit down again. + +“Rest yourself thoroughly,” she said, “for we are going to take you to +the theatre 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 +theatre 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 should 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 say +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 backwards and forwards in my +arm-chair, 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 sceptical 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 theatre._ I do not know what part my uncle had played in +this burlesque plan, but I doubt whether it was to his taste. All the +same, I was glad to go to the theatre; 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 every one, 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 humour 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. 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. These columns +(_Britannicus_ was being played) were to be my palaces, the borders +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 +Grand-Champs, 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 towards him. I was crying, and big tears were 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-glasses. + +Mlle. de Brabender passed me her handkerchief, for I had dropped mine +and dared not 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 Alcmène seemed to be so unhappy that I burst into loud sobs, and +that the whole house, very much amused, looked at our box. My mother, +greatly 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 career. + + + + + VII + MY CAREER—FIRST LESSONS + + +I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to +me from all quarters: Racine, Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne, &c. +I opened them, but, as I did not understand them at all, I quickly +closed them again, and read my little Lafontaine, 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 recognise all the fables if I +began with the last verse and went backwards 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 Madame 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 Madame 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 get on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have +some profession, for Madame Bernhardt has only 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. She would like to enter a convent.” + +“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said Auber slowly. +“How old is she?” he asked. + +“Fourteen and a half,” replied Madame Guérard. + +“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.” + +The kind old man smiled. + +“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less upon the +exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long +enough, he rose. + +“It appears,” he said to Madame 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 her having been so charmingly replaced.” He thereupon +kissed Madame Guérard’s hand, and she coloured 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 gaily.” + +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 towards 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 artist.” + +The man-servant 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. +Madame Guérard told my mother about our interview, but she did not even +let her finish, and only said, “Good, good; thank you.” + +As the examination was to take place a month after this visit, it became +necessary to prepare for it. 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 +note-book for me, which I am copying textually, as my poor dear Guérard +religiously kept everything concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a +quantity of papers which are useful now. + +The following is our odious friend’s work: + + “Every morning instead of _do ... re ... mi ..._ practise _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-là; six sous ces six saucissons-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 practise 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_, &c., she started on the _saucisson_ +(sausages)! Ah, no. There 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 moustache 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 and fooled without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my +wicker 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 tired, and rocked myself backwards and forwards, pealing 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 should 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 all the value of it resided in 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 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 learnt _L’Ecole des Femmes_, and Mlle. de Brabender explained +Agnès to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole +story appeared to her of child-like 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. + + + + + VIII + THE CONSERVATOIRE + + +Finally the examination day arrived. Every one had given me advice, but +no one any real helpful counsel. It had not occurred to any one 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 berthe. 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. Every one came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and +round twenty times at least. I had to make my curtsey for every one to +see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. _Mon petit 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; 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 to 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.” + +He who spoke was a young Jew, not ugly. He was a Dutchman—shy, +tenacious, but never violent. 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 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 oil-cloth 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 oil-cloth +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 jewellers 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. Well, finally we started, +Mlle. de Brabender, Madame 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 fifteen young men and twenty girls +there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father, aunt, +brother, or sister. There was an odour of pomade and vanilla that made +me feel sick. + +When we were shown into this room I felt that every one was looking at +me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Madame 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. Every one +looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her +direction. + +One of them got suddenly 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-coloured dress and 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 head-gear. 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. The young men were standing in +compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I expect, +making remarks in doubtful taste. + +The 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 perform with her. + +This was explained to me by Léautaud, who called over the names of the +pupils and took down the names of those who were up to pass their +examination and those who were to act with them and give them the cues. +I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was to give me the cues for +Agnès. He mentioned several young men, but I interrupted him. + +“Oh no,” I said; “I will not ask any one. I do not know any of them, and +I will not ask.” + +“Well, then, what will you recite, Mademoiselle?” asked Léautaud, with +the most _fouchtre_ 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 +moustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the +Conservatoire, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so much so +that Madame 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. + +[Illustration: + + LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE + ET DE DECLAMATION, PARIS +] + +“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; I 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 woollen 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 _mon petit +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 Madame 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 every one’s gaze on my back +as I climbed up the few steps on to the platform. Léautaud 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 deafening 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 + Fut assez...._ + +“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 arouses 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 the +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. + +“That’s all right. Get your handkerchief out, my poor Beauvallet, and I +shall entrust this child to you, my dear Provost.” + +I understood, 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 any one, but bounded to the door. + +“_Mon petit 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. Monsieur Auber told me. I am to go into +Monsieur Provost’s class. Monsieur 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 every one; 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 stop, 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 only depended +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 corset-maker, and worked in a +little room on the top floor of the house 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, Mademoiselle 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 _petit +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 Madame Guérard +sounding her trumpet and spoiling all the 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, to spoil all my effects. It was all in vain +that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I related an +adventure and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst +into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I told 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. 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. + +Abusing 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!” every one 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 learnt this +in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every +occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet: + + _Mon p’tit ventr’ éjouis toi + Tout ce ze gagn’ est pou’ toi...._ + +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 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, and when +she was made to go into 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 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. + + + + + IX + A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE + + +An evolution took place in me from that day. For rather a long time my +soul remained child-like, 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 Monsieur Bed——. +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 she will 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. Monsieur Bed—— will settle +three hundred thousand francs on you. 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 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 realised 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 learnt 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. Madame 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. Bed—— 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. Bed—— 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. + +Well, 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 Néréstan +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 Néréstan 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 repeated the outburst 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 Agnès_. + +I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse. 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 Fine Arts Department, to be +so good as to receive me, and, as my mother always refused to accompany +me, Madame 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 to the furniture. She jumped on to a +stool, and finally sat down on the floor, pulling towards her the paper +basket, which was under the desk, and proceeded to spread about all the +torn papers which it contained. 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 every one 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, Monsieur +Doucet. My little sister is telling an untruth.” + +Régina sprang to her feet, and clenching her little fists, rushed at me +like a little fury. “Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You +are telling an untruth. Why, she said it to Monsieur 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 polecat, 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 Madame 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, grief, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My grief +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 +first hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self- +willed looking 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’t at all pleased,” 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 perform at the Vaudeville. + +M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in a 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 your +warmest advocate; but the Minister 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 behaviour. 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, sixty centimes of which was +for the omnibus, and forty 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 all had to go on the stage. He always stood up with his +little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he had this stick. + +“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up, +on tip-toes. That’s it. Perfect! One, two, three, march!” + +And we marched along on tip-toes 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 towards 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 one’s self 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 changed, 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 artist is intelligent or dull. On the stage 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, whilst 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 organised 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 sometimes +brought with him 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 male pupils named Châtelain, and +the latter turned round quickly and gave him a blow in the face. A +skirmish immediately occurred, and Pons, on endeavouring 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 +obtained my mother’s authorisation to discontinue attending the 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 specially emphasised freedom of gesture and inflexion. +Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything that was any good. He +had a deep, effective voice, but that he could not give to any one. 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 emphasised 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 into 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 Viellards_, 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 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 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 burnt 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 Tangier girls and negresses have hair like this. As Mademoiselle +is going on to 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 bend her head +forward. 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 fatigue after an hour and a half’s brushing, combing, curling, +hair-pinning, with my head turned from left to right and from right to +left, &c. &c. I was completely disfigured at the end of it all, and did +not recognise myself. My hair was drawn tightly back from my temples, my +ears were very visible and stood out, looking positively bold in their +bareness, whilst on the top of my head was a parcel of little sausages +arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem. + +I looked perfectly hideous. My forehead, which I always saw more or less +covered with a golden fluff of hair, seemed to me immense, implacable. + +I did not recognise my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them shadowed by +my hair. My head weighed two or three pounds. I was accustomed to fasten +my hair as I still do, with two hair-pins, and this man had put five or +six packets in it, and 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 looked smaller, my nose larger, and my veins swelled. The climax +was when I had to put my hat on. It would not go on the packet 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 _mon petit Dame_ to the +waiting-room, whilst my mother went direct to the theatre. I tore off +the lace which covered my hair, 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. They were all sorry for me in my misery, and were touched by my +ugliness. Their mothers, however, were brimming over with joy in their +own fat. + +The girls began to take out my hair-pins, 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 hair-pins. This sympathy made me once more +burst into tears. + +Finally I stood up, triumphant, without any hair-pins and without any +sausages. But my poor hair was very heavy with the pomade 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 +round 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 +hair-pins. + +The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth on the list. I could +not remember what I had to say. Madame Guérard moistened my temples with +cold water, and Mlle. de Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not +recognise me, and looked about for me everywhere. She had broken her leg +nearly three months before, and had to hobble about on a crutch-stick, +but she had resolved to come. + +Madame Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama of the +hair when my name echoed through the room: “Mademoiselle Chara +Bernhardt!” It was Léautaud, who later on was prompter at the Comédie +Française, and who had a strong accent peculiar to the natives of +Auvergne. “Mademoiselle Chara Bernhardt!” I heard again, and then I +sprang up without an idea in my mind and without uttering a word. I +looked round for my partner who was to give me my cues, and together we +made our entry. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF + HER COIFFEUR, BEFORE GOING TO + THE CONSERVATOIRE EXAMINATION. + HER MOTHER IS ON THE LEFT +] + +I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not recognise. 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 Madame Guérard and Mlle. de Brabender fainted away in their +arms. Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumour +that “the little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was +sitting far back in a box, feeling 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 +burnt 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 fluffy, and altogether there was a general +improvement in my appearance. + +The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had +nothing at all, but mention was made of my last year’s second prize. I +felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment, as I quite +expected things to be like this. Several persons had protested in my +favour. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had pleaded a long +time. He wanted me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation. +He said that my examination results 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 fourteenth +on the list 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. + +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 get the first prize I +must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My mystic love and +weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever. I +decided that I would enter the convent if I did not get the first prize. +And the most foolish illogical strife 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 theatre 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 Grand-Champs Convent. Then with the most indulgent generosity I +attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the fulfilment of my +other dream, namely, to become the first, the most celebrated, and the +most envied of actresses. I told off on my fingers all my qualities: +grace, 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 very much inclined to argue, and I was a mere +child, and looked much younger than my years. In spite of this I was +very brilliant; I argued well, was very gay, and made an immense +success. I was transfigured with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt +of a first prize. + +I never doubted for a moment but 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 pastrycook’s patronised by the Conservatoire, and I +devoured it, to the great joy of Madame 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 large +box, and there was silence in the theatre. The young men were called +first on 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 Theatre and Réjane’s +husband. After this came the turn of 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 Mademoiselle Marie Lloyd.” The tall girl I had pushed +aside now went forward, slender and radiant, towards the stage. + +There were a few protestations, but her beauty, her distinction, and her +modest charm won the day with every one, 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 nullity 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. I was simply +petrified with amazement. + +“Second prize for comedy: Mademoiselle Bernhardt.” I had not heard, 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 at me, 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 towards me, stifling me, crushing +me, so that I could not breathe. My face, it seems, was whiter than my +dress. + +On leaving the stage I went and sat down on the bench without uttering a +word, and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was +greatly complimented by every one. 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 ... but in her case this +was without danger. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud +expression, was charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she +had more of a woman’s fascination than any of us. Her large brown eyes +shone with dilating pupils; her small round mouth gave a sly little +smile at the corners, and her wonderfully shaped nose had quivering +nostrils. 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 to 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 so unconsciously cruel. + +She had realised for every one 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 +have had a _rôle_ to create, the personage always appears before me +dressed from head to foot, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up. + +But that is but the vision of a second; my mind has been thinking of the +soul that is to govern this personage. When listening to an author +reading his work, I try to define the intention of his idea, in my +desire 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 as the novelist describes it if an invented +personage. + +I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth and +to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, with +all its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality, but the +public never followed me. I soon realised that legend remains victorious +in spite of history. And this is perhaps an advantage for the mind of +the people. 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 aside +all the failings of humanity in order to leave them, clothed in the +ideal, seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the +rustic, bold peasant girl, repulsing violently the hardy soldier who +wants to joke with her, the girl sitting astride her big Percheron horse +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 the +heroic virgin. + +We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile +woman guided by a divine soul. Her girlish arm which holds the heavy +banner is supported by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is +something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors +drew strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the +legend remains triumphant. + + + + + X + MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE + + +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 not +fair.” + +“I do not know whether it is fair 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, Madame 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 +chattered about every one. “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 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, Madame 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 of 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 on the stage? You +are thin and small, your face is pretty enough when near, 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 miller 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 Madame Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy, +gentle, and timid: he had been awarded the red ribbon of the Legion of +Honour, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, used aristocratic +gestures, and was private secretary to M. de la Tour Desmoulins, a +prominent deputy at the time. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I +owe much to his kindness. My sister 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 +woke 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 were 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 Madame 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 at +the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child, +but have faith in the future.—Your _petit 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 every one 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 towards 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 darkness I tried to +find my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses +to it. I then took up again the letter from _mon petit Dame_, and went +to sleep with it clasped in my hand. I do not remember what my dreams +were. + +The next day every one 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 treat you to a landau.” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT ON LEAVING + THE CONSERVATOIRE +] + +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 large +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 handing it to me 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’s for to-morrow! It’s for to-morrow!” My younger +sister was eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs +to the flat above to tell Madame 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 like this, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My +godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just beginning a game +of whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a patch of soap-suds 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 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 a 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 _gros-grain_ stitched all round with +white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a grown-up +person, and all my clothes were only suitable for a school-girl. Mlle. +de Brabender gave me a handkerchief that she had embroidered, and Madame +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, the following day, +with Madame 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 heard that this arrival in my own carriage, with a +footman, made a very bad impression. What all the theatre people thought +I never cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must +really have protected me from all suspicion. + +M. Thierry received me very kindly, and made a little nonsensical +speech. He then unfolded a paper which he handed to Madame Guérard, +asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract, +and _mon petit 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 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 gaily. + +I showed him the contract and shook hands with him. I went quickly down +the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theatre found myself in the +midst of a group in the doorway. + +“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice which I recognised 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 feel sure of +you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked, +“What do you say, Excellency?” + +“I think that this child will be a very great artist,” he replied. + +There was a silence for a moment. + +“Well, you have got a fine carriage!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He +was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in +France or anywhere else. + +“This carriage belongs to Mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet, +shaking hands with me gently. + +“Oh—well, I am glad to hear that,” answered the tragedian. + +I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at +the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my +mother. She signed it without reading it. + +I made my mind resolutely 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 and +the Minister of Fine 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! Every one 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’Ame du Purgatoire_.” “That should be +spoken with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini when I came to +an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; “Mademoiselle +will begin again, and you could improvise, _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, an elegant young hussar, was also present. He 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 made a great +success. She was coquettish and charming, and just a trifle jealous of +this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her adorers +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 +chilled. + +The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working +hard at Iphigénie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my +_début_ in that _rôle_. + +At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to attend 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 my window-panes +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 my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading +_tragédienne_ of the Comédie Française, with Maubant, with——I trembled +as I thought of all this, for Madame Devoyod was said to be anything but +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 +green-room 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 right, my child,” said the worthy man. “You ought to read all +that concerns your art. I will lend you some interesting books.” + +He took me towards the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared +up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of +weights, ropes, trees, borders, battens overhead, the yawning house +completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and +the vault-like chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not +seem to me as if I were entering the brilliant ranks of 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 +shadows of those whom the stage manager had just mentioned. With my +highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking +something, now saw them advance towards me stretching out their hands. +These spectres 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 spectres, 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, &c. He was rather pleased +with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At +the line, + + _Eurybate à l’autel, conduisez la victime_, + +he said, “Mademoiselle 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 notice +of me at all. + +I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard +three coarse words used by one or another of the artistes. I was not +accustomed to this somewhat brutal language. At home every one was +rather timorous. At my aunt’s people were a trifle affected, whilst 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 cultivated any of the pupils with the exception of Marie Lloyd +and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now a +Sociétaire 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 in tragedy. + +A dress of white woollen 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 unsightly 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 Madame 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 Réaumur, 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 +recognised 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 Mademoiselle Sarah!” + +Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty +girl, very gentle and calm in demeanour. She threw her arms round me, +exclaiming, “How glad I am to see you! And so you are going to make your +début at the Comédie. I saw it in the papers.” + +I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the papers. + +“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she talked away at +such a rate that I was bewildered. Madame 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, Madame Petit remarked: + +“You must order your box. We have come here for that, you know.” + +“Oh 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.” + +Madame 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, turned her back on +my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely to +Madame Petit, said: “I hope, Madame ‘Gros-tas,’ I shall never see you +again.” She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Petit mutter +a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but the meaning of them was only +explained to me later on. We then went to the workshop, and found old +Massin at his bench, planing some small planks of white wood. His +hunchback daughter kept coming in and out, humming gaily all the time. +The father was glum and harsh, and had an anxious look. As soon as we +had ordered the box we took our leave. Madame Petit went out first; +Léontine’s sister held me back by the hand and said quietly, “Father is +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. + + + + + XI + MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM + + +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 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 theatre. I had a dressing-room on the top +floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblentz. 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 Comédie. + +I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I +looked nice or not. _Mon petit Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle. +de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go +direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the +country. + +When the call-boy announced that the play was about to begin, I broke +into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint. I +went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I +arrived on the stage the curtain was rising. That curtain which was +being 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 victory over my physical weakness. They +knew that my motto “_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 motto at +the age of nine, after a formidable leap 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. Whilst I was being +carried home I exclaimed furiously, “Yes, I would do it again, _quand- +même_, if any one 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 exclaiming, “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 “cue” on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I +made my entry and hurried towards 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, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the +stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress. + +Madame Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only +played one act, and there were four more. I realised 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. Her carriage is excellent, 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 towards Eurybate. I had said the famous line in +which Favart had made her “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly +had made no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can +be reckoned as such. + +My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did make some slight +success. + +My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following _boutade_ +from the pen of the same Sarcey: + +_L’Opinion Nationale_, September 12: “The same evening _Les Femmes +Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third _début_, and she +assumed 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 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.” + +[Illustration: + + AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF + SARAH BERNHARDT +] + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT IN + _LES FEMMES SAVANTES_ +] + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE + DUC DE RICHELIEU +] + +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 Sociétaires—that is, if she ever becomes a +Sociétaire.” He appeared to have his doubts about that. + +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 salute the bust of the great +writer, according to the tradition of the theatre. 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 every one hurried along the corridor of the busts. I +was holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was the +very fat and very solemn Madame 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 on which was 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 for the poor child from those +artistes who were mothers, &c. &c. 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 +favourite, came up to me and said: + +“We must arrange this little matter, dear 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 so pretty,” +he added, pointing to 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 conscious as to 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 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 I had been +emancipated. 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 Madame Nathalie’s pardon. + +“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must apologise to her +before three Sociétaires, members of the committee. If 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 moustache +drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute +supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Madame Guérard arguing with +every one, so courageous was she 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 Madame 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 Madame Nathalie,” I said at last. “I shall not +apologise 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, wilful 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 theatre, which had done me the honour 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 +Madame Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal. + +“Oh, don’t let her come here; I should box her ears again!” I exclaimed. + +“Well then, I must ask your mother to come,” he said. + +“My mother would never come,” I said. + +“Then I will go and call on her,” he remarked. + +“It will be quite useless,” I persisted. “My mother has emancipated me, +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 Madame Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done. +Rose Baretta, too, had been to see me, and had burst into tears, +assuring my mother that my engagement would be cancelled. 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 Madame Guérard to +be comforted and consoled. + +Several days passed by, and I had nothing to do at the theatre. Finally +one morning I received a notice requesting me to be present at the +reading of a play,—_Dolorès_, by M. Bouilhet. This was the first time I +had been asked to attend the reading of a new piece. I was evidently to +have a _rôle_ to “create.” 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 attend a reading my engagement was not +to be cancelled, and I was not to be asked again to apologise to Madame +Nathalie. + +I went to the theatre, and to my utter surprise I received from M. +Davennes the _rôle_ of Dolorès, the chief part in Bouilhet’s play. I +knew that Favart, who should have had this _rôle_, was not well; but +there were other artistes, 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 pass, Mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven you, as I +have avenged myself. The _rôle_ that you like so much is not going to be +for 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 any one, 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 my young shoulders—and +finally that as Madame Favart had recovered from her illness, it was +more prudent that, &c. &c. I finished reading the letter through +blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of grief. I rushed +back again and sent my name in to the manager’s office. He could not see +me just then, but I said I would wait. After one hour, thoroughly +impatient, taking no notice of the office-boy and the secretary, who +wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door of M. Thierry’s office +and walked in. All that despair, anger against injustice, and fury +against falseness could inspire me with I let him have, in a stream of +eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The manager gazed at me in +bewilderment. He could not conceive of such daring and such violence in +a girl so young. + +When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down in an arm-chair, he +tried to calm me, but all in vain. + +“I will leave at once,” I said. “Give me back my contract and I will +send you back mine.” + +Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary and +gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my +contract. + +“Here is your mother’s signature, Mademoiselle. I leave you free to +bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not +receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the +theatre. But believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over during +the next forty-eight hours.” + +I did not answer, but went out of his office. That very evening I sent +back to M. Thierry the contract bearing his signature, and tore up the +one with that of my mother. + +I had left Molière’s Theatre, and was not to re-enter it until twelve +years later. + + + + + XII + AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN + + +This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it +completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth +amongst my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my +violence. Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being +made by my aunt and my little sister. My godfather, whom I had once for +all requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me +openly; but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any +peace for me except at Madame Guérard’s, and so I was constantly with +her. I enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to +make cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something +else to think about, and I soon recovered my gaiety. + +One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She +kept looking at the clock, and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who +lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived. + +“It’s very strange,” my mother said, “for last night after whist he said +he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It’s very strange +indeed!” + +She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and +when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should +serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait. + +Finally the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister +was evidently in the secret. + +“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his +hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.” + +He handed me a letter stamped with the words “Théâtre du Gymnase.” It +was from Montigny, the manager of the theatre, to M. de Gerbois, a +friend of my godfather’s whom I knew very well. The letter was very +friendly, as far as M. de Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with +the following words, “I will engage your _protégée_ in order to be +agreeable to you... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.” + +I blushed as I read these lines, and I thought my godfather was wanting +in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided hurting my +feelings in this way, but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever +lived. My mother seemed very much pleased, so I kissed her pretty face +and thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face, +which was always so cool and always slightly dewy. When I was a little +child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long +lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her +eyes, tickling my cheeks whilst I lay back breathless with delight. + +The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some +little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical +old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then +interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard, +but I very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to +me, and of taking stock of me generally roused my ire at once. I +answered his questions curtly, and our conversation, which seemed likely +to take an aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny, +the manager. + +“Which of you is Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked. + +I at once rose, and he continued, “Will you come into my office, +Mademoiselle?” + +Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humoured. He appeared +to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his ego, but +that did not matter to me. + +After some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my +outburst at the Comédie, and made me a great many promises about the +_rôles_ I should have to play. He prepared my contract, and gave it me +to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my family council. + +“I am emancipated,” I said to him, “so that my own signature is all that +is required.” + +“Oh, very good,” he said; “but what nonsense to have emancipated a self- +willed girl. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.” + +I was just on the point of replying that what my parents chose to do did +not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the contract, and hurried +home feeling very joyful. + +Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria +Lafontaine, a young artist very much in vogue just then, who had the +most delightful talent. I played in _La maison sans enfants_, and I took +her _rôle_ at a moment’s notice in _Le démon du jeu_, a piece which made +a great success. I was fairly good in both plays, but Montigny, in spite +of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage +manager played me no end of tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger +stirring within me, and I struggled with myself as much possible to keep +my nerves calm. + +One evening, on leaving the theatre, a notice was handed to me +requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following day. +Montigny had promised me a good part, and I fell asleep that night +lulled by fairies, who carried me off into the land of glory and +success. On arriving at the theatre I found Blanche Pierson and Céline +Montalant already there—two of the prettiest creatures that God has been +pleased to create, the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other as +dark as a starry night, for she was brilliant-looking in spite of her +black hair. There were other women there, too—very, very pretty ones. + +The play to be read was entitled _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, and it +was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it without any great pleasure, +and I thought it stupid. I waited anxiously to see what _rôle_ was to be +given to me, and I discovered this only too soon. It was a certain +Princess Dimchinka, a frivolous, foolish, laughing individual, who was +always eating or dancing. I did not like the part at all. I was very +inexperienced on the stage, and my timidity made me rather awkward. +Besides, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and +conviction in order to create the _rôle_ of an idiotic woman in an +imbecile play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my +head. I wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of +this to our old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable. He +approved of my idea, and wanted me to take a shop—a confectioner’s—on +the Boulevard des Italiens. This became a fixed idea with the worthy +man. He loved sweets himself, and he knew lots of recipes for various +sorts of sweets that were not generally known, and which he wanted to +introduce. I remember one kind that he wanted to call “_bonbon nègre_.” +It was a mixture of chocolate and essence of coffee rolled into grilled +licorice root. It was like black _praliné_, and was extremely good. I +was very persistent in this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look +at a shop, but when he showed me the little flat over it where I should +have to live, it upset me so much that I gave up for ever the idea of +business. + +I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece, and was bad- +tempered all the time. Finally the first performance took place, and my +part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply was not noticed, and +at night my mother remarked, “My poor child, you were ridiculous in your +Russian princess _rôle_, and I was very much grieved!” + +I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to kill +myself. I slept very badly that night, and towards six in the morning I +rushed up to Madame Guérard. I asked her to give me some laudanum, but +she refused. When she saw that I really wanted it, the poor dear woman +understood my design. “Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that +you will not tell any one what I am going to do, and then I will not +kill myself.” A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and, without +going further into it, I wanted to carry it out at once. She promised, +and I then told her that I was going at once to Spain, as I had longed +to see that country for a long time. + +“Go to Spain!” she exclaimed. “With whom and when?” + +“With the money I have saved,” I answered. “And this very morning. Every +one is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my trunk, and start at once +with you!” + +“No, no, I cannot go,” exclaimed Madame Guérard, nearly beside herself. +“There is my husband to think of, and my children.” + +Her little girl was scarcely two years old at that time. + +“Well, then, _mon petit Dame_, find me some one to go with me.” + +“I do not know any one,” she answered, crying in her excitement. “My +dear little Sarah give up such an idea, I beseech you.” + +But by this time it was a fixed idea with me, and I was very determined +about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and then returned to +Madame Guérard. I had wrapped up a pewter fork in paper, and this I +threw against one of the panes of glass in a skylight window opposite. +The window was opened abruptly, and the sleepy, angry face of a young +woman appeared. I made a trumpet of my two hands and called out: + +“Caroline, will you start with me at once for Spain?” The bewildered +expression on the woman’s face showed that she had not comprehended, but +she replied at once, “I am coming, Mademoiselle.” She then closed her +window, and ten minutes later Caroline was tapping at the door. Madame +Guérard had sunk down aghast in an arm-chair. + +M. Guérard had asked several times from his bedroom what was going on. + +“Sarah is here,” his wife had replied. “I will tell you later on.” + +Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Madame Guérard’s, and she had +offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was agreeable and rather +daring, and she now accepted my offer at once. But as it would not do to +arouse the suspicions of the concierge, it was decided that I should +take her dresses in my trunk, and that she should put her linen into a +bag to be lent by _mon petit Dame_. + +Poor dear Madame Guérard had given in. She was quite conquered, and soon +began to help in my preparations, which certainly did not take me long. + +But I did not know how to get to Spain. + +“You go through Bordeaux,” said Madame Guérard. + +“Oh no,” exclaimed Caroline; “my brother-in-law is a skipper, and he +often goes to Spain by Marseilles.” + +I had saved nine hundred francs, and Madame Guérard lent me six hundred. +It was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer the universe, and +nothing would have induced me to abandon my plan. Then, too, it seemed +to me as though I had been wishing to see Spain for a long time. I had +got it into my head that my Fate willed it, that I must obey my star, +and a hundred other ideas, each one more foolish than the other, +strengthened me in my plan. I was destined to act in this way, I +thought. + +I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With Caroline’s help I +carried the empty trunk up to Madame Guérard’s, and Caroline emptied my +wardrobe and drawers, and then packed the trunk. I shall never forget +that delightful moment. It seemed to me as though the world was about to +be mine. I was going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was +about to travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I +should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and I should +cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I must have gone up and +down the staircase which separated our two flats. Every one was asleep +in my mother’s flat, and the rooms were so disposed that not a sound of +our going in and out could reach her. + +My trunk was at last closed, Caroline’s valise fastened, and my little +bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the fingers of the +clock had moved along by this time, and to my horror I discovered that +it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would be coming down from her bedroom +at the top of the house to prepare my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and +bread and milk for my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild +determination I kissed Madame Guérard with such violence as almost to +stifle her, and rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin +Mary, which went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my +mother’s room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart, went +downstairs. _Mon petit Dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors +to take the trunk and the valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I +went like a whirlwind past the concierge’s door. She had her back turned +towards me and was sweeping the floor. I sprang into the cab, and the +driver whipped up his horse. I was on my way to Spain. I had written an +affectionate letter to my mother begging her to forgive me and not to be +grieved. I had written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the +manager of the Gymnase Theatre. The letter did not explain anything, +though. It was written by a child whose brain was certainly a little +affected, and I finished up with these words: “Have pity on a poor, +crazy girl!” + +Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s office when +he received my letter. + +“The conversation was very animated, and when the door opened Montigny +exclaimed in a fury, ‘I had given orders that I was not to be +disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on seeing old Monval’s +troubled look, and he knew something urgent was the matter. ‘Oh, what’s +happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the old stage manager +held out to him. On recognising my paper, with its grey border, he said, +‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’ + +“‘No,’ said Monval; ‘she has gone to Spain.’ + +“‘She can go to the deuce!’ exclaimed Montigny. ‘Send for Madame +Dieudonnée to take her part. She has a good memory, and half the _rôle_ +must be cut. That will settle it.’ + +“‘Any trouble for to-night?’ I asked Montigny. + +“‘Oh, nothing,’ he answered; ‘it’s that little Sarah Bernhardt who has +cleared off to Spain!’ + +“‘That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘She’s rather amusing.’ + +“‘Yes, but not for her managers,’ remarked Montigny, continuing +immediately afterwards the conversation which had been interrupted.” + +This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident. + + * * * * * + +On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information about the +journey. The result was that we embarked on an abominable trading-boat, +a dirty coaster, smelling of oil and stale fish, a perfect horror. + +I had never been on the sea, so I fancied that all boats were like this +one, and that it was no good complaining. After six days of rough sea we +landed at Alicante. Oh, that landing, how well I remember it! I had to +jump from boat to boat, from plank to plank, with the risk of falling +into the water a hundred times over, for I am naturally inclined to +dizziness, and the little gangways, without any rails, rope, or +anything, thrown across from one boat to another and bending under my +light weight seemed to me like mere ropes stretched across space. + +Exhausted with fatigue and hunger, I went to the first hotel recommended +to us. Oh, what a hotel it was! The house itself was built of stone, +with low arcades. Rooms on the first floor were given to me. Certainly +the owners of these hotel people had never had two ladies in their house +before. The bedroom was large, but with a low ceiling. By way of +decoration there were enormous fish bones arranged in garlands caught up +by the heads of fish. By half shutting one’s eyes this decoration might +be taken for delicate sculpture of ancient times. In reality, however, +it was merely composed of fish bones. + +I had a bed put up for Caroline in this sinister-looking room. We pulled +the furniture across against the doors, and I did not undress, for I +could not venture on those sheets. I was accustomed to fine sheets +perfumed with iris, for my pretty little mother, like all Dutch women, +had a mania for linen and cleanliness, and she had inculcated me with +this harmless mania. + +It was about five in the morning when I opened my eyes, no doubt +instinctively, as there had been no sound to rouse me. A door, leading I +did not know where, opened, and a man looked in. I gave a shrill cry, +seized my little Virgin Mary, and waved her about, wild with terror. + +Caroline roused up with a start, and courageously rushed to the window. +She threw it up, screaming, “Fire! Thieves! Help!” + +The man disappeared, and the house was soon invaded by the police. I +leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante forty years ago were +like. I answered all the questions asked me by a vice-consul, who was an +Hungarian and spoke French. I had seen the man, and he had a silk +handkerchief on his head. He had a beard, and on his shoulder a +_poncho_, but that was all I knew. The Hungarian vice-consul, who, I +believe, represented France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the colour +of the brigand’s beard, silk handkerchief, and _poncho_. It had been too +dark for me to distinguish the colours exactly. The worthy man was very +much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he remained +thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders for a message to be taken +to his home. It was to ask his wife to send a carriage, and to get a +room ready in order to receive a young foreigner in distress. I prepared +to go with him, and after paying my bill at the hotel we started off in +the worthy Hungarian’s carriage, and I was welcomed by his wife with the +most touching cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she +poured out for me, and during breakfast told her who I was and where I +was going. She then told me in return that her father was an important +manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and a great friend of +my father’s. She took me to the room that had been prepared for me, made +me go to bed, and told me that while I was asleep she would write me +some letters of introduction for Madrid. + +I slept for ten hours without waking, and when I roused up was +thoroughly rested in mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my +mother, but this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante. +I wrote a letter, therefore, to my poor dear mother, telling her that I +was in the house of friends of my father, &c. &c. + +The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the landlord of +the Hôtel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were given to us, and I sent +messengers with the letters from Madame Rudcowitz. I spent a fortnight +in Madrid, and was made a great deal of and generally fêted. I went to +all the bull-fights, and was infatuated with them. I had the honour of +being invited to a great _corrida_ given in honour of Victor Emmanuel, +who was just then the guest of the Queen of Spain. I forgot Paris, my +sorrows, disappointments, ambitions and everything else, and I wanted to +live in Spain. A telegram sent by Madame Guérard made me change all my +plans. My mother was very ill, the telegram informed me. I packed my +trunk and wanted to start off at once, but when my hotel bill was paid I +had not a _sou_ to pay for the railway journey. The landlord of the +hotel took two tickets for me, prepared a basket of provisions, and gave +me two hundred francs at the station, telling me that he had received +orders from Madame Rudcowitz not to let me want for anything. She and +her husband were certainly most delightful people. + +My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in Paris. _Mon petit +Dame_ was waiting for me downstairs in the concierge’s room. She was +very excited to see me looking so well, and kissed me with her eyes full +of tears of joy. The concierge and family poured forth their +compliments. Madame Guérard went upstairs before me to inform my mother +of my arrival, and I waited a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by +our old servant Marguerite. + +My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed me, then turned me round +and examined me. Régina, with her hands behind her back, leaned against +the stove gazing at me furiously. + +“Well, won’t you kiss me, Régina?” I asked, stooping down to her. + +“No, don’t like you,” she answered. “You’ve went off without me. Don’t +like you now.” She turned away brusquely to avoid my kiss, and knocked +her head against the stove. + +Finally Madame Guérard appeared again, and I went with her. Oh, how +repentant I was, and how deeply affected. I knocked gently at the door +of the room, which was hung with pale blue rep. My mother looked very +white, lying in her bed. Her face was thinner, but wonderfully +beautiful. She stretched out her arms like two wings, and I rushed +forward to this white, loving nest. My mother cried silently, as she +always did. Then her hands played with my hair, which she let down and +combed with her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred +questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did too, so that we had +the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses. I found that my +mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy, that she was now +getting better, but was not yet well. I therefore took up my abode again +with her, and for the time being went back to my old bedroom. Madame +Guérard had told me in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side +had at last agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left +a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day. My mother, +at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me have half this sum, +and she had at last consented, saying that she should use the interest +of the other half, but that this latter half would always be at my +disposal if I changed my mind and consented to marry. + +I was therefore determined to live my life as I wished, to go away from +home and be quite independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were +altogether different. Besides, my godfather was perfectly odious to me, +and for years and years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining +with us every day, and of playing whist every evening. He was always +hurting my feelings in one way or another. He was a very rich old +bachelor, with no near relatives. He adored my mother, but she had +always refused to marry him. She had put up with him at first, because +he was a friend of my father’s. After my father’s death she had +continued to put up with him, because she was then accustomed to him, +until finally she quite missed him when he was ill or travelling. But, +placid as she was, my mother was authoritative, and could not endure any +kind of constraint. She therefore rebelled against the idea of another +master. She was very gentle but determined, and this determination of +hers ended sometimes in the most violent anger. She used then to turn +very pale, and violet rings would come round her eyes, her lips would +tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes take a fixed gaze, the +words would come at intervals from her throat, all chopped up—hissing +and hoarse. After this she would faint; and the veins of her throat +would swell, and her hands and feet turned icy cold. Sometimes she would +be unconscious for hours, and the doctors told us that she might die in +one of these attacks, so that we did all in our power to avoid these +terrible accidents. My mother knew this, and rather took advantage of +it, and, as I had inherited this tendency to fits of rage from her, I +could not and did not wish to live with her. As for me, I am not placid. +I am active and always ready for fight, and what I want I always want +immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar to my mother. The +blood begins to boil under my temples before I have time to control it. +Time has made me wiser in this respect, but not sufficiently so. I am +aware of this, and it causes me to suffer. + +I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid, but I asked +our old friend Meydieu to find me a flat. The old man, who had tormented +me so much during my childhood, had been most kind to me ever since my +_début_ at the Théâtre Français, and, in spite of my row with Nathalie, +and my escapade when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to see the best in +me. When he came to see us the day after my return home, I remained +talking with him for a time in the drawing-room, and confided my +intentions to him. He quite approved, and said that my intercourse with +my mother would be all the more agreeable because of this separation. + + + + + XIII + FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON + + +I took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Madame +Guérard undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was +well again, I talked to her about it, and I was not long in making her +agree with me that it was really better I should live by myself and in +my own way. When once she had accepted the situation everything went +along satisfactorily. My sisters were present when we were talking about +it. Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused to speak +to me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly +jumped on to my lap. + +“Take me with you this time!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will kiss you, +if you will.” + +I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed. + +“Oh, take her,” she said, “for she is unbearable.” + +Régina jumped down again and began to dance a jig, muttering the rudest, +silliest things at the same time. She then nearly stifled me with +kisses, sprang on to my mother’s arm-chair, and kissed her hair, her +eyes, her cheeks, saying: + +“You are glad I am going, aren’t you? You can give everything to your +Jenny!” + +My mother coloured slightly, but as her eyes fell on Jeanne her +expression changed and a look of unspeakable affection came over her +face. She pushed Régina gently aside, and the child went on with her +jig. + +“We two will stay together,” said my mother, leaning her head back on +Jeanne’s shoulder, and she said this quite unconsciously, just in the +same way as she had gazed at my sister. I was perfectly stupefied, and +closed my eyes so that I should not see. I could only hear my little +sister dancing her jig and emphasising every stamp on the floor with the +words, “And we two as well; we two, we two!” + +It was a very painful little drama that was stirring our four hearts in +this little _bourgeois_ home, and the result of it was that I settled +down finally with my little sister in the flat in the Rue Duphot. I kept +Caroline with me, and engaged a cook. _Mon petit Dame_ was with me +nearly all day, and I dined every evening with my mother. + +I was still on good terms with an actor of the Porte Saint Martin +Theatre, who had been appointed stage manager there, Marc Fournier being +at that time manager of the theatre. A piece entitled _La biche au bois_ +was then being given. It was a spectacular play, and was having a great +success. A delightful actress from the Odéon Theatre, Mlle. Debay, had +been engaged for the principal _rôle_. She played tragedy princesses +most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I +thoroughly enjoyed _La biche au bois_. Madame Ulgade sang admirably in +her _rôle_ of the young prince, and amazed me. Mariquita charmed me with +her dancing. She was delightful and so animated in her dances, so +characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse, +I knew every one. + +But to my surprise and terror, one evening towards five o’clock, on +arriving at the theatre to get the tickets for our seats, he exclaimed +on seeing me: + +“Why here is our Princess, our little _biche au bois_. Here she is! It +is the Providence that watches over theatres who has sent her.” + +I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain. M. Marc +Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to understand that I +should be rendering him a great service and would “save” the receipts. +Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed: + +“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for Mademoiselle +Debay from the Odéon Theatre plays this _rôle_ of Princess, and +Mademoiselle Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon and the Odéon is an +imperial theatre, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.” + +Mariquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Madame Ulgade +was sent for to rehearse the duos, for I was to sing. Yes, and I was to +sing with a veritable artiste, one who was considered to be the first +artiste of the Opéra Comique. + +There was but little time to spare. Josse made me rehearse my _rôle_, +which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often and I had an +extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, soon running into quarters of an +hour, and these quarters of an hour made half-hours, and then entire +hours. I kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s +room, where Madame Ulgade was making me rehearse. She thought my voice +was pretty, but I kept singing out of tune, and she helped me along and +encouraged me all the time. + +I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and the curtain was raised. +Poor me! I was more dead than alive, but my courage returned after a +triple burst of applause for the couplet which I sang on waking in very +much the same way as I should have murmured a series of Racine’s lines. + +When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a +three years’ engagement, but I asked to be allowed to think it over. +Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a +charming man who was certainly not without talent. He thought I was just +the ideal actress for his heroine in _La bergère d’Ivry_, but M. Faille, +an old actor, who had just become manager of the Ambigu Theatre, was not +the only person to consult, for a certain M. de Chilly had some interest +in the theatre. De Chilly had made his name in the _rôle_ of Rodin in +_Le Juif errant_, and after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the +stage, and was now interested in the business side of theatrical +affairs. He had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille. + +De Chilly was then helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She +was gentle and very _bourgeoise_, rather pretty, but without any real +beauty or grace. + +Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he was negotiating with Laurence +Gérard, but that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter. +The only thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding. +I was willing to humour the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a +manager as he had been an artiste. I gave a short performance for him at +the Ambigu Theatre. The stage was only lighted by the wretched +_servante_, a little transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I +could see M. Faille balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his +waistcoat and the fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils. +This disgusted me horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his +handsome face smiling as he looked at me encouragingly. + +I had selected _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_; I did not want to recite +verse, because I was to perform in a play in prose. I believe I was +perfectly charming, and Lambert Thiboust thought so too, but when I had +finished poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said something +in a low voice to the author, and took me to his office. + +“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are no good on +the stage!” + +I resented this, but he continued: + +“Oh no, no good,” and as the door then opened he added, pointing to the +new-comer, “here is M. de Chilly, who was also listening to you, and he +will say just the same as I say.” + +M. de Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders. + +“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked. “No one ever saw such a thin +shepherdess!” + +He then rang the bell and told the boy to show in Mlle. Laurence Gérard. +I understood; and, without taking leave of the two boors, I left the +room. + +My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the _foyer_, where I had +left my hat. There I found Laurence Gérard, but she was fetched away the +next moment. I was standing near her, and as I looked in the glass I was +struck by the contrast between us. She was plump, with a wide face and +magnificent black eyes; her nose was rather _canaille_, her mouth heavy, +and there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was fair, +slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale face, blue +eyes, a rather sad mouth and a general look of distinction. This hasty +vision consoled me for my failure, and then, too, I felt that this +Faille was a nonentity and that de Chilly was common. + +I was destined to meet with them both again later in my life: Chilly +soon after, as manager at the Odéon, and Faille twenty years later, in +such a wretched condition that the tears came to my eyes when he +appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit. + +“Oh, I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the only attraction +at this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts.” + +I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first +interview and my “_auditon_,” but I who remembered it well only hope +that he did not. + +Five days later Mile. Debay was well again, and took her _rôle_ as +usual. + +Before accepting an engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote to +Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to call +at the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I went to see this +kind man again. He was standing up waiting for me when I was ushered +into the room. He held out his hands to me, and drew me gently towards +him. + +“Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair. “Come now, you +must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in +voyages, escapades, and boxing people’s ears.” + +I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I +looked at him. + +“Now, don’t cry, my dear child; don’t cry. Let us try and find out how +we are to make up for all this folly.” + +He was silent for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a +letter. “Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said. + +It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager of +the Odéon Theatre in conjunction with Chilly. + +“They ask me for some young artistes to make up the Odéon company. Well, +we must attend to this.” He got up, and, accompanying me to the door, +said as I went away, “We shall succeed.” + +I went back home and began at once to rehearse all my _rôles_ in +Racine’s plays. I waited very anxiously for several days, consoled by +Madame Guérard, who succeeded in restoring my confidence. Finally I +received a letter, and went at once to the Ministry. Camille Doucet +received me with a beaming expression on his face. + +“It’s settled,” he said. “Oh, but it has not been easy, though,” he +added. “You are very young, but very celebrated already for your +headstrong character. But I have pledged my word that you will be as +gentle as a young lamb.” + +“Yes, I will be gentle, I promise,” I replied, “if only out of +gratitude. But what am I to do?” + +“Here is a letter for Félix Duquesnel,” he replied; “he is expecting +you.” + +I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said, “I shall see you +again, less officially, at your aunt’s on Thursday. I have received an +invitation this morning to dine there, so you will be able to tell me +what Duquesnel says.” + +It was then half-past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty +clothes on. I chose a dress the underskirt of which was of canary +yellow, the dress being of black silk with the skirt scalloped round, +and a straw conical-shaped hat trimmed with corn, and black ribbon +velvet under the chin. It must have been delightfully mad looking. +Arrayed in this style, feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I +went to call on Félix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little +room, very artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very +elegant. He was smiling and altogether charming. I could not grasp the +fact that this fair-haired, gay young man would be my manager. + +After a short conversation we agreed on every point we touched. + +“Come to the Odéon at two o’clock,” said Duquesnel, by way of leave- +taking, “and I will introduce you to my partner. I ought to say it the +other way round, according to society etiquette,” he added, laughing, +“but we are talking _théâtre_” (shop). + +He came a few steps down the staircase with me, and stayed there leaning +over the balustrade to wish me good-bye. + +At two o’clock precisely I was at the Odéon, and had to wait an hour. I +began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance of my promise to +Camille Doucet prevented me from going away. + +Finally Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager’s office. + +“You will now see the other ogre,” he said, and I pictured to myself the +other ogre as charming as his partner. I was therefore greatly +disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man, whom I recognised as +Chilly. + +He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognise +me. He signed to me to sit down, and without a word handed me a pen and +showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me. Madame Guérard +interposed, laying her hand on mine. + +“Do not sign without reading it,” she said. + +“Are you Mademoiselle’s mother?” he asked, looking up. + +“No,” she said, “but it is just as though I were.” + +“Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly,” he continued, “and then +sign or leave it alone, but be quick.” + +I felt the colour coming into my face, for this man was odious. +Duquesnel whispered to me, “There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s a +good fellow; don’t take offence.” + +I signed my contract and handed it to his ugly partner. + +“You know,” he remarked, “He is responsible for you. I should not upon +any account have engaged you.” + +“And if you had been alone, Monsieur,” I answered, “I should not have +signed, so we are quits.” + +I went away at once, and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew +this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with +_mon petit Dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my dressing- +room. + +The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs +to see my dear governess, Mlle. de Brabender. She had been ill with +acute rheumatism in all her limbs for the last thirteen months. She had +suffered so much that she looked like a different person. She was lying +in her little white bed, a little white cap covering her hair; her big +nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes seemed to have no colour +in them. Her formidable moustache alone bristled up with constant spasms +of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely altered that I wondered +what had caused the change. I went nearer, and, bending down, kissed her +gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively that she understood +instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to look on the table near +her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old friend’s teeth. I put +the three roses I had brought her in the glass, and, kissing her again, +I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent curiosity. I left the convent +with a very heavy heart, for the Mother Superior told me in the garden +that my beloved Mlle. de Brabender could not live much longer. I +therefore went every day for a time to see my gentle old governess, but +as soon as the rehearsals commenced at the Odéon my visits had to be +less frequent. + +One morning about seven o’clock a message came from the convent to fetch +me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death agony. +Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look that I +suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands, which were holding the +crucifix, and they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be +there when she was placed in her coffin. On arriving at the convent the +next day, at the hour fixed, I found the sisters in such a state of +consternation that I was alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered? +They pointed to the door of the cell, without uttering a word. The nuns +were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary looking +being imaginable. My poor governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a +man’s face. Her moustache had grown longer, and she had a beard nearly +half an inch long. Her moustache and beard were sandy, whilst the long +hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the +teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy moustache. It was +like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face +of my friend. It was the mask of a man, whilst the little delicate hands +were those of a woman. + +There was an awe-struck expression in the eyes of the nuns, in spite of +the assurance of the nurse who had dressed the poor dead body, and had +declared to them that the body was that of a woman. But the poor little +sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time. + +The day after this dismal ceremony I made my _début_ at the Odéon in _Le +jeu de l’amour et du hasard_. I was not suited for Marivaux’s plays, as +they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not +then and still are not among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too +slight, so that I made no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing +along the corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging +me. Chilly pointed to me and remarked: + +“_Une flûte pour les gens du monde, il n’y a même pas de mie._” + +I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed to my face, +but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s face, that face +always so clean shaven and young-looking under his crown of white hair. +I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on +account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he +came up to me. + +“What a pretty voice you have!” he said. “Your second appearance will be +such a pleasure for us!” + +This man was always courteous, but truthful. This _début_ of mine had +not given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appeai-ance, +and he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that +any one could say from my first trial. + +I remained at the Odéon, and worked very hard. I was ready to take any +one’s place at a moment’s notice, for I knew all the _rôles_. I made +some success, and the students had a predilection for me. When I came on +to the stage I was always greeted by applause from these young men. A +few old sticklers used to turn towards the pit and try and command +silence, but no one cared a straw for them. + +Finally my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of +putting _Athalie_ on again, with Mendelssohn’s choruses. + +Beauvallet, who had been odious as a professor, was charming as a +comrade. By special permission from the Ministry he was to play Joad. +The _rôle_ of Zacharie was assigned to me. Some of the Conservatoire +pupils were to take the spoken choruses, and the female pupils who +studied singing undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad +that Duquesnel and Chilly were in despair. + +Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but not choice in his language, +muttered some terrible words. We began over and over again, but it was +all to no purpose. The spoken choruses were simply abominable. When +suddenly Chilly exclaimed: + +“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. They will be right +enough with her pretty voice!” + +Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his moustache to hide a +smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protégée_ after all. He nodded +his head in an indifferent way, in answer to his partner’s questioning +look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Every one +applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the +poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable +little triumph for me! Oh, quite a little one, but still full of promise +for my future. The audience, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and +its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was +rewarded by three rounds of applause. + +At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said, “_Thou_ art adorable!” +His _thou_ rather annoyed me, but I answered mischievously, using the +same form of speech: + +“_Thou_ findest me fatter?” + +He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used +the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable. + +Oh, that Odéon Theatre! It is the theatre I loved most. I was very sorry +to leave it, for every one liked each other there, and every one was +gay. The theatre is a little like the continuation of school. The young +artistes came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and very +polite and young himself. During rehearsal we often went off, several of +us together, to play ball in the Luxembourg, during the acts in which we +were not “on.” I used to think of my few months at the Comédie +Française. The little world I had known there had been stiff, scandal- +mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at the Gymnase. Hats +and dresses were always discussed there, and every one chattered about a +hundred things that had nothing to do with art. + +At the Odéon I was happy. We thought of nothing but putting plays on, +and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I liked that +very much. + +For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at +Auteuil. I went to the theatre in a _petit duc_, which I drove myself. I +had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me because they +had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a +whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the +quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine, +and the gaiety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold cracked +steps of the theatre with veritable joy, and rushed up to my dressing- +room, wishing every one I passed good morning on my way. When I had +taken off my coat and gloves I went on to the stage, delighted to be +once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light (a _servante_ +hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a +bench) thrown on the faces of the artistes for a few seconds. + +There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere, full of +microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more +brilliant than that darkness. + +One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought +she would have died with horror and disgust. “Oh, you poor child,” she +murmured, “how can you live in that!” When once she was outside again +she began to breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh yes, I +could live in it, and I really only lived well in it. Since then I have +changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that gloomy +workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the precious stones +supplied to us by the poets. + +The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed +hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed +to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in _Le Marquis de Villemer_ +and _François le Champi_. In the former I took the part of the foolish +baroness, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely +twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played +Mariette, and made a great success. + +Those rehearsals of the _Marquis de Villemer_ and _François le Champi_ +have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Madame George +Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk +much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always dreamy, and +her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the kindest +expression. She had perhaps had a medium-sized figure, but she was no +longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection, +for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance! + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT IN + _FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI_ +] + +I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as +long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating. + +Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to +George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I +ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped +beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I. that I disliked him for it. +By resembling him it seemed to me that he made him seem less far away, +and brought him nearer to every one. + +Madame Sand introduced me to him, in spite of my wishes. He looked at me +in an impertinent way: he displeased me. I scarcely replied to his +compliments, and went closer to George Sand. + +“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing. + +George Sand stroked my cheek gently. + +“She is my little Madonna,” she answered; “do not torment her.” + +I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the Prince. +Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his +conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He +sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle +crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not +very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things +about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew +such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that +George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called +the Prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same +time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an +artiste, named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in _François le Champi_, +came into the green-room. Prince Napoleon, Madame George Sand, the +curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and myself were +there. This artiste was common, and something of an anarchist. He bowed +to Madame Sand, and addressing the Prince, said: + +“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.” + +The Prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out, and, throwing them on +the floor, remarked, “I thought this seat was clean.” + +The actor coloured, picked up the gloves, and went away, murmuring some +revolutionary threat. + +I played the part of Hortense in _Le testament de César_, by Girodot, +and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas’s _Kean_. + +On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece[1] the +audience was most aggravating. Dumas _père_ was quite out of favour on +account of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics +for some time past had been exciting every one, and the return of Victor +Hugo from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box he was +greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began +shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak. +“My young friends,” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are +quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in +your box.” + +Footnote 1: + + February 18, 1868. + +Dumas protested vehemently. Several persons in the orchestra took his +side, for he had invited a lady into his box, and whoever that lady +might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner. +I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the +hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our +great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing, +and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had +disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when +Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering, “No, no, +this lady shall not leave the box!” + +Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted, +shouted, “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few +seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could then +be heard again in the midst of an infernal uproar. We had been ready to +commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited. Chilly and +Duquesnel then came to us on the stage. + +“_Courage, mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We +will commence anyhow, let what will happen.” + +“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold +as ice, and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him, +“if I get too frightened?” + +“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on +playing, and don’t faint upon any account!” + +The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird +cries, cat-calls, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy +Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!” + +My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing Kean, had been received +badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the +year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I +stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. At the very same instant +the cheers of my dear friends the students drowned the laughter of the +aggravators. This gave me courage, and I even felt a desire to fight. +But it was not necessary, for after the second endlessly long harangue, +in which I give an idea of my love for Kean, the house was delighted, +and gave me an ovation. + +“Ignotus” wrote the following paragraph in the _Figaro_: + +“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume which +increased the tumult, but her rich voice, that astonishing voice of +hers, appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little +Orpheus.” + +After _Kean_ I played in _La loterie du mariage_. When we were +rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I +usually sat. I had a little arm-chair there from my dressing-room, and +put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a +little gas-burner there, and I could work whilst waiting for my turn to +go on the stage. I loved embroidery and tapestry work. I had a quantity +of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up one or the +other as I felt inclined. + +Madame Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created +for the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large, +dark, gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went +up at the corners with an imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth, +and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living +incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her +pretty hands were long and rather soft, whilst her slow and rather heavy +walk completed the illusion. She was the great _tragédienne_ of the +Odéon Theatre. She approached me, with her measured tread, followed by a +young man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age. + +“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance for you to +make a poet happy!” She then introduced François Coppée. I invited the +young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His +handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A +thrill of emotion went through me, for I adore Napoleon I. + +“Are you a poet, Monsieur?” I asked. + +“Yes, Mademoiselle.” + +His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was. + +“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle. Agar is sure +that you will play it with her.” + +“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it for him. It is a +little masterpiece, and I am sure you will make a gigantic success.” + +“Oh, and you too. You will be so beautiful in it!” said the poet, gazing +rapturously at Agar. + +I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few +minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the +beautiful _tragédienne_. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my arm- +chair, wanted to give it me back. On my refusing it she pulled me down +on to her lap. The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away +together, our three heads almost touching. It was decided that after +reading the piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable +of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from both +managers to play it at a benefit that was to take place after our next +production. + +The young man was delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a +grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as +far as the little landing which projected over the stage. I watched them +as they went, the magnificent statue-like woman and the slender outline +of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was +certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I +could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this +matronly woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she too +appeared to be in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them +clasp each other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward +movement, the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and +kissed it fervently. + +Agar came back to me with a faint colour in her cheeks. This was rare +with her, for she had a marble-like complexion. “Here is the +manuscript!” she said, giving me a little roll of paper. + +The rehearsal was over, and I wished Agar good-bye, and on my way home +read the piece. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to +the theatre to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming +downstairs. + +“Do come back again, please!” I exclaimed. + +“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as +though you have won a big lottery prize.” + +“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office, I +produced the manuscript, + +“Read this, please,” I continued. + +“I’ll take it with me,” he said. + +“Oh no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?” + +“No, no,” he replied; “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming +poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued, +sitting down in his arm-chair. He began to read whilst I looked at the +newspapers. + +“It’s delicious!” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece.” + +I sprang to my feet in joy. + +“And you will get Chilly to accept it?” + +“Oh yes, you can make your mind easy. But when do you want to play it?” + +“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said, “and Agar too.” + +“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a _rôle_ that just +suits your fancy.” + +“Yes, my dear ‘_Duq_,’” I acknowledged. “I too want it put on at once. +Do you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the +benefit of Madame —— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any +difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.” + +“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the +scenery, though?” he muttered meditatively, biting his nails, which were +then his favourite meal when disturbed in his mind. + +I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home, and on +the way I put my plan before him. + +We might have the scenery of _Jeanne de Ligneris_, a piece that had been +put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered at by the +public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers, +statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them +to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost he would shriek, as he +had done in his _rôle_ of Rodin. Agar and I would supply our own +costumes. + +When I arrived at Duquesnel’s house, he asked me to go in and discuss +the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after +kissing the prettiest face one could possibly dream of, I told its owner +about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at +once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. Whilst she was +talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming +head, with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the face, with +its two little pink dimples. Her hair was soft and light, and formed a +halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists, finishing +with the loveliest hands imaginable, hands that were later on quite +famous. + +On leaving my two friends I drove straight to Agar’s to tell her what +had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of hers, a +priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted with my +story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a timid +ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced. + +“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and +shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.” + + + + + XIV + LE PASSANT—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT + + +The rehearsals of _Le Passant_ commenced very soon after this, and were +delightful, for the timid young poet was a most interesting and +intelligent talker. + +The first performance took place as arranged, and _Le Passant_ was a +veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and Agar +and myself had eight curtain calls. We tried in vain to bring the author +forward, as the audience wished to see him. François Coppée was not to +be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become famous within a +few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and myself, we were +simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay for our +costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times +consecutively to full houses. + +We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the house of Princess +Mathilde. + +Oh, that first performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain +for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now. +It had been arranged between Duquesnel and the official sent from the +Court that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where +we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the +requirements of the piece. Count de Laferrière was to introduce me to +the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar +was to be introduced by Princess Mathilde, to whom she was then sitting +as Minerva. + +M. de Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state carriage, and +Madame Guérard accompanied me. + +M. de Laferrière was a very agreeable man, with rather stiff manners. As +we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an +instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been +introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and Comte de Laferrière +explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me, “Good luck!” +Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and +called out, “Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of good- +for-nothings!” + +On arriving at the Palace we all three got out of the carriage, and were +shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground floor. + +“I will go and inform his Majesty that you are here,” said M. de +Laferrière, leaving us. + +When alone with Madame Guérard I thought I would rehearse my three +curtseys. + +“_Mon petit Dame_,” I said, “tell me whether they are right.” + +I made the curtseys, murmuring, “Sire ... Sire ...” I began over again +several times, looking down at my dress as I said “Sire ...” when +suddenly I heard a stifled laugh. + +I stood up quickly, furious with Madame Guérard, but I saw that she too +was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind +me—was the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing +quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was +embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been +curtseying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence +right, and saying, “There ... that’s too low.... There; is that right, +Guérard?” + +“Good Heavens!” I now said to myself. “Has he heard it all?” + +In spite of my confusion, I now made my curtsey again, but the Emperor +said, smiling: + +“Oh! no; it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for the +Empress, who is expecting you.” + +Oh, that “just now.” I wondered when it had been? + +I could not question Madame Guérard, as she was following at some +distance with M. de Laferrière. The Emperor was at my side, talking to +me of a hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way, +on account of that “just now.” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT IN A FANCY COSTUME + + BY WALTER SPINDLER +] + +I liked him much better thus, quite near, than in his portraits. He had +such fine eyes, which he half closed whilst looking through his long +lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale and his +voice faint, but seductive. + +We found the Empress seated in a large arm-chair. Her body was sheathed +in a grey dress, and seemed to have been moulded into the material. I +thought her very beautiful. She too was more beautiful than her +portraits. I made my three curtseys under the laughing eyes of the +Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough, +hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock. + +From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her +graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been +introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room, +where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for +the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps where Agar had to +pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love and longing for +ideal love. + +This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to +represent the first three steps of a huge flight leading up to a +Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for +some shrubs, flowers and plants, which I arranged along the three steps. + +The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of +age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar +mounted the steps to try the effect. He was delicious, with his +magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those of his mother, and with his +father’s long eyelashes. He was witty like the Emperor, whom people +surnamed “Louis the Imbecile,” and who certainly had the most refined, +subtle, and at the same time the most generous wit. + +We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we +should return two days later for a rehearsal before their Majesties. + +How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the +rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of +us in the most charming manner, but her voice was very ugly. She told +the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits, and to +show us over the Palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much +about this, but _mon petit Dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the +offer that I gave in to them. + +I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been +uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor’s study +and the staircases. This inspection of the Palace bored me terribly. A +few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at +Winterhalter’s portrait representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked +beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for +it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her Majesty. + +The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young Prince +did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for we had made +it a dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the +_soirée_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a +_bal déguisé_ which was to be given for the Imperial child. Our +performance was in honour of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the +Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.” + +A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had +remarkably small feet, and in order to make them look still smaller she +encased them in shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully +beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a +dress of pale blue satin embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair she +was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her small +feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppée’s piece my +eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two little feet +moving restlessly about. Finally I saw one of the shoes pushing its +little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of the Empress +come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at the toe, and I +was very anxious to know how it would get back, for under such +circumstances the foot swells, and cannot go into a shoe that is too +narrow. When the piece was over we were recalled twice, and as it was +the Empress who started the applause, I thought she was putting off the +moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little sore foot trying in +vain to get back into its shoe. The curtains were drawn, and as I had +told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched through them its various +phases. + +The Emperor rose, and every one followed his example. He offered his arm +to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet +risen. The Emperor’s face lighted up with that smile which I had already +seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and +other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a +rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of +Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her Majesty’s +distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped +the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw +that the Empress leaned more heavily on the Prince’s arm than she would +have liked, for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful. + +We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and +fêted so much that we were delighted with our evening. + +After _Le Passant_ and the prodigious success of that adorable piece, a +success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me, +and began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was +great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the +students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and +long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes on arriving at the theatre +as I was getting out of my carriage I received a shower of flowers which +simply covered me, and I was delighted, and used to thank my +worshippers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so +that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather +chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant and +would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well +that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who +were very kindly disposed towards me nevertheless, as they too used to +spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and +less headstrong. How many times one or another of these old subscribers +would come and give me a word of advice. “Mademoiselle, you were +charming in _Junie_,” one of them observed; “but you bite your lips, and +the Roman women never did that!” + +“My dear girl,” another said, “you were delicious in _François le +Champi_, but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany +with her hair curled.” + +A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day rather curtly, “It is a +want of respect, Mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!” + +“But, Monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at +the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backwards.” + +“The artistes we had before you, Mademoiselle, who were quite as +talented as you, if not more so, had a way of going across the stage +without turning their back on the public.” + +And he turned quickly on his heel and was going away, when I stopped +him. + +“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass, +without turning your back on me?” + +He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and +disappeared, slamming the door after him. + +I lived some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor, which +was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture which +my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure against +fire, as this furniture, he told me, constituted a small fortune. I +decided to follow his advice, and asked _mon petit Dame_ to take the +necessary steps for me. A few days later she told me that some one would +call about it on the 12th. + +On the day in question, towards two o’clock, a gentleman called, but I +was in an extremely nervous condition, and said: “No, I must be left +alone to-day. I do not wish to see any one.” + +I had refused to be disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a +frightfully depressed state. + +That same evening I received a letter from the fire insurance company, +La Foncière, asking which day their agent might call to have the +agreement signed. I replied that he might come on Saturday. + +On Friday I was so utterly wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come +and lunch with me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to +perform on Tuesdays and Fridays, days on which répertoire plays only +were given. As I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was +feared that I should be over-tired. + +My mother on arriving thought I looked very pale. + +“Yes,” I replied. “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in +a very nervous state and most depressed.” + +The governess came to fetch my little boy, to take him out for a walk, +but I would not let him go. + +“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “The child must not leave me to-day. I am afraid +of something happening.” + +What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than, with my +love for my family, I was dreading. + +I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It +was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a +spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was +very tall indeed, six feet, but she looked like a giantess. She was thin +and very upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of +her, feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock +herself, although she was always accompanied by the nurse whom I had +engaged for her. Above this long body was her little face, with two +immense pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep at +night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in grey, and this +neutral colour gave something unreal to her general appearance. + +My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My +grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire arm-chair, +questioned me: + +“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have +not heard you laugh all day.” + +I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the +trouble I was dreading would come through her. + +“Are you not there?” she insisted. + +“Yes, I am here,” I answered; “but please do not talk to me.” + +She did not utter another word, but with her two hands on her lap sat +there for hours. I sketched her strange, fatidical face. + +It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being +present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend +Rose Baretta was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a +most charming and witty man, Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came too. He was +a young journalist already very much in vogue. I told them about my +forebodings with regard to that day, and begged them not to leave me +before midnight. + +“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked spirits who +are watching me will have missed their chance.” + +They agreed to humour my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who was to have gone +to some first night at one of the theatres, remained with us. Dinner was +more animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o’clock when we +left the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went +away for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I +found my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative +water. I asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible +headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the +night, and then to go to bed. She thanked me, and obeyed. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and, sitting down to the piano, played +“Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s “Last Thought.” I had not +come to the end of this last melody when I stopped, suddenly hearing in +the street cries of “Fire! Fire!” + +“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer. + +“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It is not +midnight yet, and I am expecting my own misfortune.” + +Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts +were coming from. He stepped out on to the balcony, and then came +quickly in again. + +“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!” + +I rushed to the window, and saw the flames coming from the two windows +of my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room in to the corridor, +and then to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and +his nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door, +the bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women +quickly, wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed to the +door with my precious burden. I then ran downstairs, and, crossing the +street, took him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop opposite, just at the +corner of the Rue Caumartin. + +The kind man took my little slumberer in and let him lie on a couch, +where the child continued his sleep without any break. I left him in +charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back to the +flaming house. The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived, +and at all costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was +impossible to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with +smoke. + +Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower in his button- +hole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon on the +first floor, but when once there my knees shook; it seemed as thought my +heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen door, at +the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple turn of +the key. My amiable companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but not +strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or +something, but just at that moment, a new-comer wrenched the door open +by a violent plunge with his shoulder against it. This new arrival was +no other than M. Sohège, a friend of mine. He was a most charming and +excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known in Paris, very +lively and kind, and always ready to do any one a service. I took my +friends to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, out of +breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her. This +maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from +Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in +the street, the noise of the fire-engines, which had arrived at last, +and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the +maid, whilst I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and +why we were in her room. + +“Very good,” she said; and then she added calmly, “Will you give me the +box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of +it is here.” + +“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning to come in +here. We have not any time to lose.” + +“Well, do as you like. I shall not leave without my box!” + +With the help of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer we put my grandmother +on Sohège’s back in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she +was extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was +afraid she might get them injured. Sohège therefore took her in his +arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke +stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a +faint. + +When I came to myself I was in my mother’s bed. My little boy was asleep +in my sister’s room, and my grandmother was installed in a large arm- +chair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression on +her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at last +my mother was angry, and reproached her in Dutch with only caring for +herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward as though +to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which surrounded +her. Her thin body, wrapped in an Indian shawl of many colours, the +hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all contributed to +make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did +not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he had six big +children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the youngest, my uncle, +five years. This second wife had never had any children of her own, and +had been indifferent, even harsh, towards those of her husband; and +consequently she was not liked in the family. I had taken charge of her +because small-pox had broken out in the family with whom she had been +boarding. She had then wished to stay with me, and I had not had courage +enough to oppose her. + +On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she behaved so badly +that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I resolved not to keep +her with me. News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage, +and burnt everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very +last book in my library. My greatest sorrow was that I had lost a +magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist +very much _à la mode_ under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father, +and a very pretty pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewellery, +and all that was found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a +huge shapeless mass, which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set +with diamonds and pearls, given to me by Kalil Bey after a performance +at his house. The ashes of this had to be sifted in order to find the +stones. The diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted. + +I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had +left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other +useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own +it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a +shell of gold set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh, +how beautiful it was, and how droll! It used to wander round my flat, +accompanied by a smaller tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its +servant, and I used to amuse myself for hours watching Chrysagère, +flashing with a hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon. +Both my tortoises died in this fire. + +Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to see me a few +weeks later, for he had just received a summons from La Foncière, the +fire insurance company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day +before the catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum of money from me +for damages done to the house itself. The second storey was almost +entirely destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be +propped up. I did not possess the 40,000 francs claimed. Duquesnel +offered to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free +me from all difficulties. De Chilly was very willing to agree to +anything that would be of service to me. The benefit was a wonderful +success, thanks to the presence of the adorable Adelina Patti. The young +singer, who was then the Marquise de Caux, had never before sung at a +benefit performance, and it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news +that “La Patti” was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the +afternoon to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving to +me her sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was announced, every seat +in the house was promptly taken at prices which were higher than those +originally fixed. She had no reason to regret her friendly action, for +never was any triumph more complete. The students greeted her with three +cheers as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this +noise of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her two +little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating as to +whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She looked so pretty, so +smiling, and when she trilled out the gem-like notes of her wonderful +voice the whole house was delirious with excitement. + +Every one sprang up, and the students stood on their seats, waved their +hats and handkerchiefs, nodded their young heads in their feverish +enthusiasm for art, and “encored” with intonations of the most touching +supplication. + +The divine singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing +the Cavatina from _Il Barbière de Seville_, “_Una voce poco fa_.” + +I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theatre +escorted by the students, who followed her carriage for a long way, +shouting over and over again, “Long live Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that +evening’s performance I was able to pay the insurance company. I was +ruined all the same, or very nearly so. + +I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped for room +there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade. It was a +dismal house, and the flat was dark. I was wondering how I should get +out of my difficulties, when one morning M. C——, my father’s notary, was +announced. This was the man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that +he should be shown in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so +long a time. He told me that he had just returned from Hamburg, that he +had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and had now come +to put himself at my service. In spite of my distrust, I was touched by +this, and I related to him the whole drama of my fire. I did not know +how it had started, but I vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having +placed my lighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of +my bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was on this +little piece of furniture that she always placed my water-bottle and +glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples, for I adore +eating apples when I wake in the night. On opening the door there was +always a terrible draught, as the windows were left open until I went to +bed. On closing the door after her the lace bed-curtains had probably +caught fire. I could not explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had +several times seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I +supposed that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to +bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was going to +undress myself she prepared everything, and then came in and told me, +but this time she had not done so. Usually, too, I just went into the +room myself to see that everything was right, and several times I had +been obliged to move the candle. That day, however, was destined to +bring me misfortune of some kind, though it was not a very great one. + +“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?” + +“No; I was to sign my policy the day after the event.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed the man of law, “and to think that I have been told you +set the flat on fire yourself in order to receive a large sum of money!” + +I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this effect in a +newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I already had a certain +disdain for tittle-tattle. + +“Oh well, I must arrange matters for you if things are like this,” said +Maître C—— . “You are really better off than you imagine as regards the +money on your father’s side,” he continued. “As your grandmother leaves +you an annuity, you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to insure +your life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of the +purchaser.” + +I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted at such a windfall. +This man promised to send me two days after his return 120,000 francs, +and he kept his word. My reason for giving the details of this little +episode, which after all belongs to my life, is to show how differently +things turn out from what seems likely according to logic or according +to our own expectations. It is quite certain that the accident which had +just then happened to me scattered to the winds the hopes and plans of +my life. I had arranged for myself a luxurious home with the money that +my father and mother had left me. I had kept by me and invested a +sufficient amount of money so as to be sure to complete my monthly +salary for the next two years: I reckoned that at the end of the two +years I should be in a position to demand a very high salary. And all +these arrangements had been upset by the carelessness of a domestic. I +had rich relatives and very rich friends, but not one amongst them +stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch into which I had +fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going on to the stage. +And yet Heaven knows what tears it had cost me to take up this career +that had been forced upon me. My Uncle Faure came to see me at my +mother’s house, but my aunt would not listen to a word about me. I used +to see my cousin secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister. My rich +friends considered that I was wildly extravagant, and could not +understand why I did not place the money I had inherited in good, sound +investments. + +I received a great deal of verse on the subject of my fire. Most of it +was anonymous. I have kept it all, however, and I quote the following +poem, which is rather nice: + + Passant, te voilà sans abri: + La flamme a ravagé ton gite. + Hier plus léger qu’un colibri; + Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite, + S’exhalant en gémissements + Sur tout ce que le feu dévore. + Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?... + Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore! + + Ne regrette pas ces colliers + Qu’ont à leur cou les riches dames! + Tu trouveras dans les halliers, + Des tissus verts, aux fines trames! + Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir + Qui sur l’envers du fossé pousse! + Et le cadre de ton miroir + Est une bordure de mousse! + + Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus, + Tu paraîtras cent fois plus belle! + Sur les bras jolis de Vénus, + Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle! + Garde ton charme si puissant! + Ton parfum de plante sauvage! + Laisse les bijoux, O Passant, + A celles que le temps ravage! + + Avec ta guitare à ton cou, + Va, par la France et par l’Espagne! + Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où.... + Par la plaine et par la montagne! + Passe, comme la plume au vent! + Comme le son de ta mandore! + Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant, + Les flancs d’une barque sonore! + +The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue sent me the +following letter, which I quote word for word: + + “MADAME,—If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in our + large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on + the first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a + small boudoir, and a bath-room. It is of course understood that this + suite of rooms would be yours free of charge if you would consent to + do as I ask.—Yours, etc. + + “(P.S.) You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants + for your drawing-room.” + +This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one of my friends +to go and give the low fellow his answer. + +I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without +comfort and luxury. + +I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not without sorrow. I +had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I should have +to accept it. Madame Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did not +mention my plan to any one else. The idea of Russia terrified her, for +at that time my chest was very delicate, and cold was my most cruel +enemy. It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer +arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the clever and, +for him, profitable combination which was to change my whole life once +more. + +I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome. +It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There +were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my +grandmother to live at a home kept by lay sisters and nuns. She was a +Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her +religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took her +own maid with her, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was +accustomed. + +When I went to see her she told me that she was much better off there +than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your boy too +noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing my +mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her. She +was happy, and that was the essential thing. + +I now played successfully in _Le Bâtard_, in which I had great success, +in _L’Affranchi_, in _L’Autre_ by George Sand, and in _Jean-Marie_, a +little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant +success. Porel played the part of Jean-Marie. He was at that time +slender, and full of hope. Since then his slenderness has developed into +plumpness and his hope into certitude. + + + + + XV + THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR + + +Evil days then came upon us. Paris began to get feverish and excited. +The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and +gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant +groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were +yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew, whilst we did not +know! + +I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was +ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me +shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset +by the distant cries of human voices. + +Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime, +abetted, forgiven, and glorified! + +Recently, I visited a huge steel works. I will not say in what country, +for all countries have been hospitable to me, and I am neither a spy nor +a traitress. I only set forth things as I see them. Well, I visited one +of these frightful manufactories, in which the most deadly weapons are +made. The owner of it all, a multi-millionaire, was introduced to me. He +was pleasant, but no good at conversation, and he had a dreamy, +dissatisfied look. My cicerone informed me that this man had just lost a +huge sum of money, nearly sixty million francs. + +“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed; “how has he lost it?” + +“Oh well, he has not exactly lost the money, but has just missed making +the sum, so it amounts to the same thing.” + +I looked perplexed, and he added, “Yes; you remember that there was a +great deal of talk about war between France and Germany with regard to +the Morocco affair?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, this prince of the steel trade expected to sell cannons for it, +and for a month his men were very busy in the factory, working day and +night. He gave enormous bribes to influential members of the Government, +and paid some of the papers in France and Germany to stir up the people. +Everything has fallen through, thanks to the intervention of men who are +wise and humanitarian. The consequence is that this millionaire is in +despair. He has lost sixty or perhaps a hundred million francs.” + +I looked at the wretched man with contempt, and I wished heartily that +he could be suffocated with his millions, as remorse was no doubt +utterly unknown to him. + +And how many others merit our contempt just as this man does! Nearly all +those who are known as “suppliers to the army,” in every country in the +world, are the most desperate propagators of war. + +Let every man be a soldier in the time of peril. Yes, a thousand times +over, yes! Let every man be armed for the defence of his country, and +let him kill in order to defend his family and himself. That is only +reasonable. But that there should be, in our times, young men whose sole +dream is to kill in order to make a position for themselves, that is +inconceivable! + +It is indisputable that we must guard our frontiers and our colonies, +but since all men are soldiers, why not take these guards and defenders +from among “all men”? We should only have schools for officers then, and +we should have no more of those horrible barracks which offend the eye. +And when sovereigns visit each other and are invited to a review, would +they not be much more edified as to the value of a nation if it could +show a thousandth part of its effective force chosen haphazard among its +soldiers, rather than the elegant evolutions of an army prepared for +parade? What magnificent reviews I have seen in all the different +countries I have visited! But I know from history that such and such an +army as was prancing about there so finely before us had taken flight, +without any great reason, before the enemy. + +On July 19 war was seriously declared, and Paris then became the theatre +of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and delicate as I +was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men gone wild, who +were yelling the “Marseillaise” and rushing along the streets in close +file, shouting over and over again, “To Berlin! To Berlin!” + +My heart used to beat wildly, for I too thought that they were going to +Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked +us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that +they were getting ready for this great deed without sufficient respect +and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when I saw +all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding +their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful +anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly, and I was +wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the horrible +catastrophe that was to take place. + +The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did not want to +leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of excitement. My +weakness increased, though, day by day, and on July 27 I was taken away +in spite of myself. Madame Guérard, my man-servant, and my maid +accompanied me, and I also took my child with me. + +In all the railway stations there were posters everywhere, announcing +that the Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army. + +At Eaux-Bonnes I was compelled to remain in bed. My condition was +considered very serious by Dr. Leudet, who told me afterwards that he +certainly thought I was going to die. I vomited blood, and had to have a +piece of ice in my mouth all the time. At the end of about twelve days, +however, I began to get up, and after this I soon recovered my strength +and my calmness, and went for long rides on horseback. + +The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a +certain emotion felt by every one on hearing that the young Prince +Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck, in the +engagement commanded by General Frossard. + +Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence in the +issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked on such an +adventure. But, alas! the fine, glorious progress which my brain had +been so active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from +Saint-Privat. The political news was posted up every day in the little +garden of the Casino at Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get +information. Detesting, as I did, tranquillity, I used to send my man- +servant to copy the telegrams. Oh, how grievous was that terrible +telegram from Saint-Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful +butchery; of the heroic defence of Marshal Canrobert; and of Bazaine’s +first treachery in not going to the rescue of his comrade. + +I knew Canrobert, and was very fond of him. Later on he became one of my +faithful friends, and I shall always remember the exquisite hours spent +in listening to his accounts of the bravery of others—never of his own. +And what an abundance of anecdotes, what wit, what charm! + +This news of the battle of Saint-Privat caused my feverishness to +return. My sleep was full of nightmares, and I had a relapse. The news +was worse every day. After Saint-Privat came Gravelotte, where 36,000 +men, French and German, were cut down in a few hours. Then came the +sublime but powerless efforts of MacMahon, who was driven back as far as +Sedan; and finally Sedan. + +Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the +night before, amidst a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the +groans of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. But the +month of September was cursed from its very birth. Its first war-cry was +stifled back by the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny. + +A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen compelled to +capitulate, and the Emperor of France forced to hand his sword over to +the King of Prussia! + +Ah! that cry of grief, that cry of rage, uttered by the whole nation. It +can never be forgotten! + +On September 1, towards ten o’clock, Claude, my man-servant, knocked at +my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me a copy of the first telegrams: + +“Battle of Sedan commenced. MacMahon wounded,” &c. &c. + +“Ah! go back again,” I said, “and as soon as a fresh telegram comes, +bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great and +quite different, is going to happen. We have suffered so terribly this +last month, that there can only be something good now, something fine, +for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go at once, +Claude,” I added, and then, full of confidence, I soon fell asleep +again, and was so tired that I slept until one o’clock. When I awoke, my +maid Félicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my +bed. Her pretty face and her large dark eyes were so mournful that my +heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my +hands the copy of the last telegram: + +“The Emperor Napoleon has just handed over his sword....” + +Blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control its flow. +I lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped through my lips with the +groans of my whole being. + +For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Leudet sent for one of +my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Maunoir. He came at once, +bringing with him his young wife. She too was very ill, worse in reality +than I was, in spite of her fresh look, for she died six months later. +Thanks to their care and to the energetic treatment of Dr. Leudet, I +came through alive from this attack. + +I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be +proclaimed, and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the +capital. Independently of this, every one at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with +a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post-chaise was +found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to drive me +to the nearest station without delay. When once in it, we were more or +less comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to +find five seats in the express from there. My man-servant was allowed to +travel with the engine-driver. I do not know where Madame Guérard and my +maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy, +there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child +out when I had put him in, but I pushed him back again energetically in +my turn. + +“No human force will make us get out of this carriage,” I said. “Do you +hear that, you ugly old man? We are here, and we shall stay.” + +A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three ordinary persons, +exclaimed: + +“Well! that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It’s shameful to +let eleven persons get into a compartment where there are only seats for +eight!” + +“Will you get out, then?” I retorted, turning to her quickly, “for +without you there would only be seven of us.” + +The stifled laughter of the other travellers showed me that I had won +over my audience. Three young men offered me their places, but I +refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The three young men had +risen, and they declared that they would also stand. The stout lady +called a railway official. “Come here, please!” she began. + +The official stopped an instant at the door. + +“It is perfectly shameful,” she went on. “There are eleven in this +compartment, and it is impossible to move.” + +“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men. “Just look for +yourself. We are standing up, and there are three seats empty. Send some +more people in here.” + +The official went away laughing and muttering something about the woman +who had complained. She turned to the young man and began to talk +abusively to him. He bowed very respectfully in reply, and said: + +“Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We will seat +seven on the other side, including the child, and then you will only be +four on your side.” + +The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways at the stout +lady and murmured, “Four! Four!” His look and tone showed that he +considered the stout lady took up more than one seat. This look and tone +were not lost on the young man, and before the ugly old man had +comprehended he said to him, “Will you come over here and have this +corner? All the thin people will be together then,” he added, inviting a +placid, calm-looking young Englishman of eighteen to twenty years of age +to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman had the torso of a prize- +fighter, with a face like that of a fair-haired baby. A very young +woman, opposite the stout one, laughed till the tears came. All six of +us then found room on the thin people’s side of the carriage. We were a +little crushed, but had been considerably enlivened by this little +entertainment, and we certainly needed something to enliven us. The +young man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way was tall +and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost white, and +this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and youthfulness. My +boy was on his knee during the night. With the exception of the child, +the stout lady, and the young Englishman, no one went to sleep. The heat +was overpowering, and the war was of course discussed. After some +hesitation, one of the young men told me that I resembled Mlle. Sarah +Bernhardt. I answered that there was every reason why I should resemble +her. The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had +recognised me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron van +Zelern or von Zerlen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man +with white hair was Félix Faure. He told me that he was from Hâvre, and +that he knew my grandmother very well. I kept up a certain friendship +with these three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit became my +enemy. All three are now dead—Albert Delpit died a disappointed man, for +he had tried everything and succeeded in nothing, the Dutch baron was +killed in a railway accident, and Félix Faure was President of the +French Republic. + +The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself in her turn. + +“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Madame Laroque.” + +“Of Bordeaux?” I asked. + +“Yes.” + +My mother’s brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux, so that we +were able to talk of our family. Altogether the journey did not seem +very long, in spite of the heat, the overcrowding, and our thirst. + +The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands warmly with each +other. The stout lady’s husband was awaiting her; he handed her, in +silence, a telegram. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a +cry, burst into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wondering +what sorrow had come upon her. Poor woman, I could no longer see +anything ridiculous about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought +that we had been laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already +singled her out. + +On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her some +time during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my +health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family, +with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the +siege. My mother, my little boy and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt +Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother’s maid were all ready to +start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the +whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the +possibility of doing so another. The stations were invaded by families +like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my man- +servant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with +his clothes torn, after receiving no end of kicks and blows. + +“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me; “it is quite +impossible. I should not be able to protect her. Besides, Madame will +not be alone; there is Madame’s mother, the other ladies, and the +children. It is really quite impossible.” + +I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and +asked them to accompany me. I told my steward to be ready, as well as my +other man-servant and my mother’s footman. He in his turn invited his +younger brother, who was a priest, and who was very willing to go with +us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in +all, but only nine who were really travelling. Our eight protectors were +none too many, for those who were taking tickets were not human beings, +but wild beasts haunted by fear and spurred on by a desire to escape. +These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading +to the train, and then the train which would ensure their escape. The +presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious +character made people refrain sometimes from blows. + +When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been +reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the +train started. A shudder of terror ran through me, for I suddenly felt +so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated from the +little child who was dearer to me than the whole world. + +Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured, +“My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you +be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?” + +It was Madame Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was +there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting +that I had let him go away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be +fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I +might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in +Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea +seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that +every one who was fit ought to remain in Paris. In spite of my weakness, +I felt that I was fit, and with reason, as I proved later on. I +therefore remained, not knowing at all what I was going to do. + +For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the life around me, and +missing the affection. + + + + + XVI + SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE + + +The defence, however, was being organised, and I decided to use my +strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was, +where could we instal an ambulance? + +The Odéon Theatre had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to +get permission to organise an ambulance in that theatre, and, thanks to +Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was gratified. I went to the +War Office and made my declaration and my request, and my offers were +accepted for a military ambulance. The next difficulty was that I wanted +food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier +arrived very soon, with a note from the Prefect containing the following +lines: + + “MADAME,—If you could possibly come at once, I would wait for you + until six o’clock. If not I will receive you to-morrow morning at + eight. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the + Chamber at nine in the morning, and, as your note seems to be urgent, + I am anxious to do all I can to be of service to you. + + “COMTE DE KÉRATRY.” + +I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my +aunt’s house, the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini, +but he was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had +introduced me to his mother. I had recited poetry at her _soirées_. The +young lieutenant had gone to Mexico, and for some time we had kept up a +correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again. +I asked Madame Guérard whether she thought that the Prefect were a near +relative of my young friend’s. “It may be so,” she replied, and we +discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the +Tuileries Palace, where the Prefect had his offices. My heart was very +heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one +April morning, I had been there with Madame Guérard. Then, as now, a +footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April +sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the +State carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a +busy, joyful coming and going of the officers then, and elegant salutes +had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November +sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up +one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps, +advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their +drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations I heard now such phrases as: +“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, _la gueule de bois_!” “Well, any +news?” “Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” &c. &c. + +The Palace was no longer the same. + +The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women +leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odour of +tobacco, of greasy clothes, of dirty hair, made the atmosphere seem +heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her +blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella’s good +fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young +Prince Imperial, too! I could see him helping me to arrange the pots of +verbena and marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong +enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome +face completely disappeared. Then, too, I could see the Emperor Napoleon +III. with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of +the curtseys intended for him. + +And the fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the +carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a +foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And +the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the battle- +field. Two horses had been killed under him, and he had not received so +much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword. And we at +home had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving up of the +sword. And yet what courage it must have required for so brave a man to +carry out such an act. He had wanted to save a hundred thousand men, to +spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred thousand +mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do him +justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas, alas! he was too +confiding! + +I stopped a minute before entering the Prefect’s suite of rooms. I was +obliged to wipe my eyes, and in order to change the current of my +thoughts I said to _mon petit Dame_. + +“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first +time?” + +“Oh yes!” she replied warmly. + +“So much the better,” I said, “for I want this old Prefect to think me +pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for!” + +On entering his room, my surprise was great when I recognised in him the +lieutenant I knew. He had become captain, and then Prefect of Police. +When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and +came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out. + +“Ah, you had forgotten me!” he said, and then he turned to greet Madame +Guérard in a friendly way. + +“But I never thought I was coming to see you!” I replied; “and I am +delighted,” I continued, “for you will let me have everything I ask +for.” + +“Only that!” he remarked with a burst of laughter. “Well, will you give +your orders, Madame?” he continued. + +“Yes. I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy, +potatoes, eggs, coffee,” I said straight away. + +“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the Count-Prefect. “You speak so +quickly that I am gasping.” + +I was quiet for a moment, and then I continued: + +“I have started an ambulance at the Odéon, but as it is a military +ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five wounded +men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men are being +sent to me, and I shall have to give them food.” + +“You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes,” said the +Prefect. “There is food in the Palace which was being stored by the +unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I +will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as +regards these I will give orders that your ambulance shall be included +in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will +give you an order for salt and other things, which you will be able to +get from the Opéra.” + +“From the Opéra?” I repeated, looking at him incredulously. “But it is +only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet.” + +“Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding +opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase +leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with +what you want.” + +“There is still something else I want to ask,” I said. + +“Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,” he replied. + +“Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a stock of powder +in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a +shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that +is not the aim and object of an ambulance.” + +“You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing could be more +stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about +that, though,” he continued, “for I shall have to deal with a crowd of +stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way. +You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential +householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you +satisfied?” he asked. + +“Yes,” I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. “You have been most +kind and charming. Thank you very much.” + +I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as +though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guérard +saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently. + +“My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.” + +I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand. + +“What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?” he asked. + +I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible. + +“I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand at +all.” + +I was still pointing to the coat. + +“Give it me, will you?” I said. + +“My overcoat?” + +“Yes.” + +“What do you want it for?” + +“For my wounded men when they are convalescent.” + +He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this +uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation. + +“There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a poor fellow, for +instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to +stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier’s cape is not warm +enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon +sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I +tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s +overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge, +and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity +again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like +a very warm one.” + +I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young +Prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his +overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the +largest pocket. + +“Will you allow me to keep my muffler?” he asked. + +I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent. + +Our host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the +overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his +eyes: + +“Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?” + +I thanked him again, and went away feeling very happy. + +Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the +signatures of the householders and tradesmen residing near the Odéon. + +On entering the Prefect’s room I was petrified to see him, instead of +advancing to meet me, rush towards a cupboard, open the door, and fling +something hastily into it. After this he leaned against the door as +though to prevent my opening it. + +“Excuse me,” he said, in a witty, mocking tone, “but I caught a violent +cold after your first visit. I have just put my overcoat—oh, only an +ugly old overcoat, not a warm one,” he added quickly, “but still an +overcoat—inside there, and there it now is, and I will take the key out +of the lock.” + +He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came forward and +offered me a chair. But our conversation soon took a more serious turn, +for the news was very bad. For the last twelve days the ambulances had +been crowded with wounded men. Everything was in a bad way, home +politics as well as foreign politics. The Germans were advancing on +Paris. The army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta, Chanzy, +Bourbaki, and Trochu were organising a desperate defence. We talked for +some time about all these sad things, and I told him about the painful +impression I had had on my last visit to the Tuileries, of my +remembrance of every one, so brilliant, so considerate, and so happy +formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at present. We were silent for a +moment, and then I shook hands with him, told him I had received all he +had sent, and returned to my ambulance. + +The Prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of brandy; 30,000 +eggs, all packed in boxes with lime and bran; a hundred bags of coffee +and boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert biscuits, a thousand tins of +preserves, and a quantity of other things. + +M. Menier, the great chocolate manufacturer, had sent me five hundred +pounds of chocolate. One of my friends, a flour dealer, had made me a +present of twenty sacks of flour, ten of which were maize flour. This +flour dealer was the one who had asked me to be his wife when I was at +the Conservatoire. Félix Potin, my neighbour when I was living at 11 +Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels +of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two sacks +of lentils, and twenty sugar-loaves. From M. de Rothschild I had +received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of his own wine for +the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected present. Léonie +Dubourg, an old school-fellow of mine at the Grand-Champs convent, sent +me fifty tin boxes each containing four pounds of salt butter. She had +married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated his own farms, +which it seems were very numerous. I was very much touched at her +remembering me, for I had never seen her since the old days at the +convent. I had also asked for all the overcoats and slippers of my +various friends, and I had bought up a job lot of two hundred flannel +vests. My Aunt Betsy, my blind grandmother’s sister, who is still living +in Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed to get for me, +through the charming Ambassador for the Netherlands, three hundred +night-shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a hundred pairs of sheets. +I received lint and bandages from every corner of Paris, but it was more +particularly from the Palais de l’Industrie that I used to get my +provisions of lint and of linen for binding wounds. There was an +adorable woman there, named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all +the ambulances. All that she did was done with a cheerful gracefulness, +and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused sorrowfully, but +still in a gracious manner. She was at that time over thirty years of +age, and although unmarried she looked more like a very young married +woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes, and a laughing mouth, a +deliciously oval face, little dimples, and, crowning all this grace, +this dreamy expression, and this coquettish, inviting mouth, a wide +forehead like that of the Virgins painted by the early painters, rather +prominent, encircled by hair worn in smooth, wide, flat bandeaux, +separated by a faultless parting. The forehead seemed like the +protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle. Hocquigny was adored +and made much of by every one, but she remained invulnerable to all +homage. She was happy in being beloved, but she would not allow any one +to express affection for her. + +At the Palais de l’Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated doctors +and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as the convalescents, were +all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny. As she and I were great +friends, she confided to me her observations and her sorrowful disdain. +Thanks to her, I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organised +my ambulance with a very small staff. My cook was installed in the +public _foyer_. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she +could make soups and herb-tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief +attendant. I had given him two assistants, and Madame Guérard, Madame +Lambquin, and I were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we +each went to bed one night in three. I preferred this to taking on some +woman whom I did not know. Madame Lambquin belonged to the Odéon, where +she used to take the part of the duennas. She was plain and had a common +face, but she was very talented. She talked loud and was very plain- +spoken. She called a spade a spade, and liked frankness and no under +meaning to things. At times she was a trifle embarrassing with the +crudeness of her words and her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert, +and devoted. My various friends who were on service at the +fortifications came to me in their free time to do my secretarial work. +I had to keep a book, which was shown every day to a sergeant who came +from the Val-de-Grâce military hospital, giving all details as to how +many men came into our ambulance, how many died, and how many recovered +and left. Paris was in a state of siege; no one could go far outside the +walls, and no news from outside could be received. The Germans were not, +however, round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then to +see me, and I had as head surgeon Dr. Duchesne, who gave up his whole +time, night and day, to the care of my poor men during the five months +that this truly frightful nightmare lasted. + +I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion. It was +no longer the country in danger that kept my nerves strung up, but the +sufferings of all her children. There were all those who were away +fighting, those who were brought in to us wounded or dying; the noble +women of the people, who stood for hours and hours in the _queue_ to get +the necessary dole of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones +at home. Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theatre +windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and stamping +their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing—for that winter was +the most cruel one we had had for twenty years. Frequently one of these +poor, silent heroines was brought in to me, either in a swoon from +fatigue or struck down suddenly with congestion caused by cold. On +December 20 three of these unfortunate women were brought into the +ambulance. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost the big toe of +her right foot. The second was an enormously stout woman, who was +suckling her child, and her poor breasts were harder than wood. She +simply howled with pain. The youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen +to eighteen years of age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I +had had her placed to send her home. On December 24, there were fifteen +degrees of cold. I often sent Guillaume, our attendant, out with a +little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh! the suffering they must have +endured—those heart-broken mothers, those sisters and _fiancées_—in +their terrible dread. How excusable their rebellion seems during the +Commune, and even their bloodthirsty madness! + +My ambulance was full. I had sixty beds, and was obliged to improvise +ten more. The soldiers were installed in the green-room and in the +general _foyer_, and the officers in a room which had been formerly the +refreshment-room of the theatre. + +One day a young Breton, named Marie Le Gallec, was brought in. He had +been struck by a bullet in the chest and another in the wrist. Dr. +Duchesne bound up his chest firmly, and attended to his wrist. He then +said to me very simply: + +“Let him have anything he likes—he is dying.” + +I bent over his bed, and said to him: + +“Tell me what would give you pleasure, Marie Le Gallec.” + +“Soup,” he answered promptly, in the most comic way. + +Madame Guérard hurried away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a +bowl of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the bowl on the little four- +legged wooden shelf, which was so convenient for the meals of our poor +sufferers. The wounded man looked up at me and said, “Barra.” I did not +understand, and he repeated, “Barra.” His poor chest caused him to hiss +out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his emphatic +request. + +I sent immediately to the Marine Office, thinking that there would +surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my difficulty and my +ignorance of the Breton dialect. + +I was informed that the word “barra” meant bread. I hurried at once to +Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up, and taking +it from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let +the pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle +of the broth, and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand +upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier +smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the +young priest from St. Sulpice who had my ambulance in charge arrived. I +had sent for him on hearing the doctor’s sad verdict. He laid his hand +gently on the young man’s shoulder, thus stopping the movement of his +arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the holy +cup. + +“Oh,” he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the +steaming soup, he put his hands together. + +We had arranged the two screens which we used for isolating the dead or +dying around his bed. He was left alone with the priest whilst I went on +my rounds to calm those who were chaffing, or help the believers raise +themselves for prayer. The young priest soon pushed aside the partition, +and I then saw Marie Le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his +abominable bread sop. He soon fell asleep but awoke before long and +asked for something to drink, and then died in a slight fit of choking. +Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came +into my ambulance, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely +upset me. + +I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age, but I +could nevertheless see the cowardice of some of the men and the heroism +of many of the others. A young Savoyard, eighteen years old, had had his +forefinger shot off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he had done it +himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that. I noticed, +though, that, in spite of our nursing and care, the wound did not heal. +I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw that the +bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Madame Lambquin, who was +sitting up that night with Madame Guérard. + +“Good; I will keep my eye on him. You go to sleep, my child, and rely on +me.” + +The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught the young +man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife. I called him, and +told him that I should have to report this to the Val-de-Grâce Hospital. + +He began to weep, and vowed to me that he would never do it again, and +five days later he was well. I signed the paper authorising him to leave +the ambulance, and he was sent to the army of the defence. I often +wondered what became of him. Another of our patients bewildered us too. +Each time that his wound seemed to be just on the point of healing up, +he had a violent attack of dysentery, which prevented him getting well. +This seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne, and he asked me to watch the +man. At the end of a considerable time we were convinced that our +wounded man had thought out the most comical scheme. + +He slept next the wall, and therefore had no neighbour on the one side. +During the night he managed to file the brass of his bedstead. He put +the filings in a little pot which had been used for ointment of some +kind. A few drops of water and some salt mixed with this powdered brass +formed a poison which might have cost its inventor his life. I was +furious at this stratagem. I wrote to the Val-de-Grâce, and an ambulance +conveyance was sent to take this unpatriotic Frenchman away. + +But side by side with these despicable men what heroism we saw! A young +captain was brought in one day. He was a tall fellow, a regular +Hercules, with a superb head and a frank expression. On my book he was +inscribed as Captain Menesson. He had been struck by a bullet at the top +of the arm, just at the shoulder. With a nurse’s assistance I was trying +as gently as possible to take off his cloak, when three bullets fell +from the hood which he had pulled over his head, and I counted sixteen +bullet holes in the cloak. The young officer had stood upright for three +hours, serving as a target himself, whilst covering the retreat of his +men as they fired all the time on the enemy. This had taken place among +the Champigny vines. He had been brought in unconscious, in an ambulance +conveyance. He had lost a great deal of blood, and was half dead with +fatigue and weakness. He was very gentle and charming, and thought +himself sufficiently well two days later to return to the fight. The +doctor, however, would not allow this, and his sister, who was a nun, +besought him to wait until he was something like well again. + +“Oh, not quite well,” she said, smiling, “but just well enough to have +strength to fight.” + +Soon after he came into the ambulance the Cross of the Legion of Honour +was brought to him, and this was a moment of intense emotion for every +one. The unfortunate wounded men who could not move turned their +suffering faces towards him, and, with their eyes shining through a mist +of tears, gave him a fraternal look. The stronger amongst them held out +their hands to the young giant. + +It was Christmas-eve, and I had decorated the ambulance with festoons of +green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels in front of the Virgin +Mary, and the young priest from St. Sulpice came to take part in our +poor but poetical Christmas service. He repeated some beautiful prayers, +and the wounded men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad +solemn songs full of charm. + +Porel, the present manager of the Vaudeville Theatre, had been wounded +on the Avron Plateau. He was then convalescent and was one of my +patients, together with two officers now ready to leave the ambulance. +That Christmas supper is one of my most charming and at the same time +most melancholy memories. It was served in the small room which we had +made into a bedroom. Our three beds were covered with draperies and +skins which I had had brought from home, and we used them as seats. +Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five metres of _boudin blanc_ (“white- +pudding”), the famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers who were +well enough were delighted with this delicacy. One of my friends had had +twenty large _brioche_ cakes made for me, and I had ordered some large +bowls of punch, the coloured flames from which amused the grown-up sick +children immensely. The young priest from St. Sulpice accepted a piece +of _brioche_, and after taking a little white wine left us. Ah, how +charming and good he was, that poor young priest! And how well he +managed to make Fortin, the insupportable wounded fellow, cease talking. +Gradually the latter began to get humanised, until finally he began to +think the priest was a good sort of fellow. Poor young priest! He was +shot by the Communists. I cried for days and days over the murder of +this young St. Sulpice priest. + + + + + XVII + PARIS BOMBARDED + + +The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy held Paris day by +day in a still closer grip. Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold +enveloped the city, and poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only slightly +wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal, their brain +numbed and their body half frozen. + +No more news could be received from outside, but thanks to the United +States Minister, who had resolved to remain in Paris, a letter arrived +from time to time. It was in this way that I received a thin slip of +paper, as soft as a primrose petal, bringing me the following message: +“Every one well. Courage. A thousand kisses.—Your mother.” This +impalpable missive dated from seventeen days previously. + +And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at The Hague all +this time, and my mind, which had been continually travelling in their +direction, had been wandering along the wrong route, towards Hâvre, +where I thought they were settled down quietly at the house of a cousin +of my father’s mother. + +Where were they, and with whom? + +I had two aunts at The Hague, but the question was, were they there? I +no longer knew what to think, and from that moment I never ceased +suffering the most anxious and torturing mental distress. + +I was doing all in my power just then to procure some wood for fires. +Comte de Kératry had sent me a large provision before his departure to +the provinces in a balloon on October 9. My stock was growing very +short, and I would not allow what we had in the cellars to be touched, +so that in case of an emergency we should not be absolutely without any. +I had all the little footstools belonging to the theatre used for +firewood, all the wooden cases in which the properties were kept, a good +number of old Roman benches, arm-chairs and curule chairs, that were +stowed away under the theatre, and indeed everything which came to hand. +Finally, taking pity on my despair, pretty Mlle. Hocquigny sent me ten +thousand kilograms of wood, and then I took courage again. + +I had been told about some new system of keeping meat, by which the meat +lost neither its juice nor its nutritive quality. I sent Madame Guérard +to the _Mairie_ in the neighbourhood of the Odéon, where such provisions +were distributed, but some brute answered her that when I had removed +all the religious images from my ambulance I should receive the +necessary food. M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary holding an +influential post, had been to inspect my ambulance. The important +personage had requested me to have the beautiful white Virgins which +were on the mantelpieces and tables taken away, as well as the Divine +Crucified—one hanging on the wall of each room in which there were any +of the wounded. I refused in a somewhat insolent and very decided way to +act in accordance with the wish of my visitor, whereupon the famous +Republican turned his back on me and gave orders that I should be +refused everything at the _Mairie_. I was very determined, however, and +I moved heaven and earth until I succeeded in getting inscribed on the +lists for distribution of food, in spite of the orders of the chief. It +is only fair to say that the mayor was a charming man. Madame Guérard +returned, after her third visit, with a child pushing a hand-barrow +containing ten enormous bottles of the miraculous meat. I received the +precious consignment with infinite joy, for my men had been almost +without meat for the last three days, and the beloved _pot-au-feu_ was +an almost necessary resource for the poor wounded fellows. On all the +bottles were directions as to opening them: “Let the meat soak so many +hours,” &c. &c. + +Madame Lambquin, Madame Guérard, and I, together with all the staff of +the infirmary, were soon grouped anxiously and inquisitively around +these glass receptacles. + +I told the head attendant to open the largest of the bottles, in which +through the thick glass we could see an enormous piece of beef +surrounded by thick, muddled-looking water. The string fastened round +the rough paper which hid the cork was cut, and then, just as the man +was about to put the corkscrew in, a deafening explosion was heard and a +rank odour filled the room. Every one rushed away terrified. I called +them all back, scared and disgusted as they were, and showed them the +following words on the directions: “Do not be alarmed at the bad odour +on opening the bottle.” Courageously and with resignation we resumed our +work, though we felt sick all the time from the abominable exhalation. I +took the beef out and placed it on a dish that had been brought for the +purpose. Five minutes later this meat turned blue and then black, and +the stench from it was so unbearable that I decided to throw it away. +Madame Lambquin was wiser, though, and more reasonable. + +“No, oh no, my dear girl,” she said; “in these times it will not do to +throw meat away, even though it may be rotten. Let us put it in the +glass bottle again and send it back to the _Mairie_.” + +I followed her wise advice, and it was a very good thing I did, for +another ambulance, installed at Boulevard Medicis, on opening these +bottles of meat had been as horrified as we were, and had thrown the +contents into the street. A few minutes after the crowd had gathered +round in a mob, and, refusing to listen to anything, had yelled out +insults addressed to “the aristocrats,” “the clericals,” and “the +traitors,” who were throwing good meat, intended for the sick, into the +street, so that the dogs were enjoying it, while the people were +starving with hunger, &c. &c. + +It was with the greatest difficulty that the wretched, mad people had +been prevented from invading the ambulance, and when one of the +unfortunate nurses had gone out, later on, she had been mobbed and +beaten until she was left half dead from fright and blows. She did not +want to be carried back to her own ambulance, and the druggist begged me +to take her in. I kept her for a few days, in one of the upper tier +boxes of the theatre, and when she was better she asked if she might +stay with me as a nurse. I granted her wish, and kept her with me +afterwards as a maid. + +She was a fair-haired girl, gentle and timid, and was pre-destined for +misfortune. She was found dead in the Père Lachaise cemetery after the +skirmish between the Communists and the Versailles troop. A stray bullet +struck her in the back of the neck as she was praying at the grave of +her little sister, who had died two days before from small-pox. I had +taken her with me to St. Germain, where I had gone to stay during the +horrors of the Commune. Poor girl! I had allowed her to go to Paris very +much against my own will. + +As we could not count on this preserved meat for our food, I made a +contract with a knacker, who agreed to supply me, at rather a high +price, with horse flesh, and until the end this was the only meat we had +to eat. Well prepared and well seasoned, it was very good. + +Hope had now fled from all hearts, and we were living in the expectation +of we knew not what. An atmosphere of misfortune seemed to hang like +lead over us, and it was a sort of relief when the bombardment commenced +on December 27. At last we felt that something new was happening! It was +an era of fresh suffering. There was some stir, at any rate. For the +last fortnight the fact of not knowing anything had been killing us. + +On January 1, 1871, we lifted our glasses to the health of the absent +ones, to the repose of the dead, and the toast choked us with such a +lump in our throats. + +Every night we used to hear the dismal cry of “Ambulance! Ambulance!” +underneath the windows of the Odéon. We went down to meet the pitiful +procession, and one, two, or sometimes three conveyances would be there, +full of our poor, wounded soldiers. There would be ten or twelve rows of +them, lying or sitting up on the straw. I said that I had room for one +or two, and, lifting the lantern, I looked into the conveyance, and the +faces would then turn slowly towards the lamp. Some of the men would +close their eyes, as they were too weak to bear even that feeble light. +With the help of the sergeant who accompanied the conveyance and our +attendant, one of the unfortunates would with difficulty be lifted into +the narrow litter on which he was to be carried up to the ambulance. + +Oh, what sorrowful anguish it was for me when, on lifting the patient’s +head, I discovered that it was getting heavy, oh, so heavy! And when +bending over that inert face I felt that there was no longer any breath! +The sergeant would then give the order to take him back, and the poor +dead man was put in his place and another wounded man was lifted out. + +The other dying men would then move back a little, in order not to +profane the dead. + +Ah, what grief it was when the sergeant said: “Do try to take one or two +more in! It is a pity to drag these poor chaps about from one ambulance +to another. The Val-de-Grâce is full.” + +“Very well, I will take two more,” I would say, and then I wondered +where we should put them. We had to give up our own beds, and in this +way the poor fellows were saved. Ever since January 1 we had all three +been sleeping every night at the ambulance. We had some loose dressing- +gowns of thick grey flannel, not unlike the soldiers’ cloaks. The first +of us who heard a cry or a groan sprang out of bed, and if necessary +called the other two. + +On January 10, Madame Guérard and I were sitting up at night, on one of +the lounges in the green-room, awaiting the dismal cry of “Ambulance!” +There had been a fierce affray at Clamart, and we knew there would be +many wounded. I was telling her of my fear that the bombs which had +already reached the Museum, the Sorbonne, the Salpétrière, the Val-de- +Grâce, &c., would fall on the Odéon. + +“Oh, but, my dear Sarah,” said the sweet woman, “the ambulance flag is +waving so high above it that there could be no mistake. If it were +struck it would be purposely, and that would be abominable.” + +“But, Guérard,” I replied, “why should you expect these execrable +enemies of ours to be better than we are ourselves? Did we not behave +like savages at Berlin in 1806?” + +“But at Paris there are such admirable public monuments,” she urged. + +“Well, and was not Moscow full of masterpieces? The Kremlin is one of +the finest buildings in the world. That did not prevent us giving that +admirable city up to pillage. Oh no, my poor _petit Dame_, do not +deceive yourself. Armies may be Russian, German, French, or Spanish, but +they _are_ armies—that is, they are beings which form an impersonal +‘whole,’ a ‘whole’ that is ferocious and irresponsible. The Germans will +bombard the whole of Paris if the possibility of doing so should be +offered them. You must make up your mind to that, my dear Guérard——” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + _From the portrait in the Théâtre Français_ +] + +I had not finished my sentence when a terrible detonation roused the +whole neighbourhood from its slumbers. Madame Guérard and I had been +seated opposite each other. We found ourselves standing up close +together in the middle of the room, terrified. My poor cook, her face +quite white, came to me for safety. The detonations continued rather +frequently. The bombarding had commenced from our side that night. I +went round to the wounded men, but they did not seem to be much +disturbed. Only one, a boy of fifteen, whom we had surnamed “pink baby,” +was sitting up in bed. When I went to him to soothe him he showed me his +little medal of the Holy Virgin. + +“It is thanks to her that I was not killed,” he said. “If they would put +the Holy Virgin on the ramparts of Paris the bombs would not come.” + +He lay down again then, holding his little medal in his hand, and the +bombarding continued until six in the morning. “Ambulance! Ambulance!” +we then heard, and Madame Guérard and I went down. “Here,” said the +sergeant, “take this man. He is losing all his blood, and if I take him +any farther he will not arrive living.” The wounded man was put on the +litter, but as he was German, I asked the sub-officer to take all his +papers and hand them in at the Ministry. We gave the man the place of +one of the convalescents, whom I installed elsewhere. I asked him his +name, and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer, and that he was a soldier +of the Silesian Landwehr. He then fainted from weakness caused by loss +of blood. But he soon came to himself again with our care, and I then +asked him whether he wanted anything, but he did not answer a word. I +supposed that he did not speak French, and, as there was no one at the +ambulance who spoke German, I waited until the next day to send for some +one who knew his language. I must own that the poor man was not welcomed +by his dormitory companions. A soldier named Fortin, who was twenty- +three years of age and a veritable child of Paris, a comical fellow, +mischievous, droll, and good-natured, never ceased railing against the +young German, who on his side never flinched. I went several times to +Fortin and begged him to be quiet, but it was all in vain. Every fresh +outbreak of his was greeted with wild laughter, and his success put him +into the gayest of humours, so that he continued, getting more and more +excited. The others were prevented from sleeping, and he moved about +wildly in his bed, bursting out into abusive language when too abrupt a +movement intensified his suffering. The unfortunate fellow had had his +sciatic nerve torn by a bullet, and he had to endure the most atrocious +pain. + +After my third fruitless appeal for silence I ordered the two men +attendants to carry him into a room where he would be alone. He sent for +me, and when I went to him promised to behave well all night long. I +therefore countermanded the order I had given, and he kept his word. The +following day I had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a +young Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a shell, +and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity. + +One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to see whether the +Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man’s face lighted up on hearing +his own language, and then, turning to me, he said: + +“I understand French quite well, Madame, and if I listened calmly to the +horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was because I know that +you cannot hold out two days longer, and I can understand his +exasperation.” + +“And why do you think that we cannot hold out?” + +“Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats.” + +Dr. Duchesne had just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible wound +which the patient had in his thigh. + +“Well,” he said, “my friend, as soon as your fever has decreased you +shall eat an excellent wing of chicken.” The German shrugged his +shoulders, and the doctor continued, “Meanwhile drink this, and tell me +what you think of it.” + +Dr. Duchesne gave him a glass of water, with a little of the excellent +cognac which the Prefect had sent me. That was the only _tisane_ that my +soldiers took. The Silesian said no more, but he put on the reserved, +circumspect manner of people who know and will not speak. + +The bombardment continued, and the ambulance flag certainly served as a +target for our enemies, for they fired with surprising exactitude, and +altered their firing directly a bomb fell any distance from the +neighbourhood of the Luxembourg. Thanks to this, we had more than twelve +bombs one night. These dismal shells, when they burst in the air, were +like the fireworks at a _fête_. The shining splinters then fell down, +black and deadly. Georges Boyer, who at that time was a young +journalist, came to call on me at the ambulance, and I told him about +the terrifying splendours of the night. + +“Oh, how much I should like to see all that!” he said. + +“Come this evening, towards nine or ten o’clock, and you will see,” I +replied. + +We spent several hours at the little round window of my dressing-room, +which looked out towards Châtillon. It was from there that the Germans +fired the most. + +We listened, in the silence of the night, to the muffled sounds coming +from yonder; there would be a light, a formidable noise in the distance, +and the bomb arrived, falling in front of us or behind, bursting either +in the air or on reaching its goal. Once we had only just time to draw +back quickly, and even then the disturbance in the atmosphere affected +us so violently that for a second we were under the impression that we +had been struck. + +The shell had fallen just underneath my dressing-room, grazing the +cornice, which it dragged down in its fall to the ground, where it burst +feebly. But what was our amazement to see a little crowd of children +swoop down on the burning pieces, just like a lot of sparrows on fresh +manure when the carriage has passed! The little vagabonds were +quarrelling over the _débris_ of these engines of warfare. I wondered +what they could possibly do with them. + +“Oh, there is not much mystery about it,” said Boyer; “these little +starving urchins will sell them.” + +This proved to be true. One of the men attendants, whom I sent to find +out, brought back with him a child of about ten years old. + +“What are you going to do with that, my little man?” I asked him, +picking up the piece of shell, which was warm and still dangerous, on +the edge where it had burst. + +“I am going to sell it,” he replied. + +“What for?” + +“To buy my turn in the _queue_ when the meat is being distributed.” + +“But you risk your life, my poor child. Sometimes the shells come +quickly, one after the other. Where were you when this one fell?” + +“Lying down on the stone of the wall that supports the iron railings.” +He pointed across to the Luxembourg Gardens, opposite the stage entrance +to the Odéon. + +We bought up all the _débris_ that the child had, without attempting to +give him advice which might have sounded wise. What was the use of +preaching wisdom to this poor little creature, who heard of nothing but +massacres, fire, revenge, retaliation, and all the rest of it, for the +sake of honour, for the sake of religion, for the sake of right? +Besides, how was it possible to keep out of the way? All the people +living in the Faubourg St. Germain were liable to be blown to pieces, as +the enemy very luckily could only bombard Paris on that side, and not at +every point. No; we were certainly in the most dangerous neighbourhood. + +One day Baron Larrey came to see Frantz Mayer, who was very ill. He +wrote a prescription which a young errand boy was told to wait for and +bring back very, very quickly. As the boy was rather given to loitering, +I went to the window. His name was Victor, but we called him “Toto.” The +druggist lived at the corner of the Place Medicis. It was then six +o’clock in the evening. Toto looked up, and on seeing me he began to +laugh and jump as he hurried to the druggist’s. He had only five or six +more yards to go, and as he turned round to look up at my window I +clapped my hands and called out, “Good! Be quick back!” Alas! Before the +poor boy could open his mouth to reply he was cut in two by a shell +which had just fallen. It did not burst, but bounced a yard high, and +then struck poor Toto right in the middle of the chest. I uttered such a +shriek that every one came rushing to me. I could not speak, but pushed +every one aside and rushed downstairs, beckoning for some one to come +with me. “A litter”—“the boy”—“the druggist”—I managed to articulate. +Ah, what a horror, what an awful horror! When we reached the poor child +his intestines were all over the ground, his chest and his poor little +red chubby face had the flesh entirely taken off. He had neither eyes, +nose, nor mouth; nothing, nothing but some hair at the end of a +shapeless, bleeding mass, a yard away from his head. It was as though a +tiger had torn open the body with its claws and emptied it with fury and +a refinement of cruelty, leaving nothing but the poor little skeleton. + +Baron Larrey, who was the best of men, turned slightly pale at this +sight. He saw plenty such, certainly, but this poor little fellow was a +quite useless holocaust. Ah, the injustice, the infamy of war! Will the +much dreamed of time never come when wars are no longer possible; when +the monarch who wants war will be dethroned and imprisoned as a +malefactor? Will the time never come when there will be a cosmopolitan +council, where a wise man of every country will represent his nation, +and where the rights of humanity will be discussed and respected? So +many men think as I do, so many women talk as I do, and yet nothing is +done. The pusillanimity of an Oriental, the ill humour of a sovereign, +may still bring thousands of men face to face. And there will still be +men who are so learned, chemists who spend their time in dreaming about, +and inventing a powder to blow everything up, bombs that will wound +twenty or thirty men, guns repeating their deadly task until the bullets +fall, spent themselves, after having torn open ten or twelve human +breasts. + +A man whom I liked very much was busy experimenting how to steer +balloons. To achieve that means a realisation of my dream, namely, to +fly in the air, to approach the sky, and have under one’s feet the +moist, down-like clouds. Ah, how interested I was in my friend’s +researches! One day, though, he came to me very much excited with a new +discovery. + +“I have discovered something about which I am wild with delight!” he +said. He then began to explain to me that his balloon would be able to +carry inflammable matter without the least danger, thanks to this and +thanks to that. + +“But what for?” I asked, bewildered by his explanations and half crazy +with so many technical words. + +“What for?” he repeated; “why, for war!” he replied. “We shall be able +to fire and to throw terrible bombs to a distance of a thousand, twelve +hundred, and even fifteen hundred yards, and it would be impossible for +us to be harmed at such a distance. My balloons, thanks to a substance +which is my invention, with which the covering would be coated, would +have nothing to fear from fire nor yet from gas.” + +“I do not want to know anything more about you or your invention,” I +said, interrupting him brusquely. “I thought you were a humane savant, +and you are a wild beast. Your researches were in connection with the +most beautiful manifestation of human genius, with those evolutions in +the sky which I loved so dearly. You want now to transform these into +cowardly attacks turned against the earth. You horrify me! Do go!” + +With this I left my friend to himself and his cruel invention, ashamed +for a moment. His efforts have not succeeded, though, according to his +wishes. + +The remains of the poor lad were put into a small coffin, and Madame +Guérard and I followed the pauper’s hearse to the grave. The morning was +so cold that the driver had to stop and take a glass of hot wine, as +otherwise he might have died of congestion. We were alone in the +carriage, for the boy had been brought up by his grandmother, who could +not walk at all, and who knitted vests and stockings. It was through +going to order some vests and socks for my men that I had made the +acquaintance of Mère Tricottin, as she was called. At her request I had +engaged her grandson, Victor Durieux, as an errand boy, and the poor old +woman had been so grateful that I dared not go now to tell her of his +death. + +Madame Guérard went for me to the Rue de Vaugirard, where the old woman +lived. As soon as she arrived the poor grandmother could see by her sad +face that something had happened. + +“_Bon Dieu_, my dear Madame, is the poor little thin lady dead?” This +referred to me. Madame Guérard then told her, as gently as possible, the +sad news. The old woman took off her spectacles, looked at her visitor, +wiped them, and put them on her nose again. She then began to grumble +violently about her son, the father of the dead boy. He had taken up +with some low girl, by whom he had had this child, and she had always +foreseen that misfortune would come upon them through it. + +She continued in this strain, not sorrowing for the poor boy, but +abusing her son, who was a soldier in the Army of the Loire. + +Although the grandmother seemed to feel so little grief, I went to see +her after the funeral. + +“It is all over, Madame Durieux,” I said. “But I have secured the grave +for a period of five years for the poor boy.” + +She turned towards me, quite comic in her vexation. + +“What madness!” she exclaimed. “Now that he’s with the _bon Dieu_ he +won’t want for anything. It would have been better to have taken a bit +of land that would have brought something in. Dead folks don’t make +vegetables grow.” + +This outburst was so terribly logical that, in spite of the odious +brutality of it, I yielded to Mère Tricottin’s desire, and gave her the +same present I had given to the boy. They should each have their bit of +land. The child, who had had a right to a longer life, should sleep his +eternal sleep in his, whilst the old woman could wrest from hers the +remainder of her life, for which death was lying in wait. + +I returned to the ambulance, sad and unnerved. A joyful surprise was +awaiting me. A friend of mine was there, holding in his hand a very +small piece of tissue paper, on which were the following two lines in my +mother’s handwriting: “We are all very well, and at Homburg.” I was +furious on reading this. At Homburg? All my family at Homburg, settling +down tranquilly in the enemy’s country. I racked my brains to think by +what extraordinary combination my mother had gone to Homburg. I knew +that my pretty Aunt Rosine had a lady friend there, with whom she stayed +every year, for she always spent two months at Homburg, two at Baden- +Baden, and one month at Spa, as she was the greatest gambler that the +_bon Dieu_ ever created. Anyhow, those who were so dear to me were all +well, and that was the important point. But I was nevertheless annoyed +with my mother for going to Homburg. + +I heartily thanked the friend who had brought me the little slip of +paper. It was sent to me by the American Minister, who had put himself +to no end of trouble in order to give help and consolation to the +Parisians. I then gave him a few lines for my mother, in case he might +be able to send them to her. + +The bombardment of Paris continued. One night the brothers from the +Ecole Chrétienne came to ask us for conveyances and help, in order to +collect the dead on the Châtillon Plateau. I let them have my two +conveyances, and I went with them to the battle-field. Ah, what a +terrible memory! It was like a scene from Dante! It was an icy cold +night, and we could scarcely move along. Finally, by the light of +torches and lanterns, we saw that we had arrived. I got out of the +vehicle with the infirmary attendant and his assistant. We had to move +slowly, as at every step we trod upon the dying or the dead. We passed +along murmuring, “Ambulance! Ambulance!” When we heard a groan we turned +our steps in the direction whence it came. Ah, the first man that I +found in this way! He was half lying down, his body supported by a heap +of dead. I raised my lantern to look at his face, and found that his ear +and part of his jaw had been blown off. Great clots of blood, coagulated +by the cold, hung from his lower jaw. There was a wild look in his eyes. +I took a wisp of straw, dipped it in my flask, drew up a few drops of +brandy, and blew them into the poor fellow’s mouth between his teeth. I +repeated this three or four times. A little life then came back to him, +and we took him away in one of the vehicles. The same thing was done for +the others. Some of them could drink from the flask, which made our work +shorter. One of these unfortunate men was frightful to look at. A shell +had taken all the clothes from the upper part of his body, with the +exception of two ragged sleeves, which hung from the arms at the +shoulders. There was no trace of a wound, but his poor body was marked +all over with great black patches, and the blood was oozing slowly from +the corners of his mouth. I went nearer to him, for it seemed to me that +he was breathing. I had a few drops of the vivifying cordial given to +him, and he then half opened his eyes and said, “Thank you.” He was +lifted into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from an attack of +hæmorrhage, covering all the other wounded men with a stream of dark +blood. + +Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn. The lanterns had +burnt out, but we could now distinguish each other. There were about a +hundred persons there: sisters of charity, military and civil male +hospital attendants, the brothers from the Ecole Chrétienne, other +priests, and a few ladies who, like myself, had given themselves up +heart and soul to the service of the wounded. + +The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the night had +hidden in the shadows appeared then in the tardy, wan light of that +January morning. + +There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport them all, +and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness. Other vehicles kept +arriving, but there were so many wounded, so very many. A number of +those who had only slight wounds had died of cold. + +On returning to the ambulance I met one of my friends at the door. He +was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded +at the fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was +entered as Désiré Bloas, boatswain’s mate, age 27. He was a magnificent +fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words. As soon as he was in +bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to shave him, as his bushy whiskers +had been ravaged by a bullet that had lodged itself in the salivary +gland, carrying with it hair and flesh into the wound. The surgeon took +up his pincers to extract the pieces of flesh which had stopped up the +opening of the wound. He then had to take some very fine pincers to +extract the hairs which had been forced in. When the barber laid his +razor very gently near the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid and +an oath escaped his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered, +“Pardon, Mademoiselle.” I was very young, but I appeared much younger +than my age; I looked like a very young girl, in fact. I was holding the +poor fellow’s hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds +of consoling words that spring from a woman’s heart to her lips when she +has to soothe moral or physical suffering. + +“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed, +“you gave me courage.” + +When he was more at his ease I asked him if he would like something to +eat. + +“Yes,” he replied. + +“Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?” asked Madame +Lambquin. + +“Sweets,” replied the powerful-looking fellow, smiling. + +Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest. +He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but he seemed to have a +terrible grudge against his father, for one day, when I asked him +whether his father was still living, he looked up with his fearless eyes +and appeared to fix them on a being only visible to himself, as though +challenging him, with an expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas! +the brave fellow was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that +later. + +The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their effect on +the _morale_ of the Parisians. Bread had just been rationed out: there +were to be 300 grammes for adults and 150 grammes for children. A silent +fury took possession of the people at this news. Women were the most +courageous, the men were excited. Quarrels grew bitter, for some wanted +war to the very death, and others wanted peace. + +One day when I entered Frantz Mayer’s room to take him his meal, he went +into the most ridiculous rage. He threw his piece of chicken down on the +ground, and declared that he would not eat anything, nothing more at +all, for they had deceived him by telling him that the Parisians had not +enough food to last two days before surrendering, and he had been in the +ambulance seventeen days now, and was having chicken. What the poor +fellow did not know was that I had bought about forty chickens and six +geese at the beginning of the siege, and I was feeding them up in my +dressing-room in the Rue de Rome. Oh, my dressing-room was very pretty +just then; but I let Frantz believe that all Paris was full of chickens, +ducks, geese, and other domestic bipeds. + +The bombardment continued, and one night I had to have all my patients +transported to the Odéon cellars, for when Madame Guérard was helping +one of the sick men to get back into bed, a shell fell on the bed +itself, between her and the officer. It makes me shudder even now to +think that three minutes sooner the unfortunate man would have been +killed as he lay in bed, although the shell did not burst. + +We could not stay long in the cellars. The water was getting deeper in +them, and rats tormented us. I therefore decided that the ambulance must +be moved, and I had the worst of the patients conveyed to the Val-de- +Grâce Hospital. I kept about twenty men who were on the road to +convalescence. I rented an immense empty flat for them at 58 Rue +Taitbout, and it was there that we awaited the armistice. + +I was half dead with anxiety, as I had had no news from my own family +for a long time. I could not sleep, and had become the very shadow of my +former self. + +Jules Favre was entrusted with the negotiations with Bismarck. Oh, those +two days of preliminaries! They were the most unnerving days of any for +the besieged. False reports were spread. We were told of the maddest and +most exorbitant demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly were +not tender to the vanquished. + +There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two +hundred million francs in cash immediately, for our finances were in +such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be +able to make up the sum of two hundred millions. + +Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and +brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions. This fine +deed was soon forgotten, and there are even people who gainsay it. + +Ah, the ingratitude of the masses is a disgrace to civilised humanity! +“Ingratitude is the evil peculiar to the white races,” said a Red-skin, +and he was right. + +When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for twenty days, a +frightful sadness took possession of us all, even of those who most +ardently wished for peace. + +Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror. It was the +brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable treaty of peace. + +Oh, that 31st of January 1871! I remember so well that I was anæmic from +privation, undermined by grief, tortured with anxiety about my family, +and I went out with Madame Guérard and two friends towards the Parc +Monceau. Suddenly one of my friends, M. de Plancy, turned as pale as +death. I looked to see what was the matter, and noticed a soldier +passing by. He had no weapons. Two others passed, and they also had no +weapons. And they were so pale too, these poor disarmed soldiers, these +humble heroes; there was such evident grief and hopelessness in their +very gait; and their eyes, as they looked at us women, seemed to say, +“It is not our fault!” It was all so pitiful, so touching. I burst out +sobbing, and went back home at once, for I did not want to meet any more +disarmed French soldiers. + +I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in search of my family. +I asked Paul de Rémusat to get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order +to obtain from him a passport for leaving Paris. But I could not go +alone. I felt that the journey I was about to undertake was a very +dangerous one. M. Thiers and Paul de Rémusat had warned me of this. I +could see, therefore, that I should be constantly in the society of my +travelling companion, and on this account I decided not to take a +servant with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to Madame +Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely to let +her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad and dangerous. Mad +it certainly was, and dangerous too. + +I did not insist, but I sent for my son’s governess, Mlle. Soubise. I +asked her whether she would go with me, and did not attempt to conceal +from her any of the dangers of the journey. She jumped with joy, and +said she would be ready within twelve hours. This girl is at present the +wife of Commandant Monfils Chesneau. And how strange life is, for she is +now teaching the two daughters of my son, her former pupil. + +Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and in appearance like a Creole. She +had very beautiful dark eyes, with a gentle, timid expression, and the +voice of a child. Her head, however, was full of adventure, romance, and +day-dreams. In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young +girls, for, although I was older than she was, my slenderness and my +face made me look younger. It would have been absurd to try to take a +trunk with us, so I took a bag for us both. We only had a change of +linen and some stockings. I had my revolver, and I offered one to Mlle. +Soubise, but she refused it with horror, and showed me an enormous pair +of scissors in an enormous case. + +“But what are you going to do with them?” I asked. + +“I shall kill myself if we are attacked,” she replied. + +I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was taking a +revolver, determined to protect myself by killing others; she was +determined to protect herself by killing herself. + + + + + XVIII + A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES + + +On February 4 we started on this journey, which was to have lasted three +days, and lasted eleven. At the first gate at which I presented myself +for leaving Paris I was sent back in the most brutal fashion. +Permissions to go outside the city had to be submitted for signature at +the German outposts. I went to another gate, but it was only at the +postern gate of Poissonniers that I could get my passport signed. + +We were taken into a little shed which had been transformed into an +office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked me up and down, +and then said: + +“Are you Sarah Bernhardt?” + +“Yes,” I answered. + +“And this young lady is with you?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you think you are going to cross easily?” + +“I hope so.” + +“Well then, you are mistaken, and you would do better to stay inside +Paris.” + +“No; I want to leave. I’ll see myself what will happen, but I want to +leave.” + +He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something I did not +understand in German, and then went out, leaving us alone without our +passports. + +We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I suddenly heard a +voice I knew. It was that of one of my friends, René Griffon, who had +heard of my departure, and had come after me to try to dissuade me. The +trouble he had taken was all in vain, though, as I was determined to +leave. The general returned soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know +what might happen to us. + +“Everything!” returned the officer. “And worse than everything!” + +Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about +us. This rather annoyed me, for, as I did not understand, I imagined +that he was urging the general to prevent us from starting. I +nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats. +A few minutes later a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the +shed. + +“There you are!” said the German officer roughly. “I am sending you to +Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an +hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station-master, the +Commandant X. After that may God take care of you!” + +I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my friend, +who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station, +where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The +coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him, +and drove away at full speed. I advanced towards the group, wondering to +whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed, “What, you here! +Where have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret, the +tenor in vogue at the Opéra. He was going to his young wife, I believe, +of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his +friends, who was travelling with him, and whose name I do not remember; +General Pelissier’s son, and a very old man, so pale, and so sad-looking +and woebegone, that I felt quite sorry for him. He was a M. Gerson, and +was going to Belgium to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His two +sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was +married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the +orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as +possible afterwards. + +Ah, the poor fellow, he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly +ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy. + +Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer named +Théodore Joussian, a wine dealer. Oh, he did not require any +introduction. + +“How do you do, Madame?” he began. “How fortunate that you are going to +travel with us. Ah, the journey will be a difficult one. Where are you +going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all the +routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and +thieves. Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German sharpshooters! +Sh—— We must speak quietly, though; these sly fellows are very quick of +hearing!” He then pointed to the German officers who were walking up and +down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went on. “If I had my uniform and my gun +they would not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussian. I have no +fewer than six helmets at home....” + +The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see +which of the men before me could be the station-master. + +A tall young German, with his arm in a sling, came towards me with an +open letter. It was the one which the general’s coachman had handed to +him, recommending me to his care. He held out his sound arm to me, but I +refused it. He bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by +Mlle. Soubise. + +On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which +knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o’clock +in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water, +since the evening before. I was very much touched by this +thoughtfulness, and we did honour to the very simple but refreshing meal +offered us by the young officer. + +Whilst we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing me. He was +very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a +compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man, who was crippled for +life, and my hatred for war increased still more. + +He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French, “I think I can give you +news of one of your friends.” + +“What is his name?” I asked. + +“Emmanuel Bocher.” + +“Oh yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How is he?” + +“He is still a prisoner, but he is very well.” + +“But I thought he had been released,” I said. + +“Some of those who were taken with him were released, on giving their +word never to take up arms against us again, but he refused to give his +word.” + +“Oh, the brave soldier!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself. + +The young German looked at me with his clear sad eyes. + +“Yes,” he said simply, “the brave soldier!” + +When we had finished our luncheon I rose to return to the other +travellers. + +“The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two hours,” said +the young officer. “If you would like to rest, ladies, I will come for +you at the right time.” He went away, and before long I was sound +asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue. + +Mlle. Soubise touched me on the shoulder to rouse me. The train was +ready to start, and the young officer walked with me to it. I was a +little amazed when I saw the carriage in which I was to travel. It had +no roof, and was filled with coal. The officer had several empty sacks +put in, one on the top of the other, to make our seats less hard. He +sent for his officer’s cloak, begging me to take it with us and send it +him back, but I refused this odious disguise most energetically. It was +a deadly cold day, but I preferred dying of cold to muffling up in a +cloak belonging to the enemy. + +The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the train +started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages. The +subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as brutish and +rude as the German officers were polite and courteous. + +The train stopped without any plausible reason, it started again to stop +again, and it then stood still for an hour on this icy cold night. On +arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine-driver, the soldiers, and +every one else got out. I watched all these men, whistling, bawling to +each other, spitting, and bursting into laughter as they pointed to us. +Were they not the conquerors and we the conquered? + +At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the distant sound +of foreign music and the hurrahs of Germans who were making merry. All +this hubbub came from a white house about five hundred yards away. We +could distinguish the outlines of human beings locked in each other’s +arms, waltzing and turning round and round in a giddy revel. + +It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue until +daylight. + +I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to stretch my limbs. We +went towards the white house, and then, as I did not want to tell him my +plan, I asked him to wait there for me. + +Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the threshold +of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a cigarette, was +just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me in German. + +“I am French,” I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking my +language, for they could all talk French. + +He asked me what I was doing there. My nerves were overstrung. I told +him feverishly of our lamentable Odyssey since our departure from +Gonesse, and finally of our waiting two hours in an icy cold carriage +while the stokers, engine-drivers, and conductors were all dancing in +this house. + +“But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages, and it +was I who gave permission to these men to dance and drink. The guard of +the train told me that he was taking cattle and goods, and that he did +not need to arrive before eight in the morning, and I believed him——” + +“Well, Monsieur,” I said, “the only cattle in the train are the eight +French passengers, and I should be very much obliged if you would give +orders that the journey should be continued.” + +“Make your mind easy about that, Madame,” he replied. “Will you come in +and rest? I am here just now on a round of inspection, and am staying +for a few days in this inn. You shall have a cup of tea, and that will +refresh you.” + +I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road and a lady in +the railway carriage. + +“But that makes no difference,” he said. “Let us go and fetch them.” + +A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone. His +head was on his knees, and he was asleep. I asked him to fetch Mlle. +Soubise. + +“And if your other travelling companions will come and take a cup of tea +they will be welcome,” said the officer. I went back with him, and we +entered by the little door through which I had seen him come out. It was +a fairly large room which we entered, on a level with the meadow; there +were some mats on the floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on +which were two large maps of France. One of these was studded over with +pins and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor William, +mounted and fastened up with four pins. All this belonged to the +officer. + +On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a bride’s +wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On each side of the +glass shade was a china vase containing a branch of box. All this, +together with the table and the bed, belonged to the landlady, who had +given up her room to the officer. + +There were five cane chairs round the table, a velvet arm-chair, and a +wooden bench covered with books against the wall. A sword and belt were +lying on the table, and two horse-pistols. + +I was philosophising to myself on all these heterogeneous objects, when +the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young Gerson, and that +unbearable Théodore Joussian. (I hope he will forgive me if he is living +now, poor man, but the thought of him still irritates me.) + +The officer had some boiling hot tea made for us, and it was a veritable +treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold. + +When the door was opened for the tea to be brought in Théodore Joussian +caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and other people. + +“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter, “we are at His +Majesty William’s; there is a reception on, and it’s _chic_—I can tell +you that!” With this he smacked his tongue twice. Villaret reminded him +that we were the guests of a German, and that it was preferable to be +quiet. + +“That’s enough, that’s enough!” he replied, lighting a cigarette. + +A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of the +deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner half +opened the door. + +I could see the officer giving orders to two sub-officers, who in their +turn separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine-driver, and +the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that I was sorry for +them. They were kicked in the back, they received blows with the flat of +the sword on the shoulder; a blow with the butt end of a gun knocked the +guard of the train down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I have +ever seen. All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went back +towards our carriage with a hang-dog look and a threatening mien. + +We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to what might +happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The officer evidently had a +similar idea, for he ordered one of the sub-officers to accompany us as +far as Amiens. This sub-officer got into our carriage, and we set off +again. We arrived at Amiens at six in the morning. Daylight had not yet +succeeded in piercing through the night clouds. Light rain was falling, +which was hardened by the cold. There was not a carriage to be had, not +even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hôtel du Cheval-Blanc, but a man +who happened to be there said to me: “It’s no use, my little lady; +there’s no room there, even for a lath like you. Go to the house over +there with a balcony; they can put some people up.” + +With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had gone off without +saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson had disappeared silently in a +covered country cart hermetically closed. A stout, ruddy, thick-set +matronly woman was waiting for them, but the coachman looked as though +he were in the service of well-to-do people. General Pelissier’s son, +who had not uttered a word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared +like a ball from the hands of a conjurer. + +Théodore Joussian politely offered to accompany us, and I was so weary +that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag and began to walk at +full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so +breathless with the walk that he could not talk, which was a great +relief to me. + +Finally we arrived at the house and entered, but my horror was great on +seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed into a dormitory. +We could scarcely walk between the mattresses laid down on the ground, +and the grumbling of the people was by no means promising. + +When once we were in the office a young girl in mourning told us that +there was not a room vacant. I sank down on a chair, and Mlle. Soubise +leaned against the wall with her arms hanging down, looking most +dejected. + +The odious Joussian then yelled out that they could not let two women as +young as we were be out in the street all night. He went to the +proprietress of the hotel and said something quietly about me. I do not +know what it was, but I heard my name distinctly. The young woman in +mourning then looked up with moist eyes. + +“My brother was a poet,” she said. “He wrote a very pretty sonnet about +you after seeing you play in _Le Passant_ more than ten times. He took +me, too, to see you, and I enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all +over, though.” She lifted her hands towards her head and sobbed, trying +to stifle back her cries. “It’s all over!” she repeated. “He is dead! +They have killed him! It is all over! All over!” + +I got up, moved to the depth of my being by this terrible grief. I put +my arms round her and kissed her, crying myself, and whispering to her +words of comfort and hope. + +Calmed by my words and touched by my sisterliness, she wiped her eyes, +and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise followed. I signed to +Joussian in an authoritative way to stay where he was, and we went up +the two flights of stairs of the hotel in silence. At the end of a +narrow corridor she opened a door. We found ourselves in rather a big +room, reeking with the smell of tobacco. A small night-lamp, placed on a +little table by the bed, was the only light in this large room. The +wheezing respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked +towards the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp I saw a man +half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man was aged-looking +rather than really old. His beard and hair were white, and his face bore +traces of suffering. Two large furrows were formed from the eyes to the +corners of the mouth. What tears must have rolled down that poor +emaciated face! + +The girl went quietly towards the bed, signed to us to come inside the +room, and then shut the door. We walked across on tip-toes to the far +end of the room, our arms stretched out to maintain our equilibrium. I +sat down with precaution on a large Empire couch, and Soubise took a +seat beside me. The man in bed half opened his eyes. + +“What is it, my child?” he asked. + +“Nothing, father; nothing serious,” she replied. “I wanted to tell you, +so that you should not be surprised when you woke up. I have just given +hospitality in our room to two ladies who are here.” + +He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look at us at the end +of the room. + +“The lady with fair hair,” continued the girl, “is Sarah Bernhardt, whom +Lucien liked so much, you remember?” + +The man sat up, and shading his eyes with his hand peered at us. I went +near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then made a gesture with his +hand. His daughter understood the gesture, and brought him an envelope +from a small bureau. The unhappy father’s hands trembled as he took it. +He drew out slowly three sheets of paper and a photograph. He fixed his +gaze on me and then on the portrait. + +“Yes, yes; it certainly is you, it certainly is you,” he murmured. + +I recognised my photograph, taken in _Le Passant_, smelling a rose. + +“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, “you were this +child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about you.” + +He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent, +a very pretty sonnet, which he refused to give me. He then unfolded a +second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The +third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our +victories over the enemy. + +“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the father. “He +has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his head. The first +shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued firing on the +scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear off, and the +third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again. +His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And now—it’s +all over!” + +The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert +hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale +cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his +lips. The girl had fallen on her knees, and buried her head in the bed- +clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were completely +upset. Ah! those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed to buzz in +my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I stretched my hands +out into space and closed my eyes. + +Soon there was a distant rumbling noise, which increased and came +nearer; then yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, the dull +sound of horses’ feet dashing out human brains; armed men passed by like +a destructive whirlwind, shouting, “_Vive la guerre!_” And women on +their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out, “War is infamous! In +the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you, +in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over +your cradles, let this cease!” + +But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched +my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in +the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A +man whom I did not know, but whom some one called doctor, laid me gently +down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my thoughts. + +“How long have I been here?” I asked. + +“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise. “You fainted, +and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been +very frightened!” + +I turned my face to the doctor. + +“Yes, dear lady,” he said. “You must be very prudent now for the next +forty-eight hours, and then you may set out again. But you have had a +great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must take +care.” + +I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologised to the +owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my +face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much. + +Two days later I left our sad but kindly hosts. My travelling companions +had all disappeared. When I went downstairs I kept meeting Prussians, +for the unfortunate proprietor had been invaded compulsorily by the +German army. He looked at each soldier and at every officer, trying to +find out whether he were not in presence of the one who had killed his +poor boy. He did not tell me this, but it was my idea. It seemed to me +that such was his thought and such the meaning of his gaze. + +In the vehicle in which I drove to the station the kind man had put a +basket of food. He also gave me a copy of the sonnet and a tracing of +his son’s photograph. + +I left the desolate couple with the deepest emotion, and I kissed the +girl on taking our departure. Soubise and I did not exchange a word on +our journey to the railway station, but we were both preoccupied with +the same distressing thoughts. + +At the station we found that the Germans were masters there too. I asked +for a first-class compartment to ourselves, or for a _coupé_, whatever +they liked, provided we were alone. + +I could not make myself understood. + +I saw a man, oiling the wheels of the carriages, who looked to me like a +Frenchman. I was not mistaken. He was an old man who had been kept on, +partly out of charity and partly because he knew every nook and corner, +and, being Alsatian, spoke German. This good man took me to the booking +office, and explained my wish to have a first-class compartment to +myself. The man who had charge of the ticket office burst out laughing. +There was neither first nor second class, he said. It was a German +train, and I should have to travel like every one else. The wheel-oiler +turned purple with rage, which he quickly suppressed. (He had to keep +his place. His consumptive wife was nursing their son, who had just been +sent home from the hospital with his leg cut off and the wound not yet +healed up. There were so many in the hospital.) All this he told me as +he took me to the station-master. The latter spoke French very well, but +he was not at all like the other German officers I had met. + +He scarcely saluted me, and when I expressed my desire he replied +curtly: + +“It is impossible. Two places shall be reserved for you in the officers’ +carriage.” + +“But that is what I want to avoid,” I exclaimed. “I do not want to +travel with German officers.” + +“Well then, you shall be put with German soldiers,” he growled angrily, +and, putting on his hat, he went out slamming the door. I remained +there, amazed and confused by the insolence of this ignoble brute. I +turned so pale, it appears, and the blue of my eyes became so clear, +that Soubise, who was acquainted with my fits of anger, was very much +alarmed. + +“Do be calm, Madame, I implore!” she said. “We are two women alone in +the midst of hostile people. If they liked to harm us they could, and we +must accomplish the aim and object of our journey; we must see little +Maurice again.” + +She was very clever, this charming Mlle. Soubise, and her little speech +had the desired effect. To see the child again was my aim and object. I +calmed down, and vowed that I would not allow myself to get angry during +this journey, which promised to be fertile in incidents, and I almost +kept my word. I left the station-master’s office, and found the poor +Alsatian waiting at the door. I gave him a couple of louis, which he hid +away quickly, and then shook my hand as though he would shake it off. +“You ought not to have that so visible, Madame,” he said, pointing to +the little bag I had hanging at my side, “it is very dangerous.” + +I thanked him, but did not pay any attention to his advice. As the train +was about to start we entered the only first-class compartment there +was; in it were two young German officers. They saluted, and I took this +as a good omen. The train whistled, and I thought what good luck we had, +as no one else would get in! Well, the wheels had not turned round ten +times when the door opened violently and five German officers leaped +into our carriage. + +We were nine then, and what torture it was! The station-master waved a +farewell to one of the officers, and both of them burst out laughing as +they looked at us. I glanced at the station-master’s friend. He was a +surgeon-major, and was wearing the ambulance badge on his sleeve. His +wide face was congested, and a ring of sandy bushy beard surrounded the +lower part of it. Two little bright, light-coloured eyes in perpetual +movement lit up this ruddy face and gave him a sly look. He was broad- +shouldered and thick-set, and gave one the idea of having strength +without nerves. The horrid man was still laughing when the station and +its master were far away from us, but what the other one had said was +evidently very droll. + +I was in a corner seat, with Soubise opposite me. A young German officer +sat beside me, and the other young officer was next to my friend. They +were both very gentle and polite, and one of them was quite delightful +in his youthful charm. + +The surgeon-major took off his helmet. He was very bald, and had a very +small, stubborn-looking forehead. He began to talk in a loud voice to +the other officers. + +Our two young bodyguards took very little part in the conversation. +Among the others was a tall, affected young man, whom they addressed as +baron. He was slender, very elegant, and very strong. When he saw that +we did not understand German he spoke to us in English. But Soubise was +too timid to answer, and I speak English very badly. He therefore +resigned himself regretfully to talking French. + +He was agreeable, too agreeable; he certainly had not bad manners, but +he was deficient in tact. I made him understand this by turning my face +towards the scenery we were passing. + +We were very much absorbed in our thoughts, and had been travelling for +a long time, when I suddenly felt suffocated by smoke which was filling +the carriage. I looked round, and saw that the surgeon-major had lighted +his pipe, and, with his eyes half closed, was sending up puffs of smoke +to the ceiling. + +My eyes were smarting, and I was choking with indignation, so much so +that I was seized with a fit of coughing, which I exaggerated in order +to attract the attention of the impolite man. The baron, however, +slapped him on the knee and endeavoured to make him comprehend that the +smoke inconvenienced me. He answered by an insult which I did not +understand, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to smoke. Exasperated +by this, I lowered the window on my side. The intense cold made itself +felt in the carriage, but I preferred that to the nauseous smoke of the +pipe. Suddenly the surgeon-major got up, putting his hand to his ear, +which I then saw was filled with cotton-wool. He swore like an ox- +driver, and, pushing past every one and stepping on my feet and on +Soubise’s, he shut the window violently, cursing and swearing all the +time quite uselessly, for I did not understand him. He went back to his +seat, continued his pipe, and sent out enormous clouds of smoke in the +most insolent way. The baron and the two young Germans who had been the +first in the carriage appeared to ask him something and then to +remonstrate with him, but he evidently told them to mind their own +business and began to abuse them. Very much calmer myself on seeing the +increasing anger of the disagreeable man, and very much amused by his +earache, I again opened the window. He got up again, furious, showed me +his ear and his swollen cheek, and I caught the word “periostitis” in +the explanation he gave me on shutting the window again and threatening +me. I then made him understand that I had a weak chest, and that the +smoke made me cough. + +The baron acted as my interpreter, and explained this to him; but it was +easy to see that he did not care a bit about that, and he once more took +up his favourite attitude and his pipe. I left him in peace for five +minutes, during which time he was able to imagine himself triumphant, +and then with a sudden jerk of my elbow I broke the pane of glass. +Stupefaction was depicted on the major’s face, and he became livid. He +got straight up, but the two young men rose at the same time, whilst the +baron burst out laughing in the most brutal manner. + +The surgeon moved a step in our direction, but he found a rampart before +him; another officer had joined the two young men, and he was a strong, +hardy-looking fellow, just cut out for an obstacle. I do not know what +he said to the surgeon-major, but it was something clear and decisive. +The latter, not knowing how to expend his anger, turned on the baron, +who was still laughing, and abused him so violently that the latter +calmed down suddenly and answered in such a way that I quite understood +the two men were calling each other out. That affected me but little, +anyhow. They might very well kill each other, these two men, for they +were equally ill-mannered. + +The carriage was now quiet and icy cold, for the wind blew in wildly +through the broken pane. The sun had set. The sky was getting cloudy. It +was about half-past five, and we were approaching Tergnier. The major +had changed seats with his friend, in order to shelter his ear as much +as possible. He kept moaning like a half-dead cow. + +Suddenly the repeated whistling of a distant locomotive made us listen +attentively. We then heard two, three, and four crackers bursting under +our wheels. We could perfectly well feel the efforts the engine-driver +was making to slacken speed, but before he could succeed we were thrown +against each other by a frightful shock. There were cracks and creaks, +the hiccoughs of the locomotive spitting out its smoke in irregular +fits, desperate cries, shouts, oaths, sudden downfalls, a lull, then a +thick smoke, broken by the flames of a fire. Our carriage was standing +up, like a horse kicking up its hind legs. It was impossible to get our +balance again. + +Who was wounded and who was not wounded? We were nine in the +compartment. For my part, I fancied that all my bones were broken. I +moved one leg and then I tried the other. Then, delighted at finding +them unbroken, I tried my arms in the same way. I had nothing broken, +and neither had Soubise. She had bitten her tongue, and it was bleeding, +and this had frightened me. She did not seem to understand anything. The +tremendous shaking had made her dizzy, and she lost her memory for some +days. I had a rather deep scratch between my eyes. I had not had time to +stretch out my arms, and my forehead had knocked against the hilt of the +sword which the officer seated by Soubise had been holding upright. + +Assistance arrived from all sides. + +For some time the door of our compartment could not be opened. + +Darkness had come on when it finally yielded, and a lantern shone feebly +on our poor broken-up carriage. + +I looked round for our one bag, but on finding it I let it go +immediately, for my hand was red with blood. Whose blood was it? + +Three men did not move, and one of them was the major. His face looked +to me livid. I closed my eyes, in order not to know, and I let the man +who had come to our aid pull me out of the compartment. One of the young +officers got out after me. He took Soubise, who was almost in a fainting +condition, from his friend. The imbecile baron then got out; his +shoulder was out of joint. A doctor came forward among the rescuers. The +baron held his arm out to him, telling him at the same time to pull it, +which he did at once. The French doctor took off the officer’s cloak, +told two of the railway-men to hold him, and then, pushing against him +himself, pulled at the poor arm. The baron was very pale, and gave a low +whistle. When the arm was back in its place, the doctor shook the +baron’s other hand. “Cristi!” he said, “I must have hurt you very much. +You are most courageous.” The German saluted, and I helped him on again +with his cloak. + +The doctor was then fetched away, and I saw that he was taken back to +our compartment. I shuddered in spite of myself. We were now able to +find out what had been the cause of our accident. A locomotive attached +to two vans of coal had been shunting on to a side line in order to let +us pass, when one of the vans got off the rails, and the locomotive +tired its lungs with whistling the alarm, whilst men ran to meet us, +scattering crackers. Everything had been in vain, and we had run against +the overturned van. + +What were we to do? The roads, softened by the recent wet weather, were +all broken up by the cannons. We were about four miles from Tergnier, +and a thin penetrating rain was making our clothes stick to our bodies. + +There were four carriages, but they were for the wounded. Other +carriages would come, but there were the dead to be carried away. An +improvised litter was just being borne along by two workmen. The major +was lying on it, so livid that I clenched my hands until my nails +entered the flesh. One of the officers wanted to question the doctor who +was following. + +“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “Please, please do not. I do not want to know. The +poor fellow!” + +I stopped my ears, as though some one was about to shout out something +horrible to me, and I never knew his fate. + +We were obliged to resign ourselves to setting out on foot. We went +about two kilometres as bravely as possible, and then I stopped, quite +exhausted. The mud which clung to our shoes made these very heavy. The +effort we had to make at every step to get our feet out of the mire +tired us out. I sat down on a milestone, and declared that I would not +go any farther. + +My sweet companion wept: the two young German officers who had acted as +bodyguards made a seat for me by crossing their hands, and so we went +nearly another mile. My companion could not walk any farther. I offered +her my place, but she refused it. + +“Well then, let us wait here!” I said, and, quite at the end of our +strength, we rested against a little broken tree. + +It was now night, and such a cold night! + +Soubise and I huddled close together, trying to keep each other warm. I +began to fall asleep, seeing before my eyes the wounded men of +Châtillon, who had died seated against the little shrubs. I did not want +to move again, and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly delicious. + +A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of the young men +hailed it, and when a price was agreed upon I felt myself picked up from +the ground, lifted into the vehicle, and carried along by the jerky, +rolling movement of two loose wheels, which climbed the hills, sank into +the mire, and jumped over the heaps of stones, whilst the driver whipped +up his beasts and urged them on with his voice. He had a “don’t care, +let what will happen” way of driving, which was characteristic of those +days. + +I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep, for I was not really asleep, +but I did not want to answer any questions. I gave myself up to this +prostration of my whole being with a certain amount of enjoyment. + +A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at Tergnier. The +cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had to get out. I pretended to be +still sleeping heavily. But it was no use, for I had to wake up. The two +young men helped me up to my room. + +I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart before the +departure of our excellent young companions, who were sorry to leave us. +I signed for each of them a voucher, on a sheet of the hotel paper, for +a photograph. Only one of them ever claimed it. This was six years +later, and I sent it to him. + +The Tergnier hotel could only give us one room. I let Soubise go to bed, +and I slept in an arm-chair, dressed as I was. + +The following morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told +that there was no train. + +We had to work marvels to procure a vehicle, but finally Dr. Meunier, or +Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That was something, +but there was no horse. The poor doctor’s horse had been requisitioned +by the enemy. A wheelwright for an exorbitant price let me have a colt +that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild when the harness +was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after being well lashed, +but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He stood still on his +four legs, which were trembling furiously, and refused to move. With his +neck stretched towards the ground, his eye fixed, and his nostrils +dilating, he would not budge any more than a stake in the earth. Two men +then held the light carriage back; the halter was taken off the colt’s +neck; he shook his head for an instant, and, thinking himself free and +without any impediments, began to advance. The men were scarcely holding +the vehicle. He gave two little kicks, and then began to trot. Oh, it +was only a very short trot. A boy then stopped him, some carrots were +given to him, his mane was stroked, and the halter was put on again. He +stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping into the gig and holding the +reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged him to move on. The colt, not +feeling any resistance, began to trot along for about a quarter of an +hour, and then came back to us at the door of the hotel. + +I had to leave a deposit of four hundred francs with the notary of the +place, in case the colt should die. + +Ah, what a journey that was with the boy, Soubise, and me sitting close +together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt! +The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is +raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop, +because the poor beast could not go any farther, it was five in the +afternoon, and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was +certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us +together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away +from a sordid-looking house. I knocked, and an old woman, enormous in +size, opened the door. + +“What do you want?” she asked. + +“Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse.” + +She looked out on to the road and saw our turn-out. + +“Hey, father!” She called out in a husky voice, “come and look here!” + +A stout man, quite as stout as she was, but older, came hobbling heavily +along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out +laughing and said to me in an insolent way: + +“Well, what do you want?” + +I repeated my phrase: “Hospitality for an hour,” &c. &c. + +“Perhaps we can do it, but it’ll want paying for.” + +I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge. + +“Oh, but in these times, you know, it’s well worth forty francs.” + +“Very good,” I said, “agreed; forty francs.” + +He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and sent his son +towards the boy, who was coming along holding the colt by his mane. He +had taken off the halter very considerately and thrown my rug over its +steaming sides. On reaching the house the poor beast was quickly +unharnessed and taken into a little enclosure, at the far end of which a +few badly-joined planks served as a stable for an old mule, which was +aroused by the fat woman with kicks and turned out into the enclosure. +The colt took its place, and when I asked for some oats for it she +replied: + +“Perhaps we could get it some, but that isn’t included in the forty +francs.” + +“Very well,” I said, and I gave our boy five francs to fetch the oats, +but the old shrew took the money from him and handed it to her lad, +saying: + +“You go; you know where to find them, and come back quick.” + +Our boy remained with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down as well as +he could. I went back to the house, where I found my charming Soubise +with her sleeves turned up and her delicate hands washing two glasses +and two plates for us. I asked if it would be possible to have some +eggs. + +“Yes, but——” + +I interrupted our monstrous hostess. + +“Don’t tire yourself, Madame, I beg,” I said. “It is understood that the +forty francs are your tip, and that I am to pay for everything else.” + +She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying to find +words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought me five eggs, +and I began to make an omelette, as my culinary glory is an omelette. + +The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the boy and made +them serve him something to eat in our presence, for I was afraid that +the ogress would give him too economical a meal. + +When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive of +course of the forty francs, the matron put on her spectacles, and taking +one of the gold pieces, looked at it on one side, then on the other, +made it ring on a plate and then on the ground. She did this with each +of the three gold pieces. I could not help laughing. + +“Oh, there’s nothing to laugh at,” she grunted. “For the last six months +we’ve had nothing but thieves here.” + +“And you know something about theft!” I said. + +She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the laughing +expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This was very fortunate, +as they were people capable of doing us harm. I had taken the +precaution, when sitting down to table, of putting my revolver near me. + +“You know how to fire that?” asked the lame man. + +“Oh yes, I shoot very well,” I answered, though it was not true. + +Our steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and we proceeded on +our way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful. He stamped, kicked a +little, and began to go at a pretty steady pace. + +Our disagreeable hosts had indicated the way to St. Quentin, and we set +off, after our poor colt had made various attempts at standing still. I +was dead tired and fell asleep, but after about an hour the vehicle +stopped abruptly and the wretched beast began to snort and put his back +up, supporting himself on his four stiff, trembling legs. + +It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky full of tears seemed to be +falling slowly over the earth. We had stopped in the middle of a field +which had been ploughed up all over by the heavy wheels of cannons. The +rest of the ground had been trampled by horses’ feet and the cold had +hardened the little ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there, +which glittered dismally in the thick atmosphere. + +We got down from the vehicle, to try to discover what was making our +little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry of horror, for, only +about five yards away, some dogs were pulling wildly at a dead body, +half of which was still underground. It was a soldier, and fortunately +one of the enemy. I took the whip from our young driver and lashed the +horrid animals as hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing +their teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable work, +growling sullenly at us. + +Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle. We went on +with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these devastated +plains. + +Darkness came over us, and it was icy cold. + +The moon feebly pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape with +a wan, sad light. I was half dead with fright. It seemed to me that the +silence was broken by cries from underground, and every little mound of +earth appeared to me to be a head. + +Mlle. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in her hands. After going +along for half an hour, we saw in the distance a little group of people +coming along carrying lanterns. I went towards them, as I wanted to find +out which way to go. I was embarrassed on getting nearer to them, for I +could hear sobs. I saw a poor woman, who was very corpulent, being +helped along by a young priest. The whole of her body was shaken by her +fits of grief. She was followed by two sub-officers and by three other +persons. I let her pass by, and then questioned those who were following +her. I was told that she was looking for the bodies of her husband and +son, who had both been killed a few days before on the St. Quentin +plains. She came each day at dusk, in order to avoid general curiosity, +but she had not yet met with any success. It was hoped that she would +find them this time, as one of these sub-officers, who had just left the +hospital, was taking her to the spot where he had seen the poor woman’s +husband fall, mortally wounded. He had fallen there himself, and had +been picked up by the ambulance people. + +I thanked these persons, who showed me the sad road we must take, the +best one there was, through the cemetery, which was still warm under the +ice. + +We could now distinguish groups of people searching about, and it was +all so horrible that it made me want to scream out. + +Suddenly the boy who was driving us pulled my coat-sleeve. + +“Oh, Madame,” he said, “look at that scoundrel stealing.” + +I looked, and saw a man lying down full length, with a large bag near +him. He had a dark lantern, which he held towards the ground. He then +got up, looked round him, for his outline could be seen distinctly on +the horizon, and began his work again. + +When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp and crouched down on the +ground. We walked on in silence straight towards him. I took the colt by +the bridle, on the other side, and the boy no doubt understood what I +intended to do, for he let me lead the way. I walked straight towards +the man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we +pulled hard and made it advance. We were so near to the man that I +shuddered at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to +be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal +his presence. Fortunately, I was mistaken. A stifled voice murmured, +“Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me.” I took the gig +lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us +better, and I now turned it on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied +to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a hollow- +looking face, framed with long, dirty white whiskers. He had a muffler +round his neck, and was wearing a peasant’s cloak of a dark colour. +Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass buttons, sword +hilts, and other objects that the infamous old fellow had torn from the +poor dead. + +“You are not wounded. You are a thief and a violator of tombs! I shall +call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable +wretch?” I exclaimed, and I went so near to him that I could feel his +breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees and, clasping his +criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice. + +“Leave your bag there, then,” I said, “and all those things. Empty your +pockets; leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of +sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are making searches, and +give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you +go free.” + +He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away +when the lad whispered, “He’s hiding some boots under his cloak.” I was +furious with rage with this vile thief, and I pulled his big cloak off. + +“Leave everything, you wretched man,” I exclaimed, “or I will call the +soldiers.” + +Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard +ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of +his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects. + +“Will you leave that, and get away quickly?” I said. “My patience is at +an end.” + +“But if I am caught I shan’t be able to defend myself,” he exclaimed, in +a fit of desperate rage. + +“It will be because God willed it so,” I answered. “Go at once, or I +will call.” The man then made off, abusing me as he went. + +Our little driver then fetched a soldier, to whom I related the +adventure, showing him the objects. + +“Which way did the rascal go?” asked a sergeant who had come with the +soldier. + +“I can’t say,” I replied. + +“Oh well, I don’t care to run after him,” he said; “there are enough +dead men here.” + +We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met, +and it was then possible for us to take a route a little more suitable +for vehicles. + +After going through Busigny and a wood, where there were bogs in which +we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an +end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue, +fright, and despair. + +I was obliged to take a day’s rest there, for I was prostrate with +feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly white-washed but quite +clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood +bed and white curtains. + +I sent for a doctor for my charming little Soubise, who, it seemed to +me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state, +though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and +made my head burn. She could not keep still, but kept seeing spectres +and fires, hearing shouts and turning round quickly, imagining that some +one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing +draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot bath +brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days since we +had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to reach +Homburg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at +present. I took a train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a +trunk and a few necessary things. + +From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we +were able to take the train again the same evening. + +I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we +continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne. But on +arriving in that city we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only +just entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in +front of the carriages, shouted something in German which I did not +catch. Every one seemed to be in a hurry, and men and women pushed each +other without any courtesy. + +I addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my +bag, very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I +did not understand the excitement until the man flung my bag into a +compartment and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible. + +Soubise was already on the step when she was pushed aside violently by a +railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of +what had happened the train had disappeared. My bag had gone, and our +trunk also. The trunk had been placed in a luggage van that had been +unhooked from the train which had just arrived, and immediately fastened +on to the express now departing. I began to cry with rage. An official +took pity on us and led us to the station-master. He was a very superior +sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great +leather arm-chair and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He +looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and +trunk to be given into the care of the station-master at the first +station. + +“You will have them again to-morrow, towards mid-day,” he said. + +“Then I cannot start this evening?” I asked. + +“Oh no, that is impossible,” he replied. “There is no train, for the +express that will take you to Homburg does not start before to-morrow +morning.” + +“Oh God, God!” I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair, +which soon affected Mlle. Soubise too. + +The poor station-master was rather embarrassed, and tried to soothe me. + +“Do you know any one here?” he asked. + +“No, no one. I do not know any one in Cologne.” + +“Well then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord. My sister-in- +law has been there for two days, and she will look after you.” + +Half an hour later his carriage arrived, and he took us to the Hôtel du +Nord, after driving a long way round to show us the city. But at that +epoch I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans. + +On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law, +a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my +taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She +engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the +ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her +drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming +woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even +Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman in only +letting us hear French composers. I asked her to play us something from +Mozart and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed, “Do you +like Wagner?” + +“I like his music,” I replied, “but I detest the man.” + +Mlle. Soubise whispered to me, “Ask her to play Liszt.” + +She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must admit +that I spent a delightful evening there. + +At ten o’clock the station-master (whose name I have very stupidly +forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me that he +would call for us at eight the following morning, and he then took leave +of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, &c. + +At eight o’clock the next morning a servant came to tell me that the +carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and +our beautiful hostess of the previous evening said sweetly, “Come, you +must start!” I was really very much touched by the delicacy of the +pretty German woman. + +It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk +there, and on her reply in the affirmative we all three started for the +station, which is not far from the hotel. A special compartment had been +reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as +possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us, and wished us a +pleasant journey. + +When the train had started I discovered in one of the corners a bouquet +of forget-me-nots with the sister’s card and a box of chocolates from +the station-master. + +I was at last about to arrive at my goal, and was in a state of wild +excitement at the idea of seeing once more all my beloved ones. I should +have liked to have gone to sleep. My eyes, which had grown larger with +anxiety, travelled through space more rapidly than the train went. I +fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw flying along. I +laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces of those I was +going to see again, and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had +happened to them, and should I find them all? I should if——ah, those +“ifs,” those “becauses,” and those “buts”! My mind became full of them, +they bristled with illnesses and accidents, and I began to weep. My poor +little travelling companion began to weep too. + +Finally we came within sight of Homburg. Twenty more minutes of this +turning of wheels and we should enter the station. But just as though +all the sprites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to +torture my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the +windows. “What is it?” “What’s the matter?” “Why are we not going on?” +There was a train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake, +and the line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my +teeth and hands, and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil +spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely +closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against the invisible +sprites, and declared that, as I would not suffer any more, I was now +going to sleep. I then fell fast asleep, for the power of sleeping when +I wish is a precious gift which God has bestowed on me. In the most +frightful circumstances and the most cruel moments of life, when I have +felt that my reason was giving way under shocks that have been too great +or too painful, my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a +bad-tempered little dog that wants to bite, and, subjugating it, my will +has said to my reason: “Enough. You can take up again to-morrow your +suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish. +You have had enough for to-day. You would give way altogether under the +weight of so many troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will +not have it! We will forget everything for so many hours and go to sleep +together!” And I have gone to sleep. This, I swear to. + +Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train entered the station. I was +refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage and had given +the address, 7 Ober Strasse. + +We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and +they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in +all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious +laughter and sobs. + +Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the +next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so +incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house; +we had to escape in our night clothes and camp out for six hours in five +feet of snow, &c. &c. + + + + + XIX + MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE + + +Everybody being safe and sound, we set out for Paris, but on arriving at +St. Denis we found there were no more trains. It was four o’clock in the +morning. The Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris, and +trains only ran for their service. After an hour spent in running about, +in discussions and rebuffs, I met with an officer of higher rank, who +was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to +take me to the Gare du Hâvre (Gare St. Lazare). + +The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Régina, +Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a +little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench, +which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine +went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or +railway carriages. + +We left at five in the morning and arrived at seven. At a place which I +cannot locate our German conductors were exchanged for French +conductors. I questioned them, and learnt that revolutionary troubles +were beginning in Paris. + +The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very +advanced individual. + +“You would do better to go somewhere else, and not to Paris,” he said, +“for before long they will come to blows there.” + +We had arrived. But as no train was expected in at that hour, it was +impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from the +locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials. + +I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men +if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those +belonging to my family later on. + +There was not a single carriage outside the station. The children were +very tired, but what was to be done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de +Rome, and this was not far away, but my mother scarcely ever walked, for +she was delicate and had a weak heart. The children, too, were very, +very tired. Their eyes were puffed up and scarcely open, and their +little limbs were benumbed by the cold and immobility. I began to get +desperate, but a milk cart was just passing by, and I sent a porter to +hail it. I offered twenty francs if the man would drive my mother and +the two children to 4 Rue de Rome. + +“And you too, if you like, young lady,” said the milkman. “You are +thinner than a grasshopper, and you won’t make it any heavier.” + +I did not want inviting twice, although rather annoyed by the man’s +speech. + +When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation, by the +side of the milkman, and the children and I were in amongst the full and +empty milk-pails, I said to our driver, “Would you mind coming back to +fetch the others?” I pointed to the remaining group, and added, “You +shall have twenty francs more.” + +“Right you are!” said the worthy fellow. “A good day’s work! Don’t you +tire your legs, you others. I’ll be back for you directly!” + +He then whipped up his horse and we started at a wild rate. The children +rolled about and I held on. My mother set her teeth and did not utter a +word, but from under her long lashes she glanced at me with a displeased +look. + +On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so sharply that I +thought my mother would have fallen out on to the animal’s back. We had +arrived, though, and we got out. The cart started off again at full +speed. My mother would not speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty +mother, it was not my fault. + +I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and had then left a sad +city. The sadness had been painful, the result of a great and unexpected +misfortune. No one had dared to look up, fearing to be blown upon by the +same wind which was blowing the German flag floating yonder towards the +Arc de Triomphe. + +I now found Paris effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded +with multi-coloured posters; and all these posters contained the wildest +harangues. Fine noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats. +Workmen on their way to their daily toil stopped in front of these +bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin to read +over again. + +And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so much through +this abominable war, now echoed these appeals for vengeance. They were +very much to be excused. + +This war, alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin +and of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations +of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of +the defeat had discouraged the men. + +Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells +from the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down with the Republic! +Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with the Jews! Down with +the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who work! Down with +everything!”—all these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans, +who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without +intending it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation were +stirred out of their torpor. Others, who demanded revenge, found an +aliment for their inactive forces. None of them agreed. There were ten +or twenty different parties, devouring each other and threatening each +other. It was terrible. + +But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my +friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them +interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them. + +I often saw Gambetta at Girardin’s, and it was a joy to me to listen to +this admirable man. What he said was so wise, so well-balanced, and so +captivating. + +This man, with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a +halo of beauty round him when he spoke. + +Gambetta was never common, never ordinary. He took snuff, and the +gesture of his hand when he brushed away the stray grains was full of +grace. He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without +inconveniencing any one. When he was tired of politics and talked +literature it was a real charm, for he knew everything and quoted poetry +admirably. One evening, after a dinner at Girardin’s, we played together +the whole scene of the first act of _Hernani_ with Dona Sol. And if he +was not as handsome as Mounet-Sully, he was just as admirable in it. + +On another occasion he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz,” commencing +with the last verse. + +But I preferred his political discussions, especially when he criticised +the speech of some one who was of the opposite opinion to himself. The +eminent qualities of this politician’s talent were logic and weight, and +his seductive force was his chauvinism. The early death of so great a +thinker is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride. + +I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease +with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and, +although I am very republican, I liked the Emperor Napoleon III. He had +been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that +Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune. + +I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favourite of Thiers. He had +great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some +people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more +advanced Republican than Thiers. One must have known him very little to +believe him to be anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat +had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very +straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics, +except in private circles, and his advice always prevailed, even in the +Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except when in +committee. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times, +but he refused it a hundred times. Finally, after my repeated +entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine +Arts, but at the last moment he declined, and wrote me a delightful +letter, from which I quote a few passages. As the letter was not written +for publication, I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole +of it, but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines: + + “Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see + better there than in the dazzling brilliancy of honours. You are + grateful to me sometimes for being attentive to the miseries you point + out to me. Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to + have the right to relieve every one than to be obliged to relieve no + matter whom.... In matters of art I have made for myself an ideal of + beauty, which would naturally seem too partial....” + +It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not +allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me +were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be +helped. + +I also knew and frequently saw a mad sort of fellow, full of dreams and +Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice- +looking. He wanted every one to be happy and every one to have money, +and he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing +by making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was +impossible, but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his +death. He came to see me with a very young girl who wanted to devote +herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the +poor child came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had +refused to surrender, and, stretching out his arms, had shouted to the +hesitating soldiers, “Shoot, shoot! I should not have spared you!” And +their bullets had killed him. + +Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous +madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of +Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined +to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm +than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to a group of +students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them +everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris the +_Saradoteurs_ (Sara-dotards). One day he brought me a little one-act +play. The piece was so stupid and the verses were so insipid that I sent +it him back with a few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for +he bore me malice for them, and attempted to avenge himself in the +following way. He called on me one day, and Madame Guérard was there +when he was shown in. + +“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said. + +“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied. + +“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war,” he +continued. + +This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As I can foresee +that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher Monsieur_, I will +not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would +prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, as enemies rather than +friends.” With these words I rang for my footman to show the Prefect of +Police to the door. Madame Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us +some harm, my dear Sarah, I assure you,” she said. + +She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking +of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by +sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an +inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries +for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of +Police on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a mounted +courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening to send a +prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of this +wretch, who was shot shortly after and died without showing any courage. + +Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to +St. Germain-en-Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to +Switzerland with my youngest sister. + +The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists with +gun on shoulder stopped the trains and searched in all our bags and +pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They were +afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles. This +was monstrously stupid. + +The installation at St. Germain was not an easy thing either. Nearly all +Paris had taken refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is +dull. From the height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning +and night, we could see the alarming progress of the Commune. + +On all sides of Paris the flames rose, proud and destructive. The wind +often brought us burnt papers, which we took to the Council House. The +Seine brought quantities along with it, and the boatmen collected these +in sacks. Some days—and these were the most distressing of all—an opaque +veil of smoke enveloped Paris. There was no breeze to allow the flames +to pierce through. + +The city then burnt stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to +discover the fresh buildings that these furious madmen had set alight. + +I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far +as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across +poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but +often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or +Communist sharpshooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier. + +One day, on the way back from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had +been for a gallop over the hills, we entered the forest rather late in +the evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot was fired from a +neighbouring thicket, which made my horse bound so suddenly towards the +left that I was thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O’Connor hurried +to me, but I was already up and ready to mount again. “Just a second,” +he said; “I want to search that thicket.” A short gallop soon brought +him to the spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under +flying feet, then another shot not at all like the two former ones, and +my friend appeared again with a pistol in his hand. + +“You have not been hit?” I asked. + +“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low. +The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet +from my revolver in his body.” + +“But I heard some one running away,” I said. + +“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will not go far.” + +“Poor wretch!” I murmured. + +“Oh no,” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg. They kill numbers +of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my regiment were +found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but mutilated,” and +gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an oath. + +I turned towards him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We +continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest +would allow us. Suddenly, our horses stopped short, snorting and +sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off, and led his +horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground. + +“That must be the wretch who shot at me,” said my companion, and bending +down over the man he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor +had not seen his man, so that he could not have recognised him. He +lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted, +and was trying to raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my +hand, covered with blood. He had opened his eyes, and fixed them on +O’Connor. + +“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I +missed you, but——” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but +the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor on his +side had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man, +and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely +recognise my friend, for this handsome, fair-haired man, so polite, +rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute. +Leaning towards the unfortunate man, his under-jaw protruded, he was +muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand +seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter +before flinging it away in disgust. + +“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said. + +He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way, and +seemed to become aware of the situation again. “Good!” he said, helping +me to mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will +come back with some men to pick up this wretch.” + +Half an hour later we were back home, without having exchanged another +word during our ride. + +I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again +without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the +brute-like mask under which I had seen him for a second would fix itself +again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March 1905, General +O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in +my dressing-room at the theatre. He told me about his difficulties with +some of the great Arab chiefs. + +“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have a brush together.” + +Again I saw the captain’s mask on the general’s face. + +I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards. + +We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful +peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was +supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! What women in +mourning! What ruins! + +In Paris, we inhaled the bitter odour of smoke. All that I touched at +home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost imperceptible +colour. A general uneasiness beset France, and more especially Paris. +The theatres, however, opened their doors once more, and that was a +general relief. + +One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out +my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse +snorting. + +The race-ground was to be opened for us again. We should be able to +gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were ready. The contest was +beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange that man’s +mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there is no +longer war there is battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us +aiming for the same object. God has created the earth and man for each +other. The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon +miles, acres upon acres of new land waiting for arms that will take from +its bosom the treasures of inexhaustible Nature. And we remain grouped +round each other, crowds of famishing people watching other groups, +which are also lying in wait. + +The Odéon opened its doors to the public with a repertory programme. +Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these met with tremendous +success. It was André Theuriet’s _Jean-Marie_, and was produced in +October 1871. This one-act play is a veritable masterpiece, and it took +its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the part of Jean- +Marie, met with an enormous success. He was at that time slender, +nimble, and full of youthful ardour. He needed a little more poetry, but +the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardour for what +was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow. + +My _rôle_ of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband +forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_ +who was absent, and perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching by +reason of the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the +concluding part of the piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success, +and increased my growing reputation. + +I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I +did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had +to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to +place on my head the crown of the elect. + + + + + XX + VICTOR HUGO + + +At the end of that year 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and +solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My mind +at that time of my life was still closed to great ideas. I was living in +rather a _bourgeois_ atmosphere, what with my somewhat cosmopolitan +family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the +acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent life as an +artiste. + +I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my childhood as a rebel and +a renegade, and his works, which I had read with passion, did not +prevent my judging him with very great severity. And I blush to-day with +anger and shame when I think of all my absurd prejudices, fomented by +the imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a great +desire, nevertheless, to play in _Ruy Blas_. The _rôle_ of the Queen +seemed so charming to me. + +I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it. +Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great +chances, though, against me. She was on very amicable terms with Paul +Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. One of my friends +brought Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was another friend, and even a +relative, of the “illustrious master.” + +Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak to Victor Hugo, and two days later +he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favour. Paul +Meurice himself, a very straightforward man, a delightful soul, had +proposed me to the author. And Geffroy, the admirable artiste who had +retired from the Comédie Française, and was now asked to play _Don +Salluste_, had said, it appears, that he could only see one little Queen +of Spain worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know +Geffroy; I did not know Paul Meurice; and was rather astonished that +they should know me. + +The play was to be read to the artistes at Victor Hugo’s, December 6, +1871, at two o’clock. I was very much spoilt, and very much praised and +flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did +not condescend to disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house +when there was neutral ground, the theatre, for the reading of plays. I +mentioned this unheard-of incident at five o’clock to my little court, +and men and women alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the +other day an outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That +nobody!—dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of _Hearts_, the Fairy +of Fairies, to put herself to inconvenience!” + +All my little sanctuary was in a tumult; men and women alike could not +keep still. + +“She must not go,” they said. “Write him this”—“Write him that.” And +they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal +Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little five +o’clock court, and he was soon posted on what had taken place by my +turbulent visitors. He was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered +against the great poet. + +“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me +that he has no reason to deviate from the regular custom. But say that +you are suddenly unwell; follow my advice and show the respect for him +that we owe to genius.” + +I followed my great friend’s counsel, and sent the following letter to +the poet: + + “MONSIEUR,—The Queen has taken a chill, and her Camerara Mayor forbids + her to go out. You know better than any one else the etiquette of the + Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.” + +I sent the letter, and the following was the poet’s reply: + + “I am your valet, Madame. + + “VICTOR HUGO.” + +The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes. I believe +that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the +Master’s house. + +I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for +a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me! + +The monster was charming—so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a +gallantry that was a homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to +the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of +elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in +his way of speaking, which savoured of the old French peer. He was quick +at repartee, and his observations were gentle but pertinent. He recited +poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often made sketches +during the rehearsals. + +He frequently spoke in verse when he wished to reprimand an artiste. One +day during a rehearsal he was trying to convince poor Talien about his +bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down +on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience, and getting +up from the middle of the orchestra stalls, he exclaimed, + + “_Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable + Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table._” + +I sprang up from the table slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer +him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to +say, and remained there confused and in a bad temper. + +One day, when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was +waiting, my forehead pressed against the window-pane, for the arrival of +Madame Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the +footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor +Hugo had just crossed the road, and was about to walk on. An old woman +attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down +on the ground, and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of +perspiration. In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open, +as she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing +anxiety as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages +and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after +a short conversation he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it +to the old woman; then, taking off his hat, he confided it to her, and +with a quick movement and a laughing face lifted the bundle onto his +shoulder and crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I +rushed downstairs to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached +the passage I jostled against de Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and when +I descended the staircase Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could only see +the old woman’s back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now +more briskly. + +The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate good +deed. + +“Oh,” said Paul Meurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day that +dawns is a day of kindness for him.” + +I embraced Victor Hugo, and we went to the rehearsal. + +Oh, those rehearsals of _Ruy Blas_! I shall never forget them, for there +was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo +arrived, everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie +and Paul Meurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the Master was absent +they kept up the divine fire. + +Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often gave me advice. During +the intervals for rest I posed for him in various attitudes, for he was +a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie Française there are two +pictures by him, representing two generations of Sociétaires of both +sexes. The pictures are not of very original composition, neither are +they of beautiful colouring, but they are faithful likenesses, it +appears, and rather happily grouped. + +Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Blas, often had long discussions with +the Master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that +he was always right. + +Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very +bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by a set +of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery, and there +was a little odd clacking sound between his real palate and his +artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the ear listening +attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry. + +As for poor Talien, who was playing Don Guritan, he made a hash of it +every minute. His comprehension of the _rôle_ was quite erroneous. +Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Talien was a +well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as +stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first he never +understood. As long as he lived he would never understand. But, as he +was straightforward and loyal, he put himself into the hands of the +author, and gave himself up then in complete abnegation. “That is not as +I understood it,” he would say, “but I will do as you tell me.” + +He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the +inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most +painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic +pride. I often took this poor Talien aside and tried to urge him on to +rebellion, but it was all in vain. + +He was tall, and his arms were too long, and his eyes tired; his nose +was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips in +heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and +his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from his ill-built face. A +great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness +was his very self. Every one was therefore infinitely fond of him. + + + + + XXI + A MEMORABLE SUPPER + + +January 26, 1872, was an artistic _fête_ for the Odéon. The _Tout-Paris_ +of first nights and the vibrating younger elements were to meet in the +large, solemn, dusty theatre. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance +it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe-looking +in his black costume as Don Salluste. Mélingue rather disappointed the +public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong. The +_rôle_ of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good _rôle_, which +always tempts artists by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth +act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless. +It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its +shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete. + +This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me the thin veil which +still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity. +Until that day I had remained the students’ little fairy. I became then +the Elect of the public. + +Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to +whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers. +Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I +caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a +second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed +across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and +barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my +life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my +repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude. + +Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my +two hands to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you! Thank you!” + +And so it was he who said “Thank you.” He, the great Victor Hugo, whose +soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He, +whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, +how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook +the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right +word. + +He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to +retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing +luminous eyes. + +Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into +Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears. +He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be +intoxicated with this great success now,” he said. “There must be no +more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have +to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.” + +“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I +answered looking at him, “I will try to be more sociable, but that is +all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my +risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown +will not shake off.” + +Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and +reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of _Angelo_ at +the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905. + +On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and +when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich +in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. _Mon petit Dame_ +stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took +a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for +another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: _Le +Passant_, _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_, Anna Danby in _Kean_, and +_Jean-Marie_, but I felt that the _Ruy Blas_ success was greater than +any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be +criticised, but not to be overlooked. + +I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s, and he was always very +charming and kind. + +[Illustration: + + SKULL IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S + LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH + VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO +] + +When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first +impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him, +about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve +ignorance about political matters. + +One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent +for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and +rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the +evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether +favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the +great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I +represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young +generation, in which a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had warped the +intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight +towards the new? + +When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his +friendship. + +I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the +poet, but he was out. + +I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise. +Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms +of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house. + +“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked, laughing. + +I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered. + +“Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked. + +I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it. + +“Well, all the better!” I said; “I very much wanted to talk to you. +Come; I am going to take you with me now.” + +I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine +thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things +that were contrary to the Marshal’s ideas. This admirable man could +admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the +great ideas which were to bring about great changes. + +One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a +political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a +moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty +and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say, +though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred, +he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked +up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal. + +“I challenge you, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious +Utopias that you have just been supporting!” + +“Oh, Monsieur Busnach,” replied Canrobert coldly, “we do not use the +same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword.” + +The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a +luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found +there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. de Monbel, a +young _attaché d’ambassade_. I explained my lateness as well as I could, +and that morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas. + +I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of +listening. + +During a silence Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the Marshal and said: + +“Are you not of the opinion that our young friend should enter the +Comédie Française?” + +“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed; “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the +Comédie, and the short time I remained there I was very unhappy.” + +“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged. Believe +me, it will be better early than late.” + +“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been +happier!” + +One morning shortly after this my maid brought me a letter. The large +round stamp, on which are the words “Comédie Française” was on the +corner of the envelope. + +I remembered that ten years previously, almost day for day, our old +servant Marguerite had, with my mother’s permission, handed me a letter +in the same kind of envelope. + +My face then had flushed with joy, but this time I felt a faint tinge of +pallor touch my cheeks. + +When events occur which disturb my life, I always have a movement of +recoil. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself +headlong into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to +his trapeze bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force +into space. In one second what now is becomes for me what was, and I +love it with tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be +without seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown, +the mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something +unheard of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness. I +receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive +enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea. +What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large, +small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the +rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s +corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going +to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing +waves? What pink “sea-star”? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell? + +So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to +recognise the handwriting and the seal; and it is only when I am quite +certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my +secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Seylor. My friends know this +so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their +envelopes. + +At that time I had no secretary, but _mon petit Dame_ served me as such. + +I looked at the envelope a long time, and gave it at last to Madame +Guérard. + +“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the Comédie Française,” she +said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or Wednesday +afternoon at the Comédie Française or at your own house.” + +“Thanks. What day is it to-day?” I asked. + +“Monday,” she replied. + +I then installed Madame Guérard at my desk, and asked her to reply that +I would go there the following day at three o’clock. + +I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on +what my father had left me—that is, on the transaction made by the Hâvre +notary—and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel and +showed him the letter. + +“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked. + +“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.” + +“Oh well, I advise you to remain at the Odéon. Besides, your engagement +does not terminate for another year, and I shall not allow you leave!” + +“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand +francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will +stay, for I do not want to leave.” + +“Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly way. “You know +that I am not free to act alone. I will do my best, I promise you.” And +Duquesnel certainly kept his word. “Come here to-morrow before going to +the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice, and +if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave; we +shall find some way.... And besides—— Anyhow, I cannot say any more.” + +I returned the following day according to arrangement. + +I found Duquesnel and Chilly in the managerial office. Chilly began at +once somewhat roughly: + +“And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It +is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider, and think it over +for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, dressy plays. +That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is the same. At the Gaîté +you would spoil your voice. You are too distinguished for the Ambigu.” + +I looked at him without replying. I saw that his partner had not spoken +to him about the Comédie Française. He felt awkward, and mumbled: + +“Well then, you are of my opinion?” + +“No,” I answered; “you have forgotten the Comédie.” + +He was sitting in his big arm-chair, and he burst out laughing. + +“Ah no, my dear girl,” he said, “you must not tell me that. They’ve had +enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night +with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the +Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you the great +tragedian did not show much affection for you.” + +“Oh well, you ought to have taken my part,” I exclaimed, irritated. “You +know very well that I am a most serious member of your company.” + +“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even that it would be +a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an artiste with +your will power, which perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of the +house; and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was beside +himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the first +place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite verse. He +declares that you make all your _a_’s too broad. Finally, when he had no +arguments left he declared that as long as he lives you will never enter +the Comédie Française.” + +I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable +result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured +somewhat waveringly: + +“Well then, you will not give me a higher salary?” + +“No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try to make me pay +up when your engagement comes to an end, and then we shall see. But I +have your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our +engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you +beside ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that +theatre.” + +“You make a mistake perhaps,” I answered. He got up brusquely and came +and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an +odious and familiar tone: + +“Ah, that’s it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?” + +I got up too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back, “I think you are +a triple idiot.” I then hurried away towards the staircase, and all +Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time. + +On arriving under the Odéon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who +was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo, +to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of _Ruy Blas_. + +“I have just come from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few +lines from Victor Hugo.” + +“Good, good; that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I +shall see you to-morrow then, my friend.” + +“Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said. + +“Yes!” I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my +coachman, “Drive to the Comédie Française.” + +I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied +on the arcade steps. + +On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes +later was ushered in to that icy mannikin. There were two very distinct +personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the +other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession. +Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the +mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing. + +I was first received by Perrin the mannikin. He was standing up, his +head bent, bowing to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the +hospitable arm-chair. He waited with a certain affectation until I was +seated before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper-knife, in +order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak +voice, the voice of the mannikin, he remarked: + +“Have you thought it over, Mademoiselle?” + +“Yes, Monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.” + +Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the +things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen, and prepared to +sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my +arm out across the whole width of the writing table, and dipped my pen +this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink-pot. I took too much ink, +however, this time, and on the return journey a huge spot of it fell on +the large sheet of white paper in front of the mannikin. + +He bent his head, for he was slightly short-sighted, and looked for a +moment like a bird when it discovers a hemp-seed in its grain. He then +proceeded to put aside the blotted sheet. + +“Wait a minute, oh, wait a minute!” I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper. +“I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a +butterfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong.” +I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot, and +pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh, +giving up his mannikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the +paper with me, and we opened it very gently just as one opens one’s hand +after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the midst of +its whiteness a magnificent black butterfly with outspread wings was to +be seen. + +“Well then,” said Perrin, with nothing of the mannikin left, “we were +quite right in signing.” + +After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for +this man was charming and very fascinating, in spite of his ugliness. +When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other. + +I was playing in _Ruy Blas_ that night at the Odéon. Towards ten o’clock +Duquesnel came to my dressing-room. + +“You were rather rough on that poor Chilly,” he said. “And you really +were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you. Is it +true, as Paul Meurice tells us, that you went straight to the Théâtre +Français?” + +“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement with the +Comédie. + +Duquesnel took the paper and read it. + +“Will you let me show it to Chilly?” he asked. + +“Show it him, certainly,” I replied. + +He came nearer, and said in a grave, hurt tone: + +“You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a +lack of confidence I do not deserve.” + +He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived, +furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger. + +“It is abominable!” he said. “It is treason, and you had not even the +right to do it. I shall make you pay damages.” + +As I felt in a bad humour, I turned my back on him, and apologised as +feebly as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little +ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness, and +it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had +held the door open for my future. + +Chilly kept his word, and brought an action against me and the Comédie. +I lost, and had to pay six thousand francs damages to the managers of +the Odéon. + +A few weeks later Victor Hugo invited the artistes who performed in _Ruy +Blas_ to a big supper in honour of the one hundredth performance. This +was a great delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of +this kind. + +I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in +question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was +seated to the right of Victor Hugo, and to his left was Madame Lambquin, +who was playing the Camerara Mayor, and Duquesnel was next to Madame +Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile +Gautier, with his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant +mind, and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his +fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The +expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an +Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly +all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection—the fond lover of the +beautiful. + +It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could +see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with +gems of all colours; and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips. +I was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a +word from my neighbour, Victor Hugo, made me turn towards him. + +What a difference! He was just himself, the great poet—the most ordinary +of beings except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy-looking, +although very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth +without any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to +listen to him whilst looking at Théophile Gautier. + +I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for +at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de St. Victor. +His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil they contained +was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes +evil-looking and hard; his arms were too short, and he was too stout. He +looked like a jaundice. + +He had plenty of wit and talent, but he employed both in saying and +writing more harm than good. I knew that this man hated me, and I +promptly returned him hatred for hatred. + +In answer to the toast proposed by Victor Hugo thanking every one for +such zealous help on the revival of his work, each person raised his +glass and looked towards the poet, but the illustrious master turned +towards me and continued, “As to you, Madame——” + +Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently +on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I +leaned across the table and held my glass out towards Paul de St. +Victor. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AT A FANCY-DRESS BALL + + BY WALTER SPINDLER +] + +“Take mine, Monsieur,” I said, “and then when you drink you will know +what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so +clearly!” + +The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look! + +Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers. +Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell +Chilly to reply to Victor Hugo. I did as requested. But he gazed at me +with a glassy look, and in a far-away voice replied: + +“Some one is holding my legs.” I looked at him more attentively, whilst +Duquesnel asked for silence for M. de Chilly’s speech. I saw that his +fingers were grasping a fork desperately; the tips of his fingers were +white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy +cold; the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was +silence, and all eyes turned towards Chilly. + +“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head +suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled +uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid, +commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one +mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the +waiters came and carried the body away, living but inert, and placed it +in a small drawing-room. + +Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s +guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups +had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was +still as ill. + +“The doctor has just arrived, and he cannot yet say,” I replied. + +“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of +liqueur brandy. + +“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Talien (Don Guritan), clumsily, for +he was always losing his memory. + +Victor Hugo approached and said very simply: + +“It is a beautiful kind of death.” + +He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying +to chase my thoughts away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little +time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel appeared. +He was pale, but appeared as if nothing serious was the matter. He was +ready to answer all questions. + +Oh yes; he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared. +He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been +cold during the meal. + +“Yes,” put in one of the _Ruy Blas_ guests, “there certainly was a fine +draught under the table.” + +“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him, +“yes; no doubt there was too much heat for his head.” + +“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with +that wretched gas.” + +I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by +all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his +banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He +shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd, said: + +“It’s all over with him.” + +I had had the presentiment of this, but the certitude of it now caused +me intense grief. + +“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Kindly tell some one to ask for my +carriage.” + +I moved towards the small drawing-room which served as a cloak-room for +our wraps, and there old Madame Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly +intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Talien. + +“Ah, I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said; “I nearly knocked you +over.” + +I pulled her towards me, and without reflecting whispered to her, “Don’t +dance any more, Mamma Lambquin; Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but +her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she +did not utter a word. + +“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured; “I did not know I should make you so +wretched.” + +She was not listening to me, though, any longer; she was putting on her +cloak. + +“Are you leaving?” she asked me. + +“Yes,” I replied. + +“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you——” + +She wrapped a black fichu round her head, and we both went downstairs, +accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Meurice, who saw us into the carriage. + +She lived in the St. Germain quarter and I in the Rue de Rome. On the +way the poor woman told me the following story. + +“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists and +fortune-tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult +them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me, ‘You +will die a week after a man who is dark and not young, and whose life is +connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making game +of me, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a +widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this, +as I pay her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people, but +seven francs to artistes. She was furious at my not believing her, and +she seized my hands and said, ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as +I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who +supports you; and, even to be more exact still, there are two men who +support you, the one dark and the other fair; it’s a nice thing that!’ +She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as +she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I +puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant. +And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark +and the other fair, are our two managers, Chilly and Duquesnel. And now +you tell me that Chilly——” + +She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with +terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and in spite of the freezing +cold we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four +flights of stairs, and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her, +and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do +so, I went home myself, very much upset by all these incidents, as +dramatic as they were unexpected, in the middle of a _fête_. + +Three days later Chilly died, without ever recovering consciousness. + +Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her +absolution she said, “I am dying because I listened to and believed the +demon.” + + + + + XXII + AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN—SCULPTURE + + +I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored and still adore +that theatre. It always seems as though in itself it were a little +provincial town. Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor old +_savants_ take fresh air and shelter themselves from the sun; the large +flagstones all round, between the crevices of which microscopic yellow +grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by time, by hands, and by the +dirt from the road; the uninterrupted noise going on all around, the +departure of the omnibuses, like the departure of the old coaches, the +fraternity of the people who meet there; everything, even to the very +railings of the Luxembourg, gives it a quite special aspect in the midst +of Paris. Then too there is a kind of odour of the colleges there—the +very walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are not always +talking there of yesterday, as they do in the other theatres. The young +artistes who come there talk of to-morrow. + +In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of my life without +a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter and without a dilation +of the nostrils, inhaling again the odour of little ordinary bouquets, +clumsily tied up, bouquets which had all the freshness of flowers that +grow in the open air, flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of +twenty summers, little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students. + +I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon. I left the +furniture of my dressing-room to a young artiste. I left my costumes, +all the little toilette knick-knacks—I divided them and gave them away. +I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that +the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, but that +the struggle with life was about to commence, and I divined rightly. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AT WORK + ON HER _MÉDÉE_ +] + +My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I +knew that I was going into the lions’ den. I counted few friends in this +house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and Mounet-Sully—the first two my +friends of the Conservatoire and the latter of the Odéon. Among the +women, Marie Lloyd and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood; +the disagreeable Jouassain, who was nice only to me; and the adorable +Marie Brohan, whose kindness delighted the soul, whose wit charmed the +mind, and whose indifference rebuffed devotion. + +M. Perrin decided that I should make my _début_ in _Mademoiselle de +Belle-Isle_, according to Sarcey’s wish. + +The rehearsals began in the _foyer_, which troubled me very much. Mile. +Brohan was to play the part of the Marquise de Prie. At this time she +was so fat as to be almost unsightly, while I was so thin that the +composers of popular and comic verses took my meagre proportions as +their theme and the cartoonists as a subject for their albums. + +It was therefore impossible for the Duc de Richelieu to mistake the +Marquise de Prie (Madeleine Brohan) for Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle +(Sarah Bernhardt) in the irreverent nocturnal rendezvous given by the +Marquise to the Duc, who thinks he embraces the chaste Mademoiselle de +Belle-Isle. + +At each rehearsal Bressant, who took the part of the Duc de Richelieu, +would stop, saying, “No, it is too ridiculous. I must play the Duc de +Richelieu with both my arms cut off!” And Madeleine left the rehearsal +to go to the director’s room in order to try and get rid of the _rôle_. + +This was exactly what Perrin wanted; he had from the earliest moment +thought of Croizette, but he wanted to have his hand forced for private +and underhand reasons which he knew and which others guessed. + +At last the change took place, and the serious rehearsals commenced. + +Then the first performance was announced for November 6 (1872). + +I have always suffered, and still suffer, terribly from stage fright, +especially when I know that much is expected of me. I knew a long time +beforehand that every seat in the house had been booked; I knew that the +Press expected a great success, and that Perrin himself was reckoning on +a long series of big receipts. + +Alas! all these hopes and predictions went for nothing, and my _re- +début_ at the Comédie Française was only moderately successful. + +The following is an extract from the _Temps_ of November 11, 1872. It +was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I was not then acquainted, +but who was following my career with very great interest. “It was a very +brilliant assembly, as this _début_ had attracted all theatre-lovers. +The fact is, beside the special merit of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, a whole +crowd of true or false stories had been circulated about her personally, +and all this had excited the curiosity of the Parisian public. Her +appearance was a disappointment. She had by her costume exaggerated in a +most ostentatious way a slenderness which is elegant under the veils and +ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman heroines, but which is +objectionable in modern dress. Then, too, either powder does not suit +her, or stage fright had made her terribly pale. The effect of this long +white face emerging from a long black sheath was certainly unpleasant [I +looked like an ant], particularly as the eyes had lost their brilliancy +and all that relieved the face were the sparkling white teeth. She went +through the first three acts with a convulsive tremor, and we only +recognised the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_ by two couplets which she gave in her +enchanting voice with the most wonderful grace, but in all the more +powerful passages she was a failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah +Bernhardt will ever, with her delicious voice, be able to render those +deep thrilling notes, expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which +are capable of carrying away an audience. If only nature had endowed her +with this gift she would be a perfect artiste, and there are none such +on the stage. Roused by the coldness of her public, Mlle. Sarah +Bernhardt was entirely herself in the fifth act. This was certainly our +Sarah once more, the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_, whom we had admired so much at +the Odéon....” + +As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my _début_. My excuse, +though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed it, but the +terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly leave her seat in +the dress circle five minutes after my appearance on the stage. + +I had glanced at her on entering, and had noticed her deathlike pallor. +When she went out I felt that she was about to have one of those attacks +which endangered her life, so that the first act seemed to me +interminable. I uttered one word after another, stammering through my +sentences haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing to know +what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive of the tortures +endured by the unfortunate comedians who are there before them in flesh +and blood on the stage, gesticulating and uttering phrases, while their +heart, all torn with anguish, is with the beloved absent one who is +suffering. As a rule, one can fling away the worries and anxieties of +every-day life, put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on +another, and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another +life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering. Anxiety +then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying the dark, +maddening our brain, which is living two lives at once, and tormenting +our heart, which is beating as though it would burst. + +These were the sensations I experienced during the first act. + +“Mamma! What has happened to Mamma?” were my first words on leaving the +stage. No one could tell me anything. + +Croizette came up to me and said, “What’s the matter? I hardly recognise +you as you are, and you weren’t yourself at all just now in the play.” + +In a few words I told her what I had seen and all that I had felt. +Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the doctor came hurrying +to me. + +“Your mother had a fainting fit, Mademoiselle,” he said, “but they have +just taken her home.” + +“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him. + +“Yes,” he replied; “Madame’s heart is in a very agitated state.” + +“Oh, I know how ill she is,” I said, and not being able to control +myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me back to my +dressing-room. She was very kind; we had known each other from +childhood, and were very fond of each other. Nothing ever estranged us, +in spite of all the malicious gossip of envious people and all the +little miseries due to vanity. + +My dear Madame Guérard took a cab and hurried away to my mother to get +news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the public, not knowing +what was taking place, were annoyed with me, thinking I was guilty of +some fresh caprice, and received me still more coldly than before. It +was all the same to me, as I was thinking of something else. I went on +saying Mlle. de Belle-Isle’s words (a most stupid and tiresome _rôle_), +but all the time I, Sarah, was waiting for news about my mother. I was +watching for the return of _mon petit Dame_. “Open the door on the O.P. +side just a little way,” I had said to her, “and make a sign like this +if Mamma is better, and like that if she is worse.” But I had forgotten +which of the signs was to stand for better, and when, at the end of the +third act I saw Madame Guérard opening the door and nodding her head for +“yes,” I became quite idiotic. + +It was in the big scene of the third act, when Mlle. de Belle-Isle +reproaches the Duc de Richelieu (Bressant) with doing her such +irreparable harm. The Duc replies, “Why did you not say that some one +was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed, “It’s Guérard +bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant +went on quickly, and so saved the situation. + +After an unenthusiastic call I heard that my mother was better, but that +she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me such a +fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb +indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that in its +turn to rage on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone, +“Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!” + +I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act +with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was +Croizette’s, who was charming as the Marquise de Prie. My success, +nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it +became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed +heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a +horror of useless words. + +I next appeared as Junie in _Britannicus_, with Mounet-Sully, who played +admirably as Nero. In this delicious _rôle_ of Junie I obtained an +immense and incredible success. + +Then in 1873 I played Chérubin in _Le Mariage de Figaro_. Croizette +played Suzanne, and it was a real treat for the public to see that +delightful creature play a part so full of gaiety and charm. + +Chérubin was for me the opportunity of a fresh success. + +In the month of March 1873 Perrin took it into his head to stage +_Dalila_, by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls, +young princesses, or boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my delicate +aspect marked me out for the time being for the _rôle_ of victim. +Perrin, who thought that the victims attracted pity, and that it was for +this reason I pleased my audiences, cast the play most ridiculously: he +gave me the _rôle_ of Dalila, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious +princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the _rôle_ of the fair young +dying girl. + +The piece, with this strange cast, was destined to fail. I forced my +character in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I stuffed +my bodice with wadding and the hips under my skirts with horse-hair; but +I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was obliged to repress +the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed and suffocated her, +but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples. + +I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it +was absurd. The piece was a _demi-succès_. + +After that I created _L’Absent_, a pretty piece in verse, by Eugène +Manuel; _Chez l’Avocat_, a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier, +in which Coquelin and I quarrelled beautifully. Then, on August 22, I +played with immense success the _rôle_ of Andromaque. I shall never +forget the first performance, in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious +triumph. Oh, how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his _rôle_ of Orestes! +His entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this +marvellous artiste—how magnificent! + +After _Andromaque_ I played Aricie in _Phèdre_, and in this secondary +_rôle_ it was I who really made the success of the evening. + +I took such a position in a very short time at the Comédie that some of +the artistes began to feel uneasy, and the management shared their +anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent man, whom I have always +remembered with great affection, was horribly authoritative. I was also, +so that there was always perpetual warfare between us. He wanted to +impose his will on me, and I would not submit to it. He was always ready +to laugh at my outbursts when they were against the others, but he was +furious when they were directed against himself. As for me, I will own +that to get Perrin in a fury was one of my delights. He stammered so +when he tried to talk quickly, he who weighed every word on ordinary +occasions; the expression of his eyes, which was generally wavering, +grew irritated and deceitful, and his pale, distinguished-looking face +became mottled with patches of wine-dreg colour. + +His fury made him take his hat off and put it on again fifteen times in +as many minutes, and his extremely smooth hair stood on end with this +mad gallop of his head-gear. Although I had certainly arrived at the age +of discretion, I delighted in my wicked mischievousness, which I always +regretted after, but which I was always ready to recommence; and even +now, after all the days, weeks, months, and years that I have lived +since then, it still gives me infinite pleasure to play a joke on any +one. + +All the same, life at the Comédie began to affect my nerves. + +I wanted to play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_: the _rôle_ +was given to Croizette. I wanted to play Célimène: that _rôle_ was +Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to Croizette. He admired her, and +as she was very ambitious, she was most thoughtful and docile, which +charmed the authoritative old man. She always obtained everything she +wanted, and as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often +said to me when I was grumbling, “Do as I do; be more yielding. You pass +your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing everything that Perrin +wants me to do, but in reality I make him do all I want him to. Try the +same thing.” I accordingly screwed up my courage and went up to see +Perrin. He nearly always said to me when we met, “Ah, how do you do, +Mademoiselle Revolt? Are you calm to-day?” + +“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant me what I am +going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and spoke in my prettiest +way. He almost purred with satisfaction, and was witty (this was no +effort to him, as he was naturally so), and we got on very well together +for a quarter of an hour. I then made my petition: + +“Let me play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_”. + +“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette is playing +it.” + +“Well then, we’ll both play it; we’ll take it in turns.” + +“But Mademoiselle Croizette wouldn’t like that.” + +“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind it.” + +“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because the management does the casting, not the artistes.” + +He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I was in a fury, +and a few minutes later I went out of the room, banging the door after +me. + +All this preyed on my mind, though, and I used to cry all night. I then +decided to take a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was not +able to use my intelligence and my energy in creating _rôles_ at the +theatre, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began working +at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made great progress, and +started on an enormous composition, _After the Storm_. I was indifferent +now to the theatre. Every morning at eight my horse was brought round, +and I went for a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard +de Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the double +effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most alarming way, and +for hours together I was unconscious. I never went to the Comédie except +when obliged by my duties there. My friends were seriously concerned +about me, and Perrin was informed of what was going on. Finally, incited +by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided to give me a +_rôle_ to create in Octave Feuillet’s play _Le Sphinx_. + +The principal part was for Croizette, but on hearing the play read I +thought the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that it should +also be the principal _rôle_. There would have to be two principal ones, +that was all. The rehearsals went along very smoothly at the start, but +it soon became evident that my _rôle_ was more important than had been +imagined, and friction soon began. + +Croizette herself got nervous, Perrin was annoyed, and all this by-play +had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a shrewd, charming man, +extremely well bred and slightly ironical, thoroughly enjoyed the +skirmishes that took place. War was doomed to break out, however, and +the first hostilities came from Sophie Croizette. + +I always wore in my bodice three or four roses, which were apt to open +under the influence of the warmth, and some of the petals naturally +fell. One day Sophie Croizette slipped down full length on the stage, +and as she was tall and not slim, she fell rather unbecomingly, and got +up again ungracefully. The stifled laughter of some of the subordinate +persons present stung her to the quick, and turning to me she said, +“It’s your fault; your roses fall and make every one slip down.” I began +to laugh. + +“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all +three are by the arm-chair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O.P. +side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.” +The discussion continued, and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans +were formed, the “Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists.” War was +declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers +and detractors. The rumour of these little quarrels spread in the world +outside the theatre, and the public too began to form clans. Croizette +had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering +from repletion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and +the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from +the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was +fought over the moon. + +We had begun the full dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was +laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon +which was Blanche (Croizette) kissing Savigny (Delaunay), who was +supposed to be my husband. I (Berthe de Savigny) had to arrive by a +little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight. +Croizette had just played her part, and her kiss had been greeted with a +burst of applause. This was rather daring in those days for the Comédie +Française. (But since then what have they not given there?) + +Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on +some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing over the +bridge, my pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which +was intended to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my +limp fingers; my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the +use out of them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon, and the +effect, it seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal, +aggressive voice cried out, “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for +Mademoiselle Bernhardt.” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING + (1878–9) +] + +I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, Monsieur +Perrin,” I exclaimed, “you have no right to take my moon away. The +manuscript reads, _Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the +rays of the moon falling on her_.... I am pale and I am convulsed. I +must have my moon.” + +“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mademoiselle Croizette’s words: ‘You +love me, then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing +the Sphinx; that is the chief part in the play, and we must leave her +the principal effect.” + +“Very well, then; give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less +brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the +artistes and all the _employés_ of the theatre put their heads in at all +the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The +“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the +discussion. + +Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and he got up in his turn. + +“I grant that Mademoiselle Croizette is very beautiful in her moon +effect. Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt is ideal too, with her ray of +moonlight. I want the moon therefore for both of them.” + +Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion between the +author and the director, followed by others between the artistes, and +between the door-keeper and the journalists who were questioning him. +The rehearsal was interrupted. I declared that I would not play the part +if I did not have my moon. For the next two days I received no notice of +another rehearsal, but through Croizette I heard that they were trying +my _rôle_ of Berthe privately. They had given it to a young woman whom +we had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed all the +rehearsals just as that animal follows boats—she was always hoping to +snatch up some _rôle_ that might happen to be thrown overboard. Octave +Feuillet refused to accept the change of artistes, and he came himself +to fetch me, accompanied by Delaunay, who had negotiated matters. + +“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands; “there will be a moon for +both of you.” + +The first night was a triumph both for Croizette and for me. + +The party strife between the two clans waxed warmer and warmer, and this +added to our success and amused us both immensely, for Croizette was +always a delightful friend and a loyal comrade. She worked for her own +ends, but never against any one else. + +After _Le Sphinx_ I played a pretty piece in one act by a young pupil of +the Ecole Polytechnique, Louis Denayrouse, _La Belle Paule._ This author +has now become a renowned scientific man, and has renounced poetry. + +I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he refused +energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsals of +_Zaïre_ during the trying months of June and July, and, in spite of my +reluctance, announced the first performance for August 6. That year it +was fearfully hot in Paris. I believe that Perrin, who could not tame me +alive, had, without really any bad intention, but by pure autocracy, the +desire to tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him, and told him that +my state of weakness was such that it would be positively dangerous for +me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would hear nothing of it. Then, +furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual _bourgeois_, I swore I +would play on to the death. + +Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to vex +others. I remember once having drunk the contents of a large ink-pot +after being compelled by mamma to swallow a “panade,”[2] because she +imagined that panades were good for the health. Our nurse had told her +my dislike to this form of nourishment, adding that every morning I +emptied the panade into the slop-pail. I had, of course, a very bad +stomach-ache, and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma, “It is you who +have killed me!” and my poor mother wept. She never knew the truth, but +they never again made me swallow anything against my will. + +Footnote 2: + + Bread stewed a long time in water and flavoured with a little butter + and sugar, a kind of “sops” given to children in France. + +Well, after so many years I experienced the same bitter and childish +sentiment. “I don’t care,” I said; “I shall certainly fall senseless +vomiting blood, and perhaps I shall die! And it will serve Perrin right. +He will be furious!” Yes, that is what I thought. I am at times very +foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain it, but I admit it. + +The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the part of +Zaïre. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration. I saw the +spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as regards scenery, +but very well presented as regards costume, was particularly well played +by Mounet-Sully (Orosmane), Laroche (Néréstan) and myself (Zaïre), and +obtained an immense success. + +I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined to die, +in order to enrage Perrin. I played with the utmost passion. I had +sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I had been stabbed by the +poignard of Orosmane, uttering a true cry of suffering, for I had felt +the steel penetrate my breast. Then, falling panting, dying, on the +Oriental divan, I had meant to die in reality, and dared scarcely move +my arms, convinced as I was that I was in my death agony, and somewhat +afraid, I must admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick +on Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the close +of the piece and I got up quickly to answer to the call and bow to the +audience without languor, without fainting, feeling strong enough to go +through my part again if it had been necessary. + +And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for that day I +learned that my vital force was at the service of my intellectual force. +I had desired to follow the impulse of my brain, whose conceptions +seemed to me to be too forceful for my physical strength to carry out. +And I found myself, after having given out all of which I was +capable—and more—in perfect equilibrium. + +Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future. + +I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard +and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my +gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked +authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation could not +tame the wild beasts (the audience). I thought then of all that. + +I had received proof that I could rely on my physical strength, for I +had commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness +that it was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act +without fainting. + +On the other hand, although the _rôle_ was easy, it required two or +three shrieks, which might have provoked the vomiting of blood that +frequently troubled me at that time. + +That evening, therefore, I acquired the certainty that I could count on +the strength of my vocal cords, for I had uttered my shrieks with real +rage and suffering, hoping to break something, in my wild desire to be +revenged on Perrin. + +Thus this little comedy turned to my profit. Being unable to die at +will, I changed my batteries and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and +active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had +only put up with me because they thought I should soon die, but who +began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction that I should +perhaps live for a long time. I will only give one example, related by +Alexandre Dumas _fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate +friend Charles Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die +because I shall hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the grand +Français” (Ferdinand de Lesseps). + +But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort +of _farniente_ to which Perrin condemned me. + +In fact, after _Zaïre_, I remained months without doing anything of +importance, playing only now and again. Discouraged and disgusted with +the theatre, my passion for sculpture increased. After my morning ride +and a light meal I used to rush to my studio, where I remained till the +evening. + +Friends came to see me, sat round me, played the piano, sang; politics +were discussed—for in this modest studio I received the most illustrious +men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which was +abominable and badly served, but I did not care about that. I was +absorbed by this admirable art. I saw nothing, or, to speak more truly, +I _would not_ see anything. + +I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy de * * *. +Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She was a +foreigner, but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She +smoked a cigarette all the time, and had a profound disdain for those +who did not understand her. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + IN HER COFFIN +] + +I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this +delicate mind was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the beyond, +and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself, “What +would Emmy have done? What would she have thought?” + +I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild, +who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work +immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had +nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried nevertheless, and I +brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order, of +which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on +the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave up, stammering +idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model, for he never +returned to me. When we met in our morning rides he saluted me with a +cold and rather severe bow. + +After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Miss +Multon, a delightful little American, whom later on I came across in +Denmark, married and the mother of a family, but still as pretty as +ever. + +My next bust was that of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was +keeper of the linen in the commissariat during the war, and who had so +powerfully helped me and my wounded at that time. + +Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas! a +weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two +leonine eyes shaded by long, long brown lashes, a slender nose with +delicate nostrils, a tiny mouth, a wilful chin, and a pearly skin +crowned by meshes of sunrays, for I have never seen hair so blonde and +so pale, so bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without +charm; the expression was hard and the mouth without a smile. I tried my +best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great +artist and I was only a humble amateur. + +When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after +her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness, full of false +hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little +_entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had +destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant +possessions. This flat in the Rue de Rome was very small. My bedroom was +quite tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the +window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to study my +parts. Therefore, when I took my sister to my home I found it quite +natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was +to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed, under +the lace hangings. + +She herself found it quite natural also, for I would not leave her at +night, and it was impossible to put another bed in the little room. +Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin. + +One day my manicurist came into the room to do my hands, and my sister +asked her to enter quietly, because I was still asleep. The woman turned +her head, believing that I was asleep in the arm-chair, but seeing me in +my coffin she rushed away shrieking wildly. From that moment all Paris +knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip with its thistle-down wings +took flight in all directions. + +I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written about me that I +did not trouble about this. But at the death of my poor little sister a +tragi-comic incident happened. When the undertaker’s men came to the +room to take away the body they found themselves confronted with two +coffins, and losing his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for +a second hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost +consciousness, and I just got back in time to prevent the black-clothed +men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent back, but the +papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed, criticised, &c. + +It really was not my fault. + + + + + XXIII + A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE AS PHÈDRE—THE + DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION + + +After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended her day +and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering, made me +anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two months. I promised to go to +Mentone, and I turned immediately towards Brittany, the country of my +dreams. + +I had with me my little boy, my steward and his wife. My poor Guérard, +who had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with phlebitis. I +would much have liked to have her with me. + +Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years ago Brittany +was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than at +present, for it was not furrowed with roads; its green slopes were not +dotted with small white villas; its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed +in the abominable modern trousers, and the women did not wear miserable +little hats with feathers. No! The Bretons proudly displayed their well- +shaped legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled +shoes; their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding any +awkward ears and giving to the face a nobility which the modern style +does not admit of. The women, with their short skirts, which showed +their slender ankles in black stockings, and with their small heads +under the wings of the headdress, resembled sea-gulls. I am not +speaking, of course, of the inhabitants of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de +Batz, who have entirely different aspects. + +I visited nearly the whole of Brittany, but made my chief stay at +Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained twelve days at +Audierne, in the house of Father Batifoulé, who was so big and so fat +that they had been obliged to cut a piece out of the table to let in his +immense abdomen. I set out every morning at ten o’clock. My steward +Claude himself prepared my lunch, which he packed up very carefully in +three little baskets, then climbing into the comical vehicle of Father +Batifoulé, my little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés. +Ah, that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks! The +lighthouse keeper would be looking out for me, and would come to meet +me. Claude gave him my provisions, with a thousand recommendations as to +the manner of cooking the eggs, warming up the lentils, and toasting the +bread. He carried off everything, then returned with two old sticks in +which he had stuck nails to make them into picks, and we commenced the +terrifying ascent of the Pointe du Raz, a kind of labyrinth full of +disagreeable surprises, of crevasses across which we had to jump over +the gaping and roaring abyss, of arches and tunnels through which we had +to crawl on all fours, having overhead—touching us even—a rock which had +fallen there in unknown ages and was only held in equilibrium by some +inexplicable cause. Then all at once the path became so narrow that it +was impossible to walk straight forward; we had to turn and put our +backs against the cliff and advance with both arms spread out and +fingers holding on to the few asperities of the rock. + +When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for I have +always been, and still am, subject to dizziness; and I went over this +path along a steep precipitous rock, 30 metres high, in the midst of the +infernal noise of the sea, at this place eternally furious, and which +raged fearfully against this indestructible cliff. And I must have taken +a mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished this journey five times in +eleven days. + +After this challenge thrown down to reason we descended, and installed +ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath we had lunch, and I +painted till sunset. + +The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child came to +look at us. The third day about ten children stood around asking for +sous. I was foolish enough to give them some, and the following day +there were twenty or thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to eighteen +years old. Seeing near my easel something not particularly agreeable, I +begged one of them to take it away and throw it into the sea, and for +that I gave, I think, fifty centimes. When I came back the following day +to finish my painting the whole population of the neighbouring village +had chosen this place to relieve their corporal necessities, and as soon +as I arrived the same boys, but in increased numbers, offered, if +properly paid, to take away what they had put there. + +I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse keeper, and as +they took to throwing stones at us, I pointed my gun at the little +group. They fled howling. Only two boys, of six and ten years of age, +remained there. We did not take any notice of them, and I installed +myself a little farther on, sheltered by a rock which kept the wind +away. The two boys followed. Claude and the keeper Lucas were on the +look out to see that the band did not come back. + +They were stooping down over the extreme point of the rock which was +above our heads. They seemed peaceful, when suddenly my young maid +jumped up: “Horrors! Madame! Horrors! They are throwing lice down on +us!” And in fact the two little good-for-nothings had been for the last +hour searching for all the vermin they could find on themselves, and +throwing it on us. + +I had the two little beggars caught, and they got a well-deserved +correction. + +There was a crevasse which was called the “Enfer du Plogoff.” I had a +wild desire to go down this crevasse, but the guardian dissuaded me, +constantly giving as objections the danger of slipping, and his fear of +responsibility in case of accident. I persisted nevertheless in my +intention, and after a thousand promises, in addition to a certificate +to testify that, notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and +the certainty of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same, +&c., and after having made a small present of ten louis to the good +fellow, I obtained facilities for descending the Enfer du Plogoff—that +is to say, a wide belt to which a strong rope was fastened. I buckled +this belt round my waist, which was then so slender—43 centimetres—that +it was necessary to make additional holes in order to fasten it. + +Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe the sole of +which was bordered with big nails jutting out two centimetres. I stared +at these wooden shoes, and asked for an explanation before putting them +on. + +“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down, as you are no +fatter than a herring bone, you will get shaken about in the crevasse, +and will risk breaking your bones, while if you have the ‘sabots’ on +your hands you can protect yourself against the walls by putting out +your arms to the right and the left, according as you are shaken up +against them. I do not say that you will not have a few bangs, but that +is your own fault; you will go. Now listen, my little lady. When you are +at the bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for that +is the most dangerous of all; if you fall in the water I will pull the +rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that cursed +whirlpool of water you might be caught between two stones, and it would +be no use for me to pull: I should break the rope, and that would be +all.” + +Then the man grew pale and made the sign of the cross; he leaned towards +me, murmuring in a dreamy voice, “It is the shipwrecked ones who are +there under the stones, down there. It is they who dance in the +moonlight on the ‘shore of the dead.’ It is they who put the slippery +seaweed on the little rock down there, in order to make travellers slip, +and then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then, looking me in +the eyes, he said, “Will you go down all the same?” + +“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas; I will go down at once.” + +My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with Félicie. +Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word, knowing my unbridled +desire to meet danger. He looked to see if the belt was properly +fastened, and asked my permission to tie the tongue of the belt to the +belt itself; then he passed a strong cord several times around to +strengthen the leather, and I was let down, suspended by the rope in the +blackness of the crevasse. I extended my arms to the right and the left, +as the guardian had told me to do, and even then I got my elbows +scraped. At first I thought that the noise I heard was the reverberation +of the echo of the blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the +crevasse, but suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive +firings of cannons, strident ringings, crackings of a whip, plaintive +howls, and repeated monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing +up a net filled with fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises mingled +under the mad violence of the wind. I became furious with myself, for I +was really afraid. + +The lower I went, the louder the howlings became in my ears and my +brain, and my heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through +the narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my body, my +neck. A horrible fear took possession of me. + +I descended slowly, and at each little shock I felt that the four hands +holding me above had come to a knot. I tried to remember the number of +knots, for it seemed to me that I was making no progress. + +Then I opened my mouth to call out, “Draw me up!” but the wind, which +danced in mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back the words. +I was nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and ceased to struggle. I +would not even put out my arms. A few instants after I pulled up my legs +in unspeakable terror. The sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace +which had wet me through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could +see clearly. I stretched out my legs, and found myself upright on the +little rock. It is true it was very slippery. + +I took hold of a large ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock, +and I looked round. The long and narrow crevasse grew suddenly wider at +its base, and terminated in a large grotto which looked out over the +open sea; but the entrance of this grotto was protected by a quantity of +both large and small rocks, which could be seen for a distance of a +league in front on the surface of the water—which explains the terrible +noise of the sea dashing into the labyrinth and the possibility of +standing upright on a stone, as the Bretons say, with the wild dance of +the waves all around. + +However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal in the +brutal whirl of waters, which came rushing in from afar with dizzy speed +and broke against the insurmountable obstacle, and in receding dashed +against other waves which followed them. From this cause proceeded the +perpetual fusillade of waters which rushed into the crevasse without +danger of drowning me. + +It now began to grow dark, and I experienced a fearful anguish in +discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous eyes, which +looked fixedly at me. Then a little farther, near a tuft of seaweed, two +more of these fixed eyes. I saw no body to these beings—nothing but the +eyes. I thought for a minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my +tongue till the blood came; then I pulled violently at the rope, as I +had agreed to do in order to give the signal for being drawn up. I felt +the trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my feet lost their +hold as I was hauled up by my guardians. The eyes were lifted up also, +uneasy at seeing me depart. And while I mounted through the air I saw +nothing but eyes everywhere—eyes throwing out long feelers to reach me. + +I had never seen an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of +these horrible beasts. + +During the ascent, which appeared to me interminable, I imagined I saw +these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were chattering when I was +drawn out on to the green hillock. + +I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and he crossed +himself, saying, “Those are the eyes of the shipwrecked ones. No one +must stay there!” + +I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked ones, but I +did not know what they were. For I thought I had seen some strange +beasts that no one had ever seen before. + +It was only at the hotel with Père Batifoulé that I learnt about the +octopus. + +Only five more days’ holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the +Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named +“Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair.” Many tourists have sat there since. + +After my holiday I returned to Paris. But I was still very weak, and +could only take up my work towards the month of November. I played all +the pieces of my _répertoire_, and I was annoyed at not having any new +_rôles_. + +One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio. He began to talk +at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion, +and asked me incidentally if I knew the _rôle_ of Phèdre. Up to that +time I had only played Aricie, and the part of Phèdre seemed formidable +to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure. + +“Yes, I know the _rôle_ of Phèdre. But I think if ever I had to play it +I should die of fright.” + +[Illustration: + + A CORNER OF THE LIBRARY +] + +He laughed with his silly little laugh, and said to me, squeezing my +hand (for he was very gallant), “Work it up. I think that you will play +it.” + +In fact, eight days after I was called to the manager’s office, and +Perrin told me that he had announced _Phèdre_ for December 21, the +_fête_ of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of Phèdre. I +thought I should have fallen. + +“Well, but what about Mademoiselle Rousseil?” I asked. + +“Mademoiselle Rousseil wants the committee to promise that she shall +become a Sociétaire in the month of January, and the committee, which +will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and +declares that her demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mademoiselle +Rousseil will change her plans, and in that case you will play Aricie +and I will change the bill.” + +Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Régnier. I told him of my +conversation with the manager and of my fears. + +“No, no,” said the great artiste to me, “you must not be afraid! I see +very well what you are going to make of this _rôle_. But all you have to +do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the _rôle_ rather +more sorrowful than furious—it will be better for every one, even +Racine.” + +Then, joining my hands, I said, “Dear Monsieur Régnier, help me to work +up Phèdre, and I shall not be so much afraid!” + +He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile +nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not +help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid. +Régnier accepted, and made an appointment with me for the following +morning at nine o’clock. + +Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the committee, and _Phèdre_ +was billed for December 21, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the first +time in the _rôle_ of Phèdre. + +This caused quite a sensation in the artistic world and in theatrical +circles. That evening over two hundred people were turned away at the +box office. When I was informed of the fact I began to tremble a good +deal. + +Régnier comforted me as best he could, saying, “Courage! Cheer up! Are +you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into +consideration your inexperience in important leading parts,” &c. + +These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt +stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to +encourage me. + +I began to cry bitterly like a child. Perrin was called, and consoled me +as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face +so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated. + +Everybody on the stage knew about it, and stood at the door of my +dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing +Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed “we were playing _Phèdre_, and +you were hissed; and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried, +“we shall have a tremendous success.” + +But what put me completely in a good humour was the arrival of the +worthy Martel, who was playing Théramène, and who had come so quickly, +believing me to be ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The +sight of this grey face, with a wide bar of red wax commencing between +the two eyebrows, coming down to half a centimetre below his nose and +leaving behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this +face was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that +Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change +shape at the second performance of _Zaïre_, under the tropical +depression of the atmosphere, but I had never realised how much he +lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gaiety, and from +thenceforth I was in full possession of my faculties. + +The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in +praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was +on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over “my +impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead +artiste.” These are his own words addressed to Girardin, who immediately +communicated them to me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had +never seen Rachel, but I worshipped her talent, for I had surrounded +myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of +comparing me with their idol. + +A few days after this performance of _Phèdre_ the new piece of Bornier +was read to us—_La Fille de Roland_. The part of Berthe was confided to +me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, the +verses of which were nevertheless a little flat, though the play rang +with patriotism. There was in one act a terrible duel, not seen by the +public, but related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while the +incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who from a window +of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes of the encounter. This +scene was the only important one of my much-sacrificed _rôle_. + +The play was ready to be performed, when Bornier asked that his friend +Emile Augier might attend the dress rehearsal. When this rehearsal was +over Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As +to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner. +Emile Augier followed him. “Well——” he said to me. I looked straight at +him, feeling at the moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and +scratched his head, then turned towards Augier and said: + +“I beg you, _cher maître_, explain to Mademoiselle yourself.” + +Emile Augier was a broad man, with wide shoulders and a common +appearance, and was at that time rather stout. He was in very good +repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was at that epoch the +successful author. He came near me. + +“You managed the part at the window very well, Mademoiselle, but it is +ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has +written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately. +This scene must be taken out.” + +I turned towards Perrin, who was listening silently. “Are you of the +same opinion, sir?” + +“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author +is master to do as he pleases with his work.” + +Then, addressing myself to Bornier, I said, “Well, my dear author, what +have you decided?” + +Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching +and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene +which he prized, and of fear at vexing an Academician just at the time +when he was hoping to become a member of the Academy. + +“Cut it out, cut it out—or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier, +and he turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome, +came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man +suffered from a distressing skin disease. He did not speak. He looked at +us searchingly. Poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin, who +had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking +place in the heart of the mild Bornier. + +“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me. + +I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene were cut +out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands, which +he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he exclaimed, with comic +emphasis: + +“But I cannot cut it out—I cannot cut it out! She will not play! And the +day after to-morrow the play is to be performed.” Then, as Emile Augier +made a gesture and would have spoken: “No! No! To put back my play eight +days would be to kill it! I cannot cut it out! Oh, mon Dieu!” And he +cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and he stamped with his +short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the +same time funny and pitiable. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on +me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog: + +“Will you take the responsibility, Mademoiselle, of the absurd window +scene on the first performance?” + +“Certainly, Monsieur; and I even promise to make of this scene, which I +find very beautiful, an enormous success!” + +He shrugged his shoulders rudely, muttering something very disagreeable +between his teeth. + +When I left the theatre I found poor Bornier quite transfigured. He +thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene, +and he dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined +the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well bred, +but a trifle Jesuitical. + +The play was an immense success. But the window scene on the first night +was a veritable triumph. + +It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained +frequent allusions to it, and owing to the patriotism of the public made +an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I sent for Emile +Augier. He came to my dressing-room with a surly air, and said to me +from the door: + +“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is +idiotic to make a success of such vileness!” And he disappeared without +having even entered my dressing-room. + +[Illustration: + + LIBRARY IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS +] + +His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced +me repeatedly, I scratched myself all over. + +Two months later I played _Gabrielle_, by this same Augier, and I had +incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable. +Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, made a great success. As for +me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying a great deal. + +I had been appointed a Sociétaire in the month of January, and since +then it seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken an +engagement not to leave the House of Molière for many years. This idea +made me sad. It was at Perrin’s instigation that I had asked to become a +Sociétaire, and now I regretted it very much. + +During all the latter part of the year I only played occasionally. + +My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty +little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de +Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in +her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire +was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then +realising it. The son-in-law of M. Régnier, Félix Escalier, a +fashionable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused +me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house. +Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I +forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I +most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was +finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in +helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my +bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect +Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin, +and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I +played on one of my relations. + +My aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native country, in order to +spend a few days in Paris. She was staying with my mother. I invited her +to lunch in my new unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends +were working, some in one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty +scaffoldings were erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more +easily I was wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus +arrayed, was horribly shocked, and told me so. But I was preparing yet +another surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary +house-painters, and considered I was too familiar with them. But she +nearly fainted when mid-day came and I rushed to the piano to play “The +Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised +by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends. +Here it is: + + Oh! Peintres de la Dam’ jolie, + De vos pinceaux arrêtez la folie! + Il faut descendr’ des escabeaux, + Vous nettoyer et vous faire très beaux! + Digue, dingue, donne! + L’heure sonne. + Digue, dingue, di.... + C’est midi! + + Sur les grils et dans les cass’roles + Sautent le veau, et les œufs et les soles. + Le bon vin rouge et l’Saint-Marceaux + Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux! + Digue, dingue, donne! + L’heure sonne. + Digue, dingue, di.... + C’est midi! + + Voici vos peintres, Dam’ jolie + Qui vont pour vous débiter leur folie. + Ils ont tous lâché l’escabeau + Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et très beaux! + Digue, dingue, donne + L’heure sonne. + Digue, dingue, di.... + C’est midi. + +When the song was finished I went into my bedroom and made myself into a +_belle dame_ for lunch. + +My aunt had followed me. “But, my dear,” said she, “you are mad to think +I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there +is no one but yourself who would do such a thing.” + +“No, no, Aunt; it is all right.” + +And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was +the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to +my aunt, who did not recognise them at first, for they had changed their +working clothes and looked like five nice young society swells. Madame +Guérard lunched with us. Suddenly in the middle of lunch my aunt cried +out, “But these are the workmen!” The five young men rose and bowed low. +Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself in every +possible manner, so confused was she. + + + + + XXIV + ALEXANDRE DUMAS—L’ETRANGÈRE—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON + + +One day Alexandre Dumas, junior, was announced. He came to bring me the +good news that he had finished his play for the Comédie Française, +_L’Etrangère_, and that my _rôle_, the Duchesse de Septmonts, had come +out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a fine success out of +it.” I expressed my gratitude to him. + +A month after this visit we were requested to attend the reading of this +piece at the Comédie. + +The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my _rôle_, +Catherine de Septmonts. I also liked the _rôle_ of Croizette, Mrs. +Clarkson. + +Got gave us each copies of our parts, and thinking that he had made a +mistake, I passed on to Croizette the _rôle_ of l’Etrangère which he had +just given me, saying to her, “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your +_rôle_.” + +“But he is not making any mistake. It is I who am to play the Duchesse +de Septmonts.” + +I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody +present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me at whom I was laughing like +that, I exclaimed: + +“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette, and all of you who are in the +plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your cowardice. +Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play the +Duchesse de Septmonts, but I shall be ten times more delighted to play +l’Etrangère. And this time, my dear Sophie, I’ll be quits with you; no +ceremony, I tell you; for you have played me a little trick which was +quite unworthy of our friendship!” + +The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm +partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so +much so that one day Croizette, losing all patience, burst out: + +“Well, Monsieur, you should have left the _rôle_ to Sarah; she would +have played it with the voice you wish in the love scenes; I cannot do +any better. You irritate me too much: I have had enough of it!” And she +ran off, sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of +hysteria. + +I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of +her tears she kissed me, murmuring, “It is true. It is they who +instigated me to play this nasty trick, and now they are annoying me.” +Croizette used vulgar expressions, very vulgar ones, and at times +uttered many a Gallic joke. + +That day we made up our quarrel entirely. + +A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter +informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change +the name of the play. He wished—it goes without saying—to have the piece +called _La Duchesse de Septmonts_. + +I rushed off to the theatre to find Perrin at once. + +At the entrance door I met Coquelin, who was playing the part of the Duc +de Septmonts, which he did marvellously well. I showed him the letter. +He shrugged his shoulders. “It is infamous! But why do you take any +notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!” + +We were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived. + +“Here, show the letter to Perrin!” And he took it from my hands in order +to show it to him. Perrin blushed slightly. + +“I know this writing,” he said. “Some one from the theatre has written +this letter.” + +I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is well informed, +and what he says is perhaps true. Is it not so? Tell me. I have the +right to know.” + +“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs, bowing +slightly, but without saying anything further. + +“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much. Would you like me +to go and see Dumas, and I will get to know at once?” + +“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head. I’ll go there.” +And shaking hands with him, I went off to see the younger Dumas. He was +just going out. + +“Well, well? What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!” + +I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He +had kept his hat on, and took it off to recover his self-possession. And +before he could speak a word I got furiously angry; I fell into one of +those rages which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of +madness. And in fact, all that I felt of bitterness towards this man, +towards Perrin, towards all this theatrical world that should have loved +me and upheld me, but which betrayed me on every occasion—all the hot +anger that I had been accumulating during the rehearsals, the cries of +revolt against the perpetual injustice of these two men, Perrin and +Dumas—I burst out with everything in an avalanche of stinging words +which were both furious and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made +in former days; of his visit to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers; of +the cowardly and underhand manner in which he had sacrificed me, at +Perrin’s request and on the wishes of the friends of Sophie. I spoke +vehemently, without allowing him to edge in a single word. And when, +worn out, I was forced to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue, +“What—what—what have you to say for yourself?” + +“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had examined my own +conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to +me so eloquently! But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a +little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about the +stage; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your +court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all +that I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have +touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title +of _L’Etrangère_. And now embrace me with good grace, to show that you +are no longer angry with me.” + +I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends. + +That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew +nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that. The +play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the +laurels of the day. + +I had just commenced in my studio in the Avenue de Clichy a large group, +the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of an old +woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trépassés. + +One day I went up to her, wishing to speak to her, but I was so +terrified by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the +guardian told me her history. + +She was the mother of five sons, all sailors. Two had been killed by the +Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She had brought up the +little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him far from the sea and +teaching him to hate the water. She had never left the little lad, but +he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said he was dying +because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get well,” said +the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go to see it together.” + +Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left the valley +in the company of her little grandson to go and see the ocean, the grave +of her three sons. + +It was a November day; a low sky hung over the ocean, narrowing the +horizon. The child jumped with joy. He ran, gambolled, and sang for +happiness when he saw all this living water. + +The grandmother sat on the sand, and hid her tearful eyes in her two +trembling hands; then suddenly, struck by the silence, she looked up in +terror. There in front of her she saw a boat drifting, and in the boat +her boy, her little lad of eight years old, who was laughing right +merrily, paddling as well as he could with one oar that he could hardly +hold, and crying out, “I am going to see what there is behind the mist, +and I will come back.” + +He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman +talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every +day to the water’s edge, throwing in the bread which kind folks gave +her, and saying to the waves, “You must carry that to the little lad.” + +This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the +tall old woman, with her brown cape and hood. + +I worked feverishly at this group. It seemed to me now that I was +destined to be a sculptor, and I began to despise the stage. I only went +to the theatre when I was compelled by my duties, and I left as soon as +possible. + +I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was +going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges +Clairin, who came in just at that moment to see me, begged me not to do +so. And my good friend Mathieu Meusnier, who was a man of talent, also +added his voice against the destruction of my design. + +Excited by their encouragement, I decided to hurry on with the work and +to make a large group. I asked Meusnier if he knew any tall, bony old +woman, and he sent me two, neither of whom suited me. Then I asked all +my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of old +and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a charwoman +who was about sixty years old. She was very tall, and had very sharp-cut +features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of fear. The idea +of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours together made +me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more comfortable. Her +timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy young girl, +contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When I showed her +the design she was stupefied. “Do you want me to have my neck and +shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that nobody ever came in +when I worked, and I asked to see her neck immediately. + +Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long, +emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh; +the sterno-cleido-mastoid was remarkable—it was just what I wanted. I +went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What a treasure I had +found! The shoulder bone was visible under the skin, and she had two +immense “salt-cellars”! The woman was ideal for my work. She seemed +destined for it. She blushed when I told her so. I asked to see her +feet. She took off her thick boots and showed a dirty foot which had no +character. “No,” I said, “thank you. Your feet are too small; I will +take only your head and shoulders.” + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME + _From the painting by Walter Spindler_ +] + +After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea +of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry, +and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek +for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally +spent six months of the year in the country, in Sologne, near her +grandchildren. + +Having found the grandmother, I now needed the child. + +I passed a review of a whole army of professional Italian models. There +were some lovely children, real little Jupins. The mothers undressed +their children in a second, and the children posed quite naturally and +took attitudes which showed off their muscles and the development of the +torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years old, but who looked more +like nine. I had already had in the workmen, who had followed out my +design and put up the scaffolding necessary to make my work sufficiently +stable and to support the weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into +the plaster by bolts and pillars of wood and iron wherever necessary. +The skeleton of a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put +up to catch rats and mice by the thousand. + +I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance. +Nothing discouraged me. + +Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till four o’clock in the +morning. And as one humble gas-burner was totally insufficient to work +by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet made, each bud of which was +a candlestick, and each had its candle burning, and those of the back +row were a little higher than those of the front. And with this help I +was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock in the +room, as I wished to ignore time altogether, except on the days I had to +perform at the theatre. Then my maid would come and call for me. How +many times have I gone without lunch or dinner. Then I would perhaps +faint, and so be compelled to send for something to eat to restore my +strength. + +I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the +hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on +her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked +in vain for the hands and feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day, +when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this +group, which was much talked of, I had an inspiration. Martel was big, +and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my +work. He was looking at it as a _connoisseur_. But I was looking at +_him_. Suddenly I said: + +“My dear Martel, I beg you—I beseech you—to pose for the hands and feet +of my grandmother!” + +He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace he took off his +shoes and took the place of my model. + +He came ten days in succession, and gave me three hours each day. + +Thanks to him, I was able to finish my group. I had it moulded and sent +to the Salon (1876), where it met with genuine success. + +Is there any need to say that I was accused of having got some one else +to make this group for me? I sent a summons to one critic. He was no +other than Jules Claretie, who had declared that this work, which was +very interesting, could not have been done by me. Jules Claretie +apologised very politely, and that was the end of it. + +The Jury, after a full investigation, awarded me an “honourable +mention,” and I was wild with joy. + +I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the +criticisms referred to the neck of my old Breton woman, that neck on +which I had worked with such eagerness. + +The following is from an article by René Delorme: + +“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The +head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it +bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as +nothing. + +“The only reproach I have to make against this artist is that she has +brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the old +grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with +herself for having studied anatomy so well, and is not sorry for the +opportunity of showing it. It is,” &c. &c. + +Certainly this gentleman was right. I had studied anatomy eagerly and in +a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot, who was so +good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and +when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself, +putting my finger on some part of my body, “Now then, what is that?” I +had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I +compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm, +and did not sleep till this was done. + +A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s play, _Rome +Vaincue_, at the Comédie Française. I refused the _rôle_ of the young +vestal Opimia, which had been allotted to me, and energetically demanded +that of Posthumia, an old, blind Roman woman with a superb and noble +face. + +No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old Breton +weeping over her grandson and the august patrician claiming forgiveness +for her grand-daughter. + +Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But +his order-loving mind and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about +Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to +seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the +two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be +the two——something or other? _Eureka!_ There was in the play an old +idiot named Vestæpor, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the +piece, but had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried the +director of the Comédie; “Mounet-Sully shall play Vestæpor!” Equilibrium +was restored. The god of the _bourgeois_ was content. + +The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a great success at +the first performance (September 27, 1876), and personally I was very +successful in the fourth act. The public was decidedly in my favour, in +spite of everything and everybody. + + + + + XXV + “HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON + + +The performances of _Hernani_ made me a still greater favourite with the +public. + +I had already rehearsed with Victor Hugo, and it was a real pleasure to +me to see the great poet almost each day. I had never discontinued my +visits, but I was never able to have any conversation with him in his +own house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or women in +tears reciting. He was very good; he used to listen with half-closed +eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Then, roused by the silence, he would +say a consoling word, for Victor Hugo could not promise without keeping +his word. He was not like me: I promise everything with the firm +intention of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten +all about them. If any one reminds me of what I have promised, I tear my +hair, and to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy +presents—in fact, I complicate my life with useless worries. It has +always been thus, and always will be so. + +As was I grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a +chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after +lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to +which Paul Meurice, the poet Léon Cladel, the Communard Dupuis, a +Russian lady whose name I do not remember and Gustave Doré were also +invited. In front of Victor Hugo sat Madame Drouet, the friend of his +unlucky days. + +But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My +feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted +badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table. +Near me was Mr. X., a German socialist, who is to-day a very successful +man. This man had such dirty hands and ate in such a way that he made me +feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and +proper, and, I believe, an imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling +this uncongenial neighbour inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on +my feet, mortal boredom—all this reduced me to a state of positive +suffering, and I lost consciousness. + +When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that of Madame +Drouet, and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave Doré. + +“Oh, don’t move,” he exclaimed; “you are so pretty like that!” These +words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me nevertheless, and I +complied with the wish of the great artist, who was one of my friends. + +I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-bye to him, a trifle +ashamed of myself. + +The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale to account for my +illness, and I saw no more of him except at the rehearsals of _Hernani_. + +The first performance of _Hernani_ took place on November 21, 1877. It +was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. _Hernani_ had already +been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took the part of +Hernani, was the exact contrary of what this part should have been. He +was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the style of those +grand epic poems. He was charming, graceful, and wore a perpetual smile; +of middle height, with studied movements, he was ideal in Musset, +perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in Victor +Hugo. + +Bressant, who took the part of Charles Quint, was shockingly bad. His +amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively +prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden +under his trousers, assumed immense proportions. I could see nothing +else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes. +They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the +admirable couplet of Charles Quint to the shade of Charlemagne! It was +absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the +whole thing painful and ridiculous. + +In our performance it was Mounet-Sully, in all the splendour of his +talent, who played Hernani. And it was Worms, that admirable artiste, +who played Charles Quint—and how well he took the part! How he rolled +out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This performance of +November 21, 1877, was a triumph. I came in for a good share in the +general success. I played Dona Sol. Victor Hugo sent me the following +letter: + + “MADAME,—You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me, the + old combatant—and at one moment, while the public whom you had + enchanted cheered you, I wept. This tear which you caused me to shed + is yours, and I place myself at your feet. + + “VICTOR HUGO.” + +With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from +which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the house of the +rich nabob, Alfred Sassoon. He wanted to give me another, but I refused. +He could not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo. + +My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a +spoiled child. My comrades were a little jealous of me. + +Perrin made trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship +for me, but he would not believe that I could get on without him, and as +he always refused to do as I wanted, I did not go to him for anything. I +used to send a letter to the Ministry, and I always won my cause. + +As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at +painting. I knew how to draw a little, and had a well-developed sense of +colour. I first did two or three small pictures, then I undertook the +portrait of my dear Guérard. + +Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin +encouraged me to continue with painting. Then I launched out +courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two metres in +size, _The Young Girl and Death_. + +Then came a cry of indignation against me. + +Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career? + +Why did I always want to be before the public? + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AS DONA SOL + IN _HERNANI_ +] + +Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach. +“You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in +for sculpture, painting, &c.? Is it to prove that you can do it?” + +“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for +staying here.” + +“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively. + +“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something +else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours +and trees that are bigger—something different, in short. I have +therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my +chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things +in the world would win the day, and I should do something foolish.” + +This conversation was destined to go against me some years later, when +the Comédie brought a law-suit against me. + +The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of +exasperation that Perrin and some of the artistes of the theatre had +conceived against me. They blamed me for everything—for my painting, my +sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin, and it was +the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other +again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards. + +The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still +adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon. +This persistency had struck the _savant_, and he asked a mutual friend +to introduce him. + +“Oh, Monsieur Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon +that is not captive!” + +“Well, Mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very +kindly. + +“When?” I asked. + +“Any day you like.” + +I should have liked to start immediately, but, as he pointed out, he +would have to fit the balloon up, and it was a great responsibility for +him to undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a +week from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the +newspapers should get hold of this piece of news my terrified family +would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was +doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in a balloon accident, promised to +accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me, +and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the +“Dona Sol,” a beautiful orange-coloured balloon specially prepared for +my expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when +Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and +rather clumsy, and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite +of his marvellous wit, for he was spiteful, and rather delighted when he +could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III., whom I liked +very much. + +We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumour of our +journey had spread, but too late for the Press to get hold of the news. +I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my friends, +Comte de M——, met Perrin on the Saints-Pères Bridge. + +“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky. There is your star shooting +away.” + +Perrin gazed up, and, pointing to the balloon which was rising, he +asked, “Who is in that?” + +“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple, +and, clenching his teeth, he murmured, “That’s another of her freaks, +but she will pay for this.” + +He hurried away without even saying good-bye to my young friend, who +stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger. + +And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus travelling through the +air, Perrin would have suffered still more. + +Ah! our departure! It was half-past five. I shook hands with a few +friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was +not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when, after the words “Let +her go!” I found myself in about a second some fifty yards above the +earth. I still heard a few cries: “Wait! Come back! Don’t let her be +killed!” And then nothing more. Nothing. There was the sky above and the +earth beneath. Then suddenly I was in the clouds. I had left a misty +Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us +were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon +plunged into a milky vapour quite warm from the sun. It was splendid! It +was stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely +moving at all. It was only towards six o’clock that the currents of air +caught us, and we took our flight towards the east. We were at an +altitude of about 1700 metres. The spectacle became fairy-like. Large +fleecy clouds were spread below us like a carpet. Large orange curtains +fringed with violet came down from the sun to lose themselves in our +cloudy carpet. + +At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2500 metres above the earth, +and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt. + +The dinner was copious—we had _foie gras_, fresh bread, and oranges. The +cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft +noise. We raised our glasses in honour of M. Giffard. + +We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle. +It became very cold. We were then at 2600 metres, and I had a singing in +my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable, and began to +get drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got +anxious, and young Godard cried out loudly, to wake me up, no doubt: +“Come, come! We shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide-rope!” + +This cry woke me up. I wanted to know what a guide-rope was. I got up +feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me Godard put the guide- +rope into my hands. It was a strong rope of about 120 metres long, to +which were attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin and +I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard, bending over the side of the +car, was looking through a field-glass. + +“Stop!” he cried suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!” + +We were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us there was a +little open ground suitable for our descent. + +“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard; “if we miss this plain we +shall come down in the dead of night in the wood of Ferrières, and that +will be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said, “open +the valve?” + +I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison whistling a +mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aeronaut, and we +descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the +sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of +his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn on which he +blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 metres +below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As +we were very close to a little station, we easily guessed that this man +was the station-master. + +“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard through his horn. + +“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master. It was impossible to +understand. + +“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones. + +“At—in—in—ille!” shouted the station-master, with his hand curved round +his mouth. + +“Where are we?” cried I in my most crystalline accents. + +“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master and his porters. + +It was impossible to get to know anything. We had to lower the balloon. +At first we descended rather too quickly, and the wind blew us towards +the wood. We had to go up again. But ten minutes later we opened the +valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right +of the station, and far from the amiable station-master. + +“Throw out the anchor!” cried young Godard in a commanding tone. And +assisted by Georges Clairin, he threw out into space another rope, to +the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 +metres long. + +Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever +since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 metres from +earth Godard called out to them, “Where are we?” + +“At Vachère!” + +None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless. + +“Hullo! you fellows down there, take hold of the rope that’s dragging,” +cried the aeronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous +men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 metres from the ground, and the +sight was becoming interesting. Darkness began to blot out everything. I +raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with +astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was +overhanging its base, all loose and baggy. It was very ugly. + +We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I had hoped would +happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected. + +It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon. + +The young owner of a neighbouring château ran up, like the peasants, to +see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella. + +“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet. I pass between the drops.” + +The saying was repeated and had a great success. + +“What time is there a train?” asked Godard. + +“Oh, you have plenty of time,” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You +cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here, +and in such weather it will take Madame two hours to walk there.” + +I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella, +which I could have used as walking-stick, as neither Clairin nor Godard +had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving us, he +jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up. + +“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and +another for the body of the balloon.” + +“_Ma foi!_ You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it +appears the roads are in a very bad state.” + +“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of +Parisians to walk even half the distance.” + +Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey. + +Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of +Emerainville. The station-master, learning who we were, received us in a +very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we +called out an hour previously from our floating vehicle. We had a frugal +meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before us. I have always detested +cheese, and would never eat it: there is nothing poetical about it. But +I was dying with hunger. + +“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin. + +I bit a morsel off, and found it excellent. + +We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my +household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends who had come to +hear news of us had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat +annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue. + +I sent everybody away rather sharply, and went up to my room. As my maid +was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from +the Comédie Française several times. + +“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece have been changed?” + +“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears that Monsieur +Perrin is furious, and that they are all in a rage with you. Here is the +note which was left for you.” + +I opened the letter. I was requested to call on the manager the +following day at two o’clock. + +On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed I was received with +exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity. + +Then commenced a series of recriminations about my fits of ill-temper, +my caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying +that I had incurred a fine of one thousand francs for travelling without +the consent of the management. + +I burst out laughing. “The case of a balloon has not been foreseen,” I +said; “and I vow that I will pay no fine. Outside the theatre I do as I +please, and that is no business of yours, my dear Monsieur Perrin, so +long as I do nothing to interfere with my theatrical work. And besides, +you bore me to death—I will resign. Be happy.” + +I left him ashamed and anxious. + +The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and a few +hours afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I +refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin +had gone a step farther than he had any right to; that the fine was +annulled, and that I must cancel my resignation. So I did. + +But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my +enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at that +time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract +attention. My somewhat fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my +peculiar way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all +respects, made me a being quite apart from all others. I did not +recognise the fact. + +I did not read, I never read, the newspapers. So I did not know what was +said about me, either favourable or unfavourable. Surrounded by a court +of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream. + +[Illustration: + + A CORNER OF THE HALL WITH A PAINTING + BY CHARTRAN OF SARAH BERNHARDT + AS _GISMONDA_ +] + +All the royal personages and the notabilities who were the guests of +France during the Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant +source of pleasure to me. + +The Comédie was the first theatre to which all these illustrious +visitors went, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I +was playing Amphytrion I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the south. + +I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin +my headquarters. I had a tent put up here on the spot that the Empress +Eugénie afterwards selected for her villa. I did not want to see +anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent so far from the town I +should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I +was having lunch with my little boy I heard the bells of two horses and +a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was half hidden by the +bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not recognise, cried in +the emphatic tone of a herald, “Does Sarah Bernhardt, Sociétaire of the +Comédie Française, reside here?” + +We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was +silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were +pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the unwelcome voice +recommenced. + +We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed, I came out. I saw before me a man +with a large _tussore_ cloak on, a field-glass strapped on his +shoulders, a grey bowler hat, and a red, happy face, with a little +pointed beard. I looked at this commonplace-looking individual with +anything but favour. He lifted his hat. + +“Madame Sarah Bernhardt is here?” + +“What do you want with me, sir?” + +“Here is my card, Madame.” + +I read, “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with +astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did +not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent. + +“Well, you see, Madame, I came to ask you to sell me your group, _After +the Tempest_.” + +I began to laugh. + +“Ma foi, Monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and +they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten you may have it.” + +“All right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?” + +“No.” + +“Ah,” said he, “allow me!” And he produced a little case in which there +were pen and ink. + +I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to take the group from my +studio in Paris. He went away, and I heard the bells of the horses +ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was often +invited to the house of this original person. + + + + + XXVI + THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE GOES TO LONDON + + +Shortly after, I came back to Paris. At the theatre they were preparing +for a benefit performance for Bressant, who was about to retire from the +stage. It was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from +_Othello_, by Jean Aicard. The theatre was well filled, and the audience +in a good humour. After the song I was in bed as Desdemona, when +suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then +irrepressibly. Othello had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt +or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door +hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has no +hesitation in taking part in these unseemly manifestations, but each +member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed +to admit that he participated in them. But the ridicule thrown on this +act by the exaggerated pantomime of the actor prevented the play being +staged again, and it was only twenty years later that _Othello_ as an +entire play was produced at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer +there. + +After having played Bérénice in _Mithridate_ successfully, I reappeared +in my _rôle_ of the Queen in _Ruy Blas_. The play was as successful at +the Théâtre Français as it had been at the Odéon, and the public was, if +anything, still more favourable to me. Mounet-Sully played Ruy Blas. He +was admirable in the part, and infinitely superior to Lafontaine, who +had played it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well costumed, +rendered his part in a most interesting manner, but he was not so good +as Geffroy, who was the most distinguished and the most terrifying Don +Salluste that could be imagined. + +My relations with Perrin were more and more strained. + +He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theatre; he +was happy at the magnificent receipts of _Ruy Blas_; but he would have +much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the +applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance, +annoyed him vastly. + +One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking +to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me, +though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed. + +“Send him away, and let me work in peace.” + +I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It +represented a little girl, on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm. +The little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years +old. Suddenly she said to me: + +“He’s quarrelling—that Englishman!” + +As a matter of fact, in the ante-room there was a noise of voices rising +higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand, +resolved to make the intruder flee. But just as I opened the door of my +studio a tall man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into +the large room. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery +white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very +politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my “hall”—and this while I +was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I +begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his +visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent: + +“I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you +come to America?” + +“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!” + +“Oh well, don’t get angry. Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then at +the moment he took leave he said: + +“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like +to earn a lot of money in London?” + +“Yes. How?” + +“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make a small fortune for you.” + +“Oh, I would be pleased—that is if I go to London, for I have not yet +decided.” + +“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional +clause?” + +And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence +at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed. + +The committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John +Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theatre in London. Nobody had been +consulted, and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when +they told me about this agreement, I said nothing. + +Perrin rather anxiously took me aside: + +“What are you turning over in your mind?” + +“I am turning over this: That I will not go to London in a situation +inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be a +Sociétaire with one entire share in the profits.” + +This intention irritated the committee considerably. And the next day +Perrin told me that my proposal was rejected. + +“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract +compels me to go.” + +The committee met again, and Got cried out, “Well, let her stay away! +She is a regular nuisance!” + +It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But +Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see things in this light, +and they declared that the contract would not be binding if either +Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go. + +The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’ worth of tickets +beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we +did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair, and told me all +about it. + +“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie if you don’t +come,” he said, “for the business cannot go through.” + +Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to see Perrin, +and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer I +understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Théâtre +Français and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any +conditions. + +The committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait, and +shortly after he came back to me. Croizette and I had been appointed +Sociétaires with one entire share in the profits each, not only for +London, but for always. + +Everybody had done their duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my +hands and drew me to him. + +“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!” + +We embraced, and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not +last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o’clock +in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had some friends +to dinner, so I went to receive him in the hall. He held out to me a +paper. + +“Read that,” said he. + +And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph: + + DRAWING-ROOM COMEDIES OF MLLE. SARAH BERNHARDT, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT + OF SIR JULIUS BENEDICT.—“The _répertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is + composed of comedies, proverbs, one-act plays, and monologues, written + specially for her and one or two artistes of the Comédie Française. + These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and can be + adapted both in London and Paris to the _matinées_ and _soirées_ of + the best society. For all details and conditions please communicate + with Mr. Jarrett (secretary of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at Her Majesty’s + Theatre.” + +As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning +that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I +explained this frankly to Perrin. + +“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use of my evenings to +earn money? This business has been proposed to me.” + +“I am not complaining—it’s the committee.” + +“That is too bad!” I cried, and calling for my secretary, I said, “Give +me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.” + +He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin +to read. + +“Would you care to come and play _La Nuit d’Octobre_ at Lady Dudley’s on +Thursday, June 5? We are offered 5000 francs for us two. Kind +regards.—DELAUNAY.” + +“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed. + +“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I spoke to you about his +offer.” + +For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the +scandalous notice in the _Times_. The French were then almost entirely +ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all this talk +annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the next day the +following appeared in the _National_ (May 29): “_Much Ado about +Nothing._—In friendly discussion it has been decided that outside the +rehearsals and the performances of the Comédie Française each artiste is +free to employ his time as he sees fit. There is therefore absolutely no +truth at all in the pretended quarrel between the Comédie Française and +Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This artiste has only acted strictly within her +rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and all our artistes intend to +benefit in the same manner. The manager of the Comédie Française asks +only that the artistes who form this company do not give performances in +a body.” + +This article came from the Comédie, and the members of the committee had +taken advantage of it to advertise themselves a little, announcing that +they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was sent +to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English papers. It +was Mayer himself who told me this. + +All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for +departure. + +I had been but once on the sea when it was decided that the artistes of +the Comédie Française should go to London. The determined ignorance of +the French with regard to all things foreign was much more pronounced in +those days than it is at present. Therefore I had a very warm cloak +made, as I had been assured that the crossing was icy cold even in the +very middle of summer, and I believed this. On every side I was besieged +with lozenges for sea-sickness, sedatives for headache, tissue paper to +put down my back, little compress plasters to put on my diaphragm, and +waterproof cork soles for my shoes, for it appeared that above all +things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how droll and amusing it all was! +I took everything, paid attention to all the recommendations, and +believed everything I was told. + +The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five +minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very +light, and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable +individual, possessing all orders and honours, a colossal fortune, and +the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a timid inventor, young, +poor, and sad: he was always buried in books which treated of abstract +questions, whilst of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a great +admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court had +surnamed him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colourless, and +really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_. + +He came up to see me, his face more wan-looking even than usual. The +boat was moving a little. My departure terrified him, and the wind +caused him to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to +me, and I followed him, accompanied by _mon petit Dame_, and leaving my +friends, who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated he +opened the case and took out an enormous life-belt invented by himself. +I was perfectly astounded, for I was new to sea voyages, and the idea +had never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one +hour’s crossing. La Quenelle was by no means disconcerted, and he put +the belt on himself in order to show me how it was used. + +Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man, with his sad, +serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized +bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and +contained a piece of sugar. In the twelfth, a very small bladder, were +ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion with a +few pins on it. + +“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water—paff!—you stay +like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with +the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the +imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order +to keep his head above water. + +“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,” he explained, +“and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an +egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it; that is as good +as a quarter of a pound of meat.” He then threw the broken bladder +overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he +fastened to the life-belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was +petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping +for one of La Quenelle’s mad freaks, but they had never expected +anything like this one. + +M. Mayer, one of our _impresarii_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a +kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know +whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one +of my friends roused my pity for this poor Quenelle. I thought of the +hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his +ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had +prompted the invention of this life saving apparatus, and I held out my +hand to my poor Quenelle, saying, “Be off now, quickly; the boat is just +going to start.” + +He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I +then called my steward, Claude, and I said, “As soon as we are out of +sight of land, throw that case and all it contains into the sea.” + +The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah! Au +revoir! Success! Good luck!” There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs +floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to every one. + +But what was really fine, and a sight I shall never forget, was our +landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was +the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!” + +I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of +Hamlet. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him +later on as Hamlet played by Forbes Robertson. We passed on through a +crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was +more favoured than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was +delighted all the same. One of my comrades who was just near, and with +whom I was not a favourite, said to me in a spiteful tone: + +“They’ll make you a carpet of flowers soon.” + +“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on +the ground in front of me. + +I stopped short, rather confused, not daring to walk on these white +flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and +the poor lilies had to be trodden under foot. + +“Hip, hip, hurrah! A cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent +young man. + +His head was above all the other heads; he had luminous eyes and long +hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though, +and one of the greatest of the century, a poet who was a genius, but who +was, alas! later tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was +Oscar Wilde. + +The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amidst +shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah for +the French actors!” + +When the train arrived at Charing Cross towards nine o’clock we were +nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was +gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again on +our arrival in London with more hurrahs. There were plenty of people, +crowds of people, but none appeared to know us. + +On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet +laid down, and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything, +as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however, +had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the +Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris. + +This news disappointed me, and even annoyed me personally. I had been +told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of +the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely +indifferent. The crowd was large and even dense, but cold. + +“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer. + +“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,” +he replied. + +“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued. + +“No. The Prince has taken a box for the season, for which he has paid +four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.” + +I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I +felt that everything was going wrong. + +A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a +heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the +house, 77 Chester Square, I did not want to get out of my carriage. + +The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly +lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth +arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the +carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six +weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me. + +“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my man- +servant. + +“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are +from Paris, from Madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet +from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it I read +the words, “Welcome!—Henry Irving.” + +I went all through the house, and it seemed to me very dismal-looking. I +visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth +chattered when I came in again. That night when I went to sleep my heart +was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some +misfortune. + +The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see +them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. That man +was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He +had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had +refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account +of his intelligence, his comic humour, and my need of being piloted in +this new country. + +“No,” he said; “if you receive them all together, they will all be +furious, and you will get some wretched articles. You must receive them +one after the other.” + +Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my +seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation +when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of +the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them. +I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, “Well, +Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?” + +I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of +these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had +drawn my curtain on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester +Square, a small square of sombre verdure, in the midst of which was a +black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church. + +I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared +for this, and I learnt the following morning that I was most +enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a +number of the public buildings, &c. &c. + +Towards five o’clock Hortense Damain arrived. She was a charming woman, +and a favourite in London society. She had come to inform me that the +Duchess of —— and Lady —— would call on me at half-past five. + +“Oh, stay with me, then,” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am; +I feel sure that I shall be stupid.” + +At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I +had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I +have always had since a very pleasant memory of it. + +Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so +distinguished, and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit. + +A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had +been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends. +He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and he +said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I +thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row. + +At seven o’clock Hortense Damain came to fetch me to dine with her at +the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice house in Prince’s +Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter Millais. +I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I +thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold +and sedate: I found them charming and full of humour. Every one spoke +French very well, and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English +language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched +by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to recite any +poetry. + +I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found +myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young +girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account, and +enjoying themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a +husband. What surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who +were getting on in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I +spoke of this to Hortense Damain. + +“It’s frightful!” I said. + +“Yes, but it’s chic.” + +She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about +nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few +days before I left Paris: + + _Chester Square tu habiteras._ In Chester Square thou shalt live + + _Rotten Row tu monteras_ In Rotten Row thou shalt ride + + _Le Parlement visiteras_ Parliament thou shalt visit + + _Garden-parties fréquenteras_ Garden parties thou shalt frequent, + + _Chaque visite tu rendras_ Every visit thou shalt return + + _A chaque lettre tu repondras_ Every letter thou shalt answer + + _Photographies tu signeras_ Photographs thou shalt sign + + _Hortense Damain tu écouteras_ To Hortense Damain thou shalt + listen + + _Et tous ses conseils, les And all her counsels thou shalt + suivras._ follow. + +I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realised that under this +jocular form she considered them as very serious and important. Alas! my +poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I detested +paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or following any +one’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I detest going +to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on +them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving in +frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary places. I adore +giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never follow at once any +wise advice that is given me. It always requires an effort of my will to +recognise the justice of any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect +to be grateful for it: at first, it simply annoys me. + +Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damain’s counsels, nor yet +to Jarrett’s; and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were +vexed with me (in any other country I should have made enemies). On that +first visit to London what a quantity of letters of invitation I +received to which I never replied! How many charming women called upon +me and I never returned their calls. Then, too, how many times accepted +invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a +line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know; and yet I always accept +with pleasure and intend to go, but when the day comes I am tired +perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any +obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time +has gone by and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so I +stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with every one else and with +everything. + + + + + XXVII + LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE + + +Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique +grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on +earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an +Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He +excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this +broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved +and pampered artiste. + +I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home +very gay and very much “anglomaniaised.” I found some of my friends +there—Parisians who had just arrived—and they were furious. My +enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the +morning. + +The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde +Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower- +beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners; then there were the clusters +of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the +light hats covered with flowers under which shone the pretty faces of +children and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop +of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen, +slender, supple, and courageous; then there were men and children, the +latter mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too, +galloping along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, the children’s +hair and the manes of the horses streaming in the wind of their own +speed. + +The carriage road between the riding-track and the foot passengers was +filled with dog-carts, open carriages of various kinds, mail-coaches, +and very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with +flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All +this elegance, this essence of luxury, and this joy of life brought back +to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so +animated a few years before, when Napoleon III. used to drive through on +his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those +days—our Bois de Boulogne, with the officers caracoling in the Avenue +des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women! + +The joy of life was everywhere—the love of love enveloping life with an +infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the +awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle +Emperor, with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed +by fortune, crushed with grief. + +The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its +intenseness, but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still +shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had +struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory. +Three Presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little +Thiers, with his perverse _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with +nibbling at every kind of Government—royalty under Louis Philippe, +Empire under Napoleon III., and the executive power of the French +Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up +again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had +been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had +succeeded the Marshal, but he was miserly, and considered all outlay +unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so +Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had +communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de +Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the national defence +had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted. + +I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their +mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which +surrounded me. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + IN RIDING COSTUME +] + +I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the +first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were +several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not +want to see any one. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theatre, +where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew +already that I had been elected the favourite, and the idea of this +chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am +subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I +first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I +used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some +spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent +people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I had no feeling +of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_ or stage +fright was in the month of January 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the +eighth performance of _Le Passant_. The success of this little +masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of +Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I +went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house. +I turned towards the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just +entered. But no; the box was empty, and I realised then that all the +bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my +eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I had five +curtain calls, and on leaving the theatre the students ranged on each +side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms +of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me. + +“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked. + +“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said. “They want to make a +‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll +drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.” + +My grandmother took my head in her hands, and I met the vacant look in +her large light eyes fixed on me. + +“You told me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your +profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are +frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.” + +I drove back my tears, and declared that I would bear up courageously +against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity, +my heedlessness, and my “don’t care-ism.” But from that time forth fear +took possession of me, and stage fright martyrised me. + +It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of +_Phèdre_, in which I was to appear for the first time before the English +public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes, +and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I +looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not so +tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is “_le +bal_,” which I pronounce low down with the open _a_, “_le bâââl_,” or +take high by dwelling on the _l_—“_le balll_.” Ah, but there was no +doubt about it; my “_le bal_” neither sounded high nor low, my voice was +hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, +and just then I was informed that the second act of _Phèdre_ was about +to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and +my cameo belt was not fastened. + +I began to murmur: + + “_Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire. + J’oublie en le voyant...._” + +That word “_j’oublie_” struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget +the words I had to say? Why, yes. What was it I had to say? I did not +know—I could not remember. What was I to say after “_en le voyant_”? + +No one answered me. Every one was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard +Got mumble, “She’s going mad!” + +Mlle. Thénard, who was playing Œnone, my old nurse, said to me, “Calm +yourself. All the English have gone to Paris; there’s no one in the +house but Belgians.” + +This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction. + +“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at +Brussels!” + +“Oh, all for nothing,” she answered calmly. “There were only English +people in the theatre that day.” + +I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but +she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but +not the fright that paralyses, only the kind that drives one wild. This +is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do +too much, but at any rate one does something. + +The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds, +and as I bent my head in acknowledgment I said within myself, +“Yes—yes—you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood—my life +itself—my soul.” + +When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on +rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get +lower again—I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I +cried out; and it was all real. My suffering was horrible; my tears were +flowing, scorching and bitter. I implored Hippolyte for the love which +was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms +of Phèdre writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace. The inspiration +had come. + +When the curtain fell Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried me +to my dressing-room. + +The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and +bow. I too wanted to return and thank the public for its attention, its +kindliness, and its emotion. I returned. + +The following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_ of June 5, 1879: + +“When, recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by +her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully, she received an ovation which +I think is unique in the annals of the theatre in England.” + +The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable +criticism with these lines: + +“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fibre, and her +passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when, after a +recall that could not be resisted, the curtain drew up, M. Mounet-Sully +was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress, who had won her +triumph only after tremendous physical exertion—and triumph it was, +however short and sudden.” + +The _Standard_ finished its article with these words: + +“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst its +bonds, and the despairing, heart-broken woman is revealed to Hippolyte, +was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of enthusiasm such as is +rarely witnessed in a theatre followed the fall of the curtain. Mlle. +Sarah Bernhardt in the few minutes she was upon the stage (and coming +on, it must be remembered, to plunge into the middle of a stirring +tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression which will not soon be +effaced from those who were present.” + +The _Morning Post_ said: + +“Very brief are the words spoken before Phèdre rushes into the room to +commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and tear +and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her passion +mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature, the woman +sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a panther, +striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart which stifled +her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when, terrified at the +horror her breathings have provoked in Hippolyte, she strove to pull his +sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own breast, she fell back in +complete and absolute collapse. This exhibition, marvellous in beauty of +pose, in febrile force, in intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the +more remarkable as the passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a +bound, no performance of the first act having roused the actress to the +requisite heat. It proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her +reputation, and shows what may be expected from her by the public which +has eagerly expected her coming.” + +This London first night was decisive for my future. + + + + + XXVIII +MY PERFORMANCES IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE + COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE + + +My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to +overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance, and +had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was in the night I +vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was despatched to +the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras, who was at the +head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on my bed, +exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I should +not recover, and requested that my family be sent for. I made a gesture +with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could not +speak, I wrote down with a pencil, “Send for Dr. Parrot.” + +Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice +between my lips every five minutes. At length towards five in the +morning the blood vomiting ceased, and, thanks to a potion that the +doctor gave me, I fell asleep. + +We were to play _L’Etrangère_ that night at the Gaiety, and, as my +_rôle_ was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand- +même_. + +Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat, and refused categorically +to give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt +much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but +to this Dr. Parrot objected. + +Presently Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the impresario of the Comédie +Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety +Theatre, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was +going to play in _L’Etrangère_, the piece announced on the bills. I +asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room, and I gave +instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room. + +“I feel much better,” I said to him very quickly. “I’m very weak still, +but I will play. Hush!—don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead, and +wait for me in the smoking-room, but don’t let any one else know.” + +I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me, and as she +had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused. + +Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in +the smoking-room, and then we both got into his hansom. + +“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid. + +“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied. + +“To the theatre! Quick—quick!” I answered. + +The cab started, and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at +home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have allowed me to +perform. + +“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.” + +When once I was at the theatre I took refuge in the manager’s private +office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him, +and I knew how wrongly I was acting with regard to him, considering the +inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey +specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how +impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt +really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking +what was my own to dispose of as I pleased. + +Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from +Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with +a prescription in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later, and +would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though, +that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to +prepare for my _rôle_ in _L’Etrangère_. While dressing I fainted three +times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_. + +The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I +arrived on the stage in a semi-conscious state, delighted with the +applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream, and +could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I only saw +through a luminous mist. My feet glided along without any effort on the +carpet, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in +that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine, +opium, or hasheesh. + +The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was +about to tell the Duchesse de Septmonts (Croizette) all the troubles +that I, Mrs. Clarkson, had gone through during my life, just as I should +have commenced my interminable story, I could not remember anything. +Croizette murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips +move without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly: + +“The reason I sent for you here, Madame, is because I wanted to tell you +my reasons for acting as I have done. I have thought it over and have +decided not to tell you them to-day.” + +Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes. She then +rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me +all the time. + +“What’s the matter?” every one asked when she sank almost breathless +into an arm-chair. + +“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite +mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.” + +“But how?” every one asked. + +“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette. + +“But what for?” was the eager question. + +“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.” + +The whole of this conversation, which was repeated to me later on, took +much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been +told, and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain +fell. I was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that +people told me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed +to me that I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really +under the influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in +the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day +the accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company, but the +piece itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary +omission of the important scene in the third act was one of the causes +of the severity of the Press. This was not so, though, as all the +critics had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself, +and did not mention my slip of memory. + +The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humour with me just then, had an +article from which I quote the following extract: + +“_L’Etrangère_ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste. +Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically, and so were +Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her +memory.” (_Figaro_, June 3rd.) + +He knew perfectly well, this worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill. +He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot; consequently he was aware +that I was acting in spite of the Faculty in the interests of the +Comédie Française. The English public had given me such proofs of +appreciation that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the +_Figaro_, which was at that time the organ of the Théâtre Français, +requested Johnson to modify his praises of me. This he did the whole +time that we were in London. + +Footnote 3: + + T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_. + +My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an +unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how +unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of +their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the +reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson to act as strangely as she did. He +had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as +the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act, +by the lines which Mrs. Clarkson says to Madame de Septmonts: + +“I should be very glad, Madame, if you would call on me. We could talk +about one of your friends, Monsieur Gérard, whom I love perhaps as much +as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.” + +That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was +the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between vice and +virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient +history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to +arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained +was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been +a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas, +and the brutality of his humour sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas +which, in reality, are the eternal basis of tragedies, comedies, novels, +pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was love between vice and virtue. +Among the spectators who saw the first performance of _L’Etrangère_ in +London, and there were quite as many French as English present, not one +remarked that there was something wanting, and not one of them said that +he had not understood the character. + +I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman. + +“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him. + +“No,” he replied. + +“In my big scene with Croizette?” + +“No.” + +“Well then, read what I left out,” I insisted. + +When he had read this he exclaimed: + +“So much the better. It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless. +I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic +history.” + +Later on, when I apologised to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had +cut down his play, he answered, “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play +I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when +any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always +forgets half of it.” + +The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to +the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now +with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful +for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of +it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way. + +Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able +to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had +therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I +had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a +hundred in all. + +His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come +with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities +of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred +invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to +me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely. + +Mr. Gladstone did me the great honour of talking to me for about ten +minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly +gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain +clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of +dramatic artistes had made on me. I answered that I considered our art +quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant +preachers. + +“But will you tell me, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson +you can draw from _Phèdre_?” + +“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me. _Phèdre_ is an ancient +tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to perspective +quite different from ours and different from the morality of our present +society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone, +who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person. The love +of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her +family and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call +that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the daughter of Minos and +Pasiphaë. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no +appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the +death of that beloved son of his, who was the sole and last hope of his +life. We ought never to do what is irreparable.” + +“Ah,” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?” + +“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.” + +“And quite right, Mademoiselle.” + +Frederic Leighton then joined us, and with great kindness complimented +me on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms. +This picture was bought by Prince Leopold. + +My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it +was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side- +thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française. + +[Illustration: + + “OPHELIA,” SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT +] + +I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptress, and I +exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two +little lions, and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what +they were worth—that is to say, at very modest prices. + +Lady H—— bought my group _After the Storm_. It was smaller than the +large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and +for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I +had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160, +but Lady H—— sent me £400, together with a charming note, which I +venture to quote. It ran as follows: + +“Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your +admirable group, _After the Storm_. Will you also do me the honour of +coming to lunch with me, and afterwards you shall choose for yourself +the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.—ETHEL +H.” + +This was Tuesday, and I was playing in Zaïre that evening, but +Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now +to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theatre I started for +Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that +I should find some lions for sale. + +The journey was most amusing, as although I was travelling incognito, I +was recognised all along the route and was made a great deal of. + +Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a +very lively little trip. I knew that I was not shirking my duties at the +Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only +Wednesday. + +We started in the morning at 10.30, and arrived at Liverpool about 2.30. +We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the +house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed +to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we +could not believe that was the entrance. + +I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we +were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking +room, where we found a little man. + +“Mr. Cross?” we said. + +“That’s my name,” he replied. + +“I want to buy some lions,” I then said. + +He began to laugh, and then he asked: + +“Do you really, Mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to +London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in +_Hernani_.” + +“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I like animals?” I said to him. + +“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me. He +said you had bought two dogs from him, and that if it had not been for a +gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.” + +He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humour. + +“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.” + +“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the +courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures +they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and +powerful-looking tails, which were beating the air. They had only just +arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for +rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating +stigma of civilised beings. + +“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big. I want some young lions!” + +“I haven’t any, Mademoiselle.” + +“Well, then, show me all your animals.” + +I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the cheetahs, the pumas, +and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I +should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of +my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realise it. + +Cross had not any, though, so I bought a cheetah. It was quite young and +very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages. +I also bought a dog-wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and +spear-like teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a +present of six chameleons which belonged to a small breed and looked +like lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, +fabulous sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity, and +changed colour from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and +long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set +like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite +independent of each other. With its right eye it would look ahead and +with its left eye it looked backwards. I was delighted and quite +enthusiastic over this present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross- +ça,” in honour of Mr. Cross. + +We returned to London with the cheetah in a cage, the dog-wolf in a +leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and Cross-ci Cross-ça on my +shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweller’s. + +I had not found any lions, but I was delighted all the same. + +My servants were not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs +in the house: Minniccio, who had accompanied me from Paris; Bull and +Fly, bought in London. Then there was my parrot Bizibouzou, and my +monkey Darwin. + +Madame Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My steward +hesitated to approach the dog-wolf, and it was all in vain that I +assured them that my cheetah was not dangerous. No one would open the +cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in +order to open the door of the cage which had been nailed down, thus +keeping the poor cheetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for +the hammer they decided to open it themselves. Madame Guérard and the +women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open, +and the cheetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his +cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees and made straight for +the dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was +excited, and uttered shrill cries; and the monkey, shaking his cage +about, gnashed his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent +square made the most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened, and +more than twenty faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them +inquisitive, alarmed, or furious. I was seized with a fit of +uncontrollable laughter, and so was my friend Louise Abbema. Nittis the +painter, who had come to call on me, was in the same state, and so was +Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me ever since two o’clock. +Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician with a great deal of talent, tried +to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony, whilst my friend Georges +Clairin, his back shaking with laughter, sketched the never-to-be- +forgotten scene. + +The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam +that had been let loose at 77 Chester Square. So much was made of it +that our _doyen_, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as +it reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence, and +when he had finished I took his hands. + +“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I led the way +into the garden, followed by my visitor and friends. + +“Let the cheetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain +ordering his men to take in a reef. + +When the cheetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the +previous day. + +“You see, Monsieur le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.” + +“You are mad,” he said, kissing me; “but it certainly is irresistibly +comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads +appearing above the garden wall. + +The hostilities continued, though, through scraps of gossip retailed by +one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press took +it up, and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy disposition +and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated. +Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly +having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched and +blamed. + +One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved +dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in her hands, and looking +into my eyes, said: + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + _From the portrait by Mlle. Louise Abbema_ +] + +“My poor dear, you can’t do anything to prevent it. You are original +without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of hair that is +naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is exaggerated, you +have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes of you a creature +apart, which is a crime of high treason against all that is commonplace. +That is what is the matter with you physically. Now for your moral +defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop to anything, +you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself to any +hypocrisy—and all that is a crime of high treason against society. How +can you expect under these conditions not to arouse jealousy, not to +wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them spiteful? If you +are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be all over with you, +as you will have no strength left to withstand them. In that case I +advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so make it lie as +sleek as that of the famous Corsican; but even that would never do, for +Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original. Well, you might +try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then there would be no +risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to get a little +stouter, and to let your voice break occasionally; then you would not +annoy any one. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear, prepare to +mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal, injustice, +adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon it, +though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work, and +your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally provided +the first materials for the edifice will kick it then, in hopes of +destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if you choose +to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my dear Sarah, as +you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot understand that myself, +as I only like rest and retirement.” + +Footnote 4: + + Prudhon was one of the artistes of the Théâtre Français. + +I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful: with her liquid eyes, +her face with its pure, restful lines, and her weary smile. I wondered +in an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity, +in the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I +wanted to know; and she told me that the theatre bored her, that she had +had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her +marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her +love affairs had left her with affections crushed and physically +disabled. The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her +legs were swollen and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in +the same calm, half weary tone. + +What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart +now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes +and her legs, and her delight in retirement was only the love of that +peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she +had lived. + +The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than +ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed +myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle +rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made +up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and +not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on +the defensive, and very soon an occasion presented itself. + +_L’Etrangère_ was to be played for the second time at a _matinée_, June +21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well, +and that as I was playing in _Hernani_ at night, I should be glad if he +could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The +advance booking, however, was more than £400, and the committee would +not hear of it. + +“Oh well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the _rôle_ to some one +else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine +Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, _que diable!_ it +seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mademoiselle +Bernhardt.” + +Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played +this _rôle_ at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake +it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and +_Tartufe_ was given instead of _L’Etrangère_. Nearly all the public, +however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which +would have been about £500, only amounted to £84. All the spite and +jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the Comédie, more +particularly the men, with the exception of M. Worms, started a campaign +against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum-major, beat the measure with his +terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid +inventions and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud of +wild ducks, and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers that were +against me. It was said that for a shilling any one might see me dressed +as a man; that I smoked huge cigars, leaning on the balcony of my house; +that at the various receptions where I gave one-act plays I took my maid +with me to play a small part; that I practised fencing in my garden, +dressed as a pierrot in white; and that when taking boxing lessons I had +broken two teeth of my unfortunate professor. + +Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes, +assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were +mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about any +one, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon had a +proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the French +papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would +consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine attire, +and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was willing +to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was an ill-bred +person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes of cigars, and the +boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their services +gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to +put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris _Figaro_ +caused me to take steps to cut matters short. + +This is what I wrote in reply to the article in the _Figaro_, June 27, +1879: + + “ALBERT WOLFF, _Figaro_, Paris. + + “And you, too, my dear Monsieur Wolff—you believe in such insanities? + Who can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my + friend, though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told, + you have still a little indulgence left. Well then, I give you my word + of honour that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not + even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic + denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition + which I organised, and that was on the opening day, for which I had + only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a + shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private + engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the least + remunerated members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the + right, therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten + pictures and eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is + quite true, but as I brought them over here to sell, really I must + show them. As to the respect due to the House of Molière, dear + Monsieur Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more than any one + else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for + the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the + stupidities invented about me have annoyed the Parisians, and if they + have decided to receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish + any one to be guilty of such baseness on my account, so I will send in + my resignation to the Comédie Française. If the London public is tired + of all this fuss and should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of + the indulgence hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow + me to leave England, in order to spare our company the annoyance of + seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this + letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives + me the right to commit this little folly, and I beg you, dear Monsieur + Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honour as you did to the + calumnies of my enemies.—With very kind regards, + + “Yours sincerely, + “SARAH BERNHARDT.” + +This telegram caused much ink to flow. Whilst treating me as a spoiled +child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was +most amiable. Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter +begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were +most friendly. Croizette came to see me, and putting her arms round me, +said, “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child! You +won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place; it would not +be accepted, I can answer for that!” + +Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech +savoured of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his +family, and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father +Candour, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram +had made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a Ministry; that +there was the Minister, the secretary, the sub-chiefs and the +_employés_, and that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his +share either of talent or work, and so on and so on. I saw Coquelin at +the theatre in the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands. + +“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but +with good luck we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good +fortune and the honour of belonging to the Comédie Française, one must +remain there until the end of one’s career.” + +Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie, +because it would save money for me, and I was quite incapable of doing +that myself. + +“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave; +it means our bread provided for us later on.” + +Got, our _doyen_, then approached me. + +“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he +asked. + +“No,” I replied. + +“Deserting.” + +“You are mistaken,” I answered; “I am not deserting: I am changing +barracks.” + +Others then came to me, and they all gave me advice tinged by their own +personality: Mounet as a seer or believer; Delaunay prompted by his +bureaucratic soul; Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s +ideas, but extolling them later on and putting them into practice for +his own profit; Febvre, a lover of respectability; Got, as a selfish old +growler understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and +advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his +melancholy way: + +“Will they be better towards you elsewhere?” + +Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward +character of any member of our illustrious company. I liked him +immensely. + +We were about to return to Paris, and I wanted to forget all these +things for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a +definite decision. The stir that had been made about me, the good that +had been said in my favour and the bad things written against me—all +this combined had created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle. +When on the point of leaving for Paris some of my friends felt very +anxious about the reception which I should get there. + +The public is very much mistaken in imagining that the agitation made +about celebrated artistes is in reality instigated by the persons +concerned, and that they do it purposely. Irritated at seeing the same +name constantly appearing on every occasion, the public declares that +the artiste who is being either slandered or pampered is an ardent lover +of publicity. Alas! three times over alas! We are victims of the said +advertisement. Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrity when +they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves. They +are at the beginning of a series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden +under flowers, but they know how to hold in check that monster +advertisement. It is a sort of octopus with innumerable tentacles. It +throws out on the right and on the left, in front and behind, its clammy +arms, and gathers in through its thousand little inhaling organs all the +gossip and slander and praise afloat, to spit out again at the public +when it is vomiting its black gall. But those who are caught in the +clutches of celebrity at the age of twenty know nothing. I remember that +the first time a reporter came to me I drew myself up straight and was +as red as a cock’s-comb with joy. I was just seventeen years old—I had +been acting in a private house, and had taken the part of Richelieu with +immense success. This gentleman came to call on me at home, and asked me +first one question and then another and then another. I answered and +chattered, and was wild with pride and excitement. He took notes, and I +kept looking at my mother. It seemed to me that I was getting taller. I +had to kiss my mother by way of keeping my composure, and I hid my face +on her shoulder to hide my delight. Finally the gentleman rose, shook +hands with me, and then took his departure. I skipped about in the room +and began to turn round singing, _Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle_, +when suddenly the door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh, +Madame, I forgot, this is the receipt for the subscription to the +journal. It is a mere nothing, only sixteen francs a year.” Mamma did +not understand at first. As for me, I stood still with my mouth open, +unable to digest my _petits pâtés_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs, +and in her pity for me, as I was crying by that time, she stroked my +hair gently. Since then I have been delivered over to the monster, bound +hand and foot, and I have been and still am accused of adoring +advertisement. And to think that my first claims to celebrity were my +extraordinary thinness and delicate health. I had scarcely made my +_début_ when epigrams, puns, jokes, and caricatures concerning me were +indulged in by every one to their heart’s content. Was it really for the +sake of advertising myself that I was so thin, so small, so weak; and +was it for this, too, that I remained in bed six months of the year, +laid low by illness? My name became celebrated before I was myself. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + _From the portrait by Jules Bastien-Lepage_ +] + +On the first night of Louis Bouilhet’s piece, _Mademoiselle Aïssé_, at +the Odéon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend of the author, +introduced an _attaché_ of the British Embassy to me. + +“Oh, I have known you for some time, Mademoiselle,” he said; “you are +the little stick with the sponge on the top.” + +This caricature of me had just appeared, and had been the delight of +idle folks. I was quite a young girl at that time, and nothing of that +kind hurt me or troubled me. In the first place, all the doctors had +given me up, so that I was indifferent about things; but all the doctors +were mistaken, and twenty years later I had to fight against the +monster. + + + + + XXIX + THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S COMMENTS ON + ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY + + +The return of the Comédie to its home was an event, but an event that +was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had been very lively and gay, +and quite a public function. Our return was clandestine for many of the +members, and for me among the number. It was a doleful return for those +who had not been appreciated, whilst those who had been failures were +furious. + +I had not been back home an hour when Perrin was announced. He began to +reproach me gently about the little care I took of my health. He said I +caused too much fuss to be made about me. + +“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am too thin? Is it my fault, +too, if my hair is too curly, and if I don’t think just as other people +do? Supposing that I took sufficient arsenic during a month to make me +swell out like a barrel, and supposing I were to shave my head like an +Arab and only answer, ‘Yes’ to everything you said, people would declare +I did it for advertisement.” + +“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people who are neither +fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with shocks of hair, and who +answer ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’” + +I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of this remark, and I +understood the “because” of all the “whys” I had been asking myself for +some years. There was no happy medium about me; I was “too much” and +“too little,” and I felt that there was nothing to be done for this. I +owned it to Perrin, and told him that he was quite right. He took +advantage of my mood to lecture me and advise me not to put in an +appearance at the opening ceremony that was soon to take place at the +Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. Some people were rather excited, +rightly or wrongly—a little of both, he added, in that shrewd and +courteous way which was peculiar to him. I listened to him without +interrupting, which slightly embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer +but not an orator. When he had finished I said: + +“You have told me too many things that excite me, Monsieur Perrin. I +love a battle, and I shall appear at the ceremony. You see, I have +already been warned about it. Here are three anonymous letters. Read +this one; it is the nicest.” + +He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber, and read as +follows: + + “MY POOR SKELETON,—You will do well not to show your horrible Jewish + nose at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it + would serve as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked + specially for you in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put + in the papers to the effect that you have been spitting blood, and + remain in bed and think over the consequence of excessive + advertisement. + + “A SUBSCRIBER.” + +Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust. + +“Here are two more,” I said; “but they are so coarse that I will spare +you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.” + +“Good!” replied Perrin. “There is a rehearsal to-morrow. Shall you +come?” + +“I shall come,” I answered. + +The next day at the rehearsal not one of the artistes, man or woman, +seemed to care about going on to the stage to bow with me. I must say, +though, that they all showed nevertheless much good grace. I declared, +however, that I would go on alone, although it was against the rule, for +I thought I ought to face the ill humour and the cabal alone. + +The house was crowded when the curtain rose. + +The ceremony commenced in the midst of “Bravos!” The public was +delighted to see its beloved artistes again. They advanced two by two, +one on the right and the other on the left, holding the palm or the +crown to be placed on the pedestal of Molière’s bust. My turn came, and +I advanced alone. I felt that I was pale and then livid, with a will +that was determined to conquer. I went forward slowly towards the +footlights, but instead of bowing as my comrades had done, I stood up +erect and gazed with my two eyes into all the eyes turning towards me. I +had been warned of the battle, and I did not wish to provoke it, but I +would not fly from it. I waited a second, and I felt the thrill and the +emotion that ran through the house; and then, suddenly stirred by an +impulse of generous kindliness, the whole house burst into wild applause +and shouts. The public, so beloved and so loving, was intoxicated with +joy. That evening was certainly one of the finest triumphs of my whole +career. + +Some artistes were delighted, especially the women, for there is one +thing to remark with regard to our art: the men are more jealous of the +women than the women are amongst themselves. I have met with many +enemies among male comedians, and with very few among actresses. + +I think that the dramatic art is essentially feminine. + +To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real feelings, to try to please and +to endeavour to attract attention—these are all faults for which we +blame women and for which great indulgence is shown. These same defects +seem odious in a man. And yet the actor must endeavour to be as +attractive as possible, even if he is obliged to have recourse to paint +and to false beard and hair. He may be a Republican, and he must uphold +with warmth and conviction Royalist theories. He may be a Conservative, +and must maintain anarchist principles, if such be the good pleasure of +the author. + +At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced Radical, and +his stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings, +emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on Charlemagne or +Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and +claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this +struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual +abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature. +However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the +actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the +footlights, and the comedian who in private life would render a service +to a woman in any difficulty will pick a quarrel with her on the stage. +He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the +railway, or in a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do +anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or +if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her. I am +going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have +performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad +tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable, and +who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms, +and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly +and protecting courtesy towards the woman comedian. I have played in a +number of pieces with each of them, and, subject as I am to stage +fright, I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these +three artistes. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that +they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for +any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of +them very great artistes, left the stage in full artistic vigour and +vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and +Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he +is now the first artist on the French stage, for he is an admirable +comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing. I know very +few artistes in France or in other countries with these two qualities +combined. Henry Irving was an admirable artist, but not a comedian. +Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an artist. Mounet-Sully +has genius, which he sometimes places at the service of the artist and +sometimes at the service of the comedian; but, on the other hand, he +sometimes gives us exaggerations as artist and comedian which make +lovers of beauty and truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a perfect +_comédienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the most +comedian of comedians, and an artist when she wishes to be. + +Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an artist; she walks in paths that +have been traced out by others; she does not imitate them, certainly +not, for she plants flowers where there were trees, and trees where +there were flowers; but she has never by her art made a single personage +stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being or a +vision which reminds one of herself. She puts on other people’s gloves, +but she puts them on inside out. And all this she has done with infinite +grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great comedian, a very +great comedian, but not a great artist. + +Novelli is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about +the artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick +Campbell is especially an artist, and her talent is that of charm and +thought: she execrates beaten paths; she wants to create, and she +creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is +heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is +therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an artist without +equal, and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the direction of +truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the actress. + + + + + XXX + MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANAÇISE—PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST + AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON + + +The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were +very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me, and he tortured me +with a thousand little pin-pricks which were much more painful for a +nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. (At least I imagine +so, as I have never had any.) I became irritable, bad-tempered on the +slightest provocation, and was in fact ill. I had always been gay, and +now I was sad. My health, which had ever been feeble, was endangered by +this state of chaos. + +Perrin gave me the _rôle_ of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the +piece, and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of +_L’Aventurière_ very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in +a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged +himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that +presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with +the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of +_L’Aventurière_ on Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my +part, and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin on April +14, 1880. + + “I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin,” I said, “but I have + such a sore throat that I cannot speak, and am obliged to stay in bed. + Will you kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I + took cold on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause + you inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever + happens. A thousand excuses and kind regards. + + “SARAH BERNHARDT.” + +I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had +not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had +not been able to try on my costumes either, as I had been in bed all the +time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of +_L’Aventurière_ until the next week. He replied that it was impossible; +that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the +following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded +to act, as I had confidence in my star. + +“Oh,” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.” + +I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very +badly. My costume was a failure; it did not fit me. They had always +jeered at me for my thinness, and in this dress I looked like an English +tea-pot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted +me. I played the first part of the _rôle_ very badly, and the second +part rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I +was standing up resting my two hands on the table, on which there was a +lighted candelabra. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was +very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that, +as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on fire +so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely. That +was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The Press did not praise me, +and the Press was quite right. I had played badly, looked ugly, and been +in a bad temper, but I considered that there was nevertheless a want of +courtesy and indulgence with regard to me. Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_ +of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: “The new +Clorinde (the Adventuress) in the last two acts made some gestures with +her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to see taken from +Virginie of _L’Assommoir_ and introduced at the Comédie Française.” The +only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is +vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my +feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of +attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads. +All the low-down, little viper world was crawling about under my flowers +and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and +sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the +enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together, and so I threw my laurels +and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I +broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through +that to Paris. + +I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with +myself I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore +wrote to M. Perrin this letter: + + “TO THE DIRECTOR. + + “You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have only + allowed me eight rehearsals on the stage, and the play has been + rehearsed in its entirety only three times. I was unwilling to appear + before the public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has + happened. The result of the performance has surpassed my + anticipations. A critic pretended that I played Virginie of + _L’Assommoir_ instead of Dona Clorinde of _L’Aventurière_. May Emile + Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the Comédie; it + shall be my last. I warned you on the day of the dress rehearsal. You + have gone too far. I keep my word. By the time you receive this letter + I shall have left Paris. Will you kindly accept my immediate + resignation, and believe me + + “Yours sincerely, + “SARAH BERNHARDT.” + +In order that this resignation might not be refused at the committee +meeting, I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_, +and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it. + +Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once +with my maid for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told +where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict +incognito. But the next morning I was recognised, and telegrams were +sent to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters. + +I took refuge at La Hêve, where I spent the whole day on the beach, in +spite of the cold rain which fell unceasingly. + +I went back to the Hôtel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so +feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guérard, who was +sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. I was feverish for two days. +During this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on +paper. This turned to bitterness, and I was accused of the worst +misdeeds. The committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de +Villiers, and this man declared that after having knocked three times at +the door and having received no answer, he had left copy, &c. &c. + +This man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my +steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchen-maid, +the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I +protested against this minion of the law; it was useless. + +The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses. This +was not done, and a law-suit was commenced against me. It was lost in +advance. + +Maître Allou, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked +little histories about me. He took pleasure in trying to make me +ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters +which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them +all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters +from Perrin to myself which have been published were given by him from +his letter-copy book. Of course, he only showed those which could +inspire the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me, &c. &c. + +The pleading of Maître Allou was very, successful: he claimed three +hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the +benefit of the Comédie Française of the forty-three thousand francs +which that theatre owed me. + +Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He +defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred +thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the forty-three +thousand francs which I had left with the management. I may say that I +did not trouble much about this law-suit. + +Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to +me, for the third time, to make a contract for America. This time I lent +an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about terms, and this is +what he proposed: + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT (1879) +] + +Five thousand francs for each performance and one-half of the receipts +above fifteen thousand francs; that is to say, the day the receipts +reached the sum of twenty thousand francs I should receive seven +thousand five hundred francs. In addition, one thousand francs per week +for my hotel bill; also a special Pullman car, on all railway journeys, +containing a bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds for my +staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was to have +ten per cent. on all sums received by me. + +I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately +sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he +landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by +Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager. + +I was given, on signing the contract, one hundred thousand francs as +advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight +pieces: _Hernani_, _Phèdre_, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame +aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_, _L’Etrangère_, and _La Princesse Georges_. + +I ordered twenty-five modern dresses at Laferrière’s, of whom I was then +a customer. + +At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and four +costumes for _Hernani_. I ordered from a young theatre _costumier_ named +Lepaul my costume for _Phèdre_. These thirty-six costumes cost me sixty- +one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for _Phèdre_ alone cost +four thousand francs. The poor _artist-costumier_ had embroidered it +himself. It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my +departure, and I cannot think of this moment without emotion. Irritated +by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when +he was announced. At first I received him very badly, but I found him +looking so unwell, the poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how +he came to be so ill. + +“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice that I was +quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress, and I have worked at it +three days and nights. But look how nice your costume is!” And he spread +it out with loving respect before me. + +“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!” + +“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artist quickly. + +But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his +lips. He wiped it quickly away, so that it should not fall on the pretty +costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the artist the four +thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some +unintelligible words and withdrew. + +“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to _mon petit Dame_ and +my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs all the evening. +Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for +having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the +force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the +chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of twenty- +two—this artist with a future before him. + +I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box, yellowed with +age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of +blood has slightly eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt +of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for before +leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the +_impresarii_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May +24 to June 24 (1880). + +It was during this period that the law-suit which the Comédie Française +brought against me was decided. + +Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in +London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated +the committee, the Press, and the public. + +Maître Allou in his pleadings pretended that the London public had tired +of me very quickly, and did not care to come to the performances of the +Comédie in which I appeared. + +The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of +Maître Allou: + + PERFORMANCES GIVEN BY THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE + + + (The * indicates the pieces in which I appeared.) + + + 1879. Plays. Receipts + in + Francs. + + June 2. Le Misanthrope (Prologue); Phèdre (Acte II.); Les + Précieuses Ridicules *13,080 + + „ 3. L’Etrangère *12,565 + + „ 4. Le Fils naturel 9,300 + + „ 5. Les Caprices de Marianne; La Joie fait Peur 10,100 + + „ 6. Le Menteur; Le Médecin malgré lui 9,530 + + „ 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 9,960 + + „ 7. Tartufe (matinée); La Joie fait Peur 8,700 + + „ 9. Hernani *13,600 + + „ 10. Le Demi-monde 11,525 + + „ 11. Mlle. de Belle-Isle; Il faut qu’une porte soit + ouverte ou fermée 10,420 + + „ 12. Le Post-Scriptum; Le Gendre de M. Poirier 10,445 + + „ 13. Phèdre *13,920 + + „ 14. Le Luthier de Crémône; Le Sphinx *13,350 + + „ 14. Le Misanthrope (matinée); Les Plaideurs 8,800 + + „ 16. L’Ami Fritz 9,375 + + „ 17. Zaïre; Les Précieuses Ridicules *13,075 + + „ 18. Le Jeu de l’amour et du hasard; Il ne faut jurer de + rien 11,550 + + „ 18. Le Demi-monde 12,160 + + „ 20. Les Fourchambault 11,200 + + „ 21. Hernani *13,375 + + „ 21. Tartufe (matinée); Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte + ou fermée 2,115 + + „ 23. Gringoire; On ne badine pas avec l’amour 11,080 + + „ 24. Chez l’avocat; Mlle. de la Seiglière 9,660 + + „ 25. L’Etrangère (matinée) *11,710 + + „ 25. Le Barbier de Seville 9,180 + + „ 26. Andromaque; Les Plaideurs *13,350 + + „ 27. L’Avare; L’Etincelle 11,775 + + „ 28. Le Sphinx; Le Dépit amoureux *12,860 + + „ 28. Hernani (matinée) *13,730 + + „ 30. Ruy Blas *13,660 + + July 1. Mercadet; L’Eté de la St. Martin 9,850 + + „ 2. Ruy Blas *13,160 + + „ 3. Le Mariage de Victorine; Les Fourberies de Scapin 10,165 + + „ 4. Les Femmes savantes; L’Etincelle 11,960 + + „ 5. Les Fourchambault 10,700 + + „ 5. Phèdre (matinée); La Joie fait Peur *14,265 + + „ 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 10,565 + + „ 8. L’Ami Fritz 11,005 + + „ 9. Hernani *14,275 + + „ 10. Le Sphinx *13,775 + + „ 11. Philiberte; L’Etourdi 11,500 + + „ 12. Ruy Blas *12,660 + + „ 12. Gringoire (matinée); Hernani (Acte V.);La + Bénédiction; Davenant; L’Etincelle *13,725 + + Total receipts 492,150 francs + +The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show +that, out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie +Française, the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an +average of 13,350 francs each, while the twenty-five other performances +gave an average of 10,000 francs. + + * * * * * + +While I was in London I learned that I had lost my law-suit. “The +Court—with its ‘Inasmuch as,’ ‘Nevertheless,’ &c.—declares hereby that +Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages, +resulting to her profit from the engagement which she contracted with +the company by authentic decree of March 24, 1875, and condemns her to +pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality the sum of one hundred +thousand francs damages.” + +I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers +published this unjust verdict. I was applauded, and the public +overwhelmed me with flowers. + +I had taken with me Madame Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my sister +Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonnée—all artistes of great +repute. + +I played all the pieces which I was to play in America. + +Vitu, Sarcey, Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was +stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be +present at my performances. + +I could no longer understand what it all meant. I thought that the +Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here were my +worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps they +were hoping—like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer to see him +devoured by his lions! + +Vitu in the _Figaro_ had finished one of his bitter articles with these +words: + +“But we have heard enough, surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt! Let her go +abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal fantasies! Here we +have nothing new to learn from her talents or her caprices....” + +Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, _à propos_ of my resignation at +the Comédie, had finished in these terms: + +“There comes a time when naughty children must go to bed.” + +As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all +the rumours that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he +had no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in +venom, and he had cried, “Pleasant journey!” And here they all came, +these three, and others with them. And the day following my first +performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the +_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes, +regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had +never seen. And he finished his article thus: + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ANDROMAQUE” + + BY WALTER SPINDLER +] + +“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in +the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a +force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long +and cruel scene in which Adrienne, poisoned by the Duchesse de Bouillon, +struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with immense +talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she has never +revealed. If the Parisian public had heard, or ever hears, Mlle. Sarah +Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which she put into her words +that evening, ‘I will not die, I will not die!’ it would weep with her.” + +Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words: + +“She is prodigious!” + +And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable begged me to go back +to the Comédie, which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted +calf on the return of its prodigal child. + +Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of +praises to me, and finished his article with these words: + +“Nothing, nothing can ever take the place of this last act of _Adrienne +Lecouvreur_ at the Comédie. Ah! she should have stayed at the Comédie. +Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much +as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us. Oh, +she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it. What a pity! What +a pity!” + +And eight days after, on June 7, he wrote in his theatrical +_feuilleton_, on the first performance of _Froufrou_: + +“I do not think that the emotion at any theatre has ever been so +profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the +artistes are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves, +and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon’ (I should have said ‘god’), +who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses. + +“‘Well,’” said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play: “this is an +evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie +Française. ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she, ‘to me. We will not speak of +it.’ But what a pity! What a pity!” + +My success in _Froufrou_ was so marked that it filled the void left by +Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with +Messrs. Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his +engagements. It was a nasty _coup de Jarnac_ by which Perrin hoped to +injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask +officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be +permitted to make my American tour, and that everything would be +arranged on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have +sent Worms or _le petit père Franchise_—Delaunay. The one might have +persuaded me by his affectionate reasoning and the other by the falsity +of arguments presented with such grace that it would have been difficult +to refuse. + +Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie +on my return to America, “For you know,” he added, “you know, my little +one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you will +perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for you +will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before you +are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit by +it, but you!” + +“I thank you,” I answered, “but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on +my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace.” I fancy I said, +“Get out!” + +That evening he was present at a performance of _Froufrou_; he came to +my dressing-room and said: + +“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with +_Froufrou_! I promise you a happy return!” + +I refused, and finished my performances in London without Coquelin. + +The average of the receipts was nine thousand francs, and I left London +with regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But +London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first +impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal +_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those +ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime and black and +greasy dirt; those flower-sellers at the corners of all the streets, +with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and +lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the +funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunken; the +wild dancing of dishevelled children round the street organs, as +numerous as the omnibuses—all that caused twenty-five years ago an +indefinite suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that +the profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of +the aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower-sellers.... + +The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills +the heart with gaiety. The broad English hospitality, which is +manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of +the men, which compares favourably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their +gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left +no regrets in me for French gallantry. + +But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud, and our windows +opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that +nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two +nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide; the sun enters in +our houses even to the heart of the dwelling; the air sweeps away all +the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply as +they open. + +English windows open only half-way, either the top half or the bottom +half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top +and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot +enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious +character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London and—is +there any need to add?—its inhabitants. + +Since my first visit I have returned there twenty-one times, and the +public has always remained faithful and affectionate. + + + + + XXXI + A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS” OF SARAH + BERNHARDT + + +After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than +before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of +doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my +nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual +irritations and by excessive work, was improved. I reposed on the +laurels which I had gathered myself, and I slept better. Sleeping +better, I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my +little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and +rosy. + +I remained several days in Paris; then I set out for Brussels, where I +was to play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and _Froufrou_. + +The Belgian public——by which I mean the Brussels public——is the one most +like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country. +Our language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages +are always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own +fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in +Paris; the cab-horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful. +Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature. + +I played for the first time at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt +uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent +enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the +four performances I gave there. + +Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at +the Theatre Royal. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT + IN TRAVELLING COSTUME (1880) +] + +Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, really frightened +me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station +when the train came in gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know +what was happening. But when M. de Fallesen, manager of the Theatre +Royal, and the First Chamberlain of the King entered my compartment, and +begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the +public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful +anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to +what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in +those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped +out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of +being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive +to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a wide path for my +carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic +sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to +me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs, +receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains +one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we +reached the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once +more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me. + +In the evening the King, the Queen, and their daughter, the Princess of +Wales, were present at the first performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_. + +This is what the _Figaro_ of August 16, 1880, said: + + “Sarah Bernhardt has played _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ with a tremendous + success before a magnificent audience. The royal family, the King and + the Queen of the Hellenes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were + present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the + French artiste, amidst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The + public was delirious. To-morrow _Froufrou_ will be played.” + +The performance of _Froufrou_ was equally successful. But as I was only +playing every other day, I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed the +royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey. + +I had invited all my company. + +M. de Fallesen, the First Chamberlain, and manager of the Theatre Royal, +had ordered a magnificent lunch for us, and accompanied by the principal +notabilities of Denmark, we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the spring of +Ophelia, and the castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the castle of +Kronborg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up +to the expectation. The so-called tomb of Hamlet is represented by a +small column, ugly and mournful-looking; there is little verdure, and +the desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little +water from the spring of Ophelia to drink, and the Baron de Fallesen +broke the glass, without allowing any one else to drink from the spring. + +I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning +against the side of the vessel, I watched the water gliding past, when I +noticed a few rose petals on the surface. Carried by an invisible +current, they were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals +increased to thousands, and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious +chant of the sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on +the water by the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails; +a score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which +were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvellous +legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all +that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for +me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life +near to me, I felt myself very near to God. + +The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me +to come into the royal box, and he decorated me with a very pretty Order +of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box, asking +me about different things. I was presented to the Queen, and I noticed +immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed, but +the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was beautiful, but much less +so than her lovely sister the Princess of Wales. Oh, that adorable and +seductive face—with the eyes of a child of the North, and classic +features of virginal purity, a long, supple neck that seemed made for +queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of +this Princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I went +from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor opinion of my +intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and Greece. + +The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper. +Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very charming manner for the +“French week” which we had given in Denmark. + +Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the press, very +short but very sympathetic. Our Ambassador in a few courteous words +thanked Robert Walt, and then, to the general surprise, Baron Magnus, +the Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he +said, “I drink to France, which gives us such great artistes! To France, +la belle France, whom we all love so much!” + +Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women +were still suffering; their wounds were not healed. + +Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had from the time of my +arrival in Copenhagen sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back the +flowers, and begged an _attaché_ of the English Embassy, Sir Francis ——, +I believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The Baron +laughed good-naturedly, and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He +came to me with outstretched hands, and spoke kindly and reasonable +words. Everybody was looking at us, and I was embarrassed. It was +evident that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of +myself by his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I +really felt. Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but +only bowed as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity +of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw +him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had +barely finished his little speech when I jumped to my feet and cried, +“Let us drink to France, but to the whole of France, Monsieur +l’Ambassadeur de Prusse!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical +without intending it. + +It was like a thunderbolt. + +The orchestra of the court, which was placed in the upper gallery, began +playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans. +The supper-room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment. + +I went up to my rooms, not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far. +Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve +this thrust of mine. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to +follow. I went to bed angry with myself, with the Baron, and with all +the world. + +About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was +awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at +the door of the _salon_. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he +went to open the door. An _attaché_ from the French Embassy was waiting +to speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea-gown and went +to see the visitor. + +“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately to explain that the +words you said were not meant. The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect, is +in a very awkward situation and we are all upset about it. Prince +Bismarck is not to be trifled with, and it may be very serious for the +Baron.” + +“Oh, I assure you, Monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it +than you, for the Baron is a good and charming man. He lacked political +tact, and in this case it is excusable, because I am not a woman of +politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand to +repair the ill.” + +“We don’t ask you for so much as that, as it would spoil the beauty of +your gestures!” (He was French, you see.) “Here is the rough copy of a +letter. Will you take it, rewrite it, sign it, and everything will be at +an end?” + +But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and +rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it, and after several attempts +to rewrite it I gave up in despair and did nothing. + +Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the +royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but +awkward speech of the Baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The +public and the Press had all been witnesses of my _algarade_; we were +the victims of our own foolishness, the Baron and myself. If such a +thing were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for +public opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in +order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was +very nervous and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I +thought I was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that +if one is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death. +To-day I am going down the hill of life, and I regard gaily all the +pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many, +so many of them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had +raised them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life, +happy with what has been and attentive to what will be. + +My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant no harm, and this incident +has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin. + +I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the repeated cries of “Vive la +France!” From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the +breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_ +Germany—I was sure of it. + +Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united, and I am not +certain that several Danes do not still bear me ill-will because of this +incident of the Baron Magnus. + +I came back to Paris to make final preparations for my journey to +America. I was to set sail on October 15. + +One day in August I was having a reception of all my friends, who came +to see me in full force, because I was about to set out for a long +journey. + +Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert, +Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes, +Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I chatted +gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many kind and intellectual friends. + +Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this journey +to America. He had been the friend of Rachel, and told me the sad end of +her journey. + +Arthur Meyer was of opinion that I ought always to do what I thought +best. The other friends discussed the subject. That admirable man, whom +France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he should miss and +regret those intimate _causeries_ at our five o’clock teas. + +“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate +selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the +strife. She is of a combative nature.” + +“Ah yes!” I cried. “Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing +pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have +read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry +that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big +successes, _Adrienne_ and _Froufrou_.” + +“As to that, you can count on me!” exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. “My dear +Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you +will have your last....” + +Everybody protested, and I jumped up. + +“Wait one moment,” said he. “Last successes until you come back from +America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will +obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give +twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial +arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five +performances—fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half +of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have +time to change your mind.” + +I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged +Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour, +for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained +laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark. + +Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was +settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and +each town marked with the date and the name of the play. + +A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with +the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost +miraculous. + +The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there +were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of +departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which +caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah +Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to +accomplish his military service. + +The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more +than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and +_fêtes_ outside the towns. + +At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the +sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates +and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c., +had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections, +and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated +buildings. + +When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters, +each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked. + +I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know +most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt +inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other +buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies +me to see them. + +I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted +against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will +not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains +their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings +with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over +highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the +left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to +have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a +time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind—all +that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood +I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all +buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I +positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct +the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a +hundred times rather they had never been built. + +I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who +had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task, and on +September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content. + +My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the +lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding +country from all the towns in which I played. + +I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare +for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a +visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés. His +brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond +Deslandes. + +I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had +mutual friends. + +“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me, +after we had exchanged greetings. + +“I really don’t know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything.” + +“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your +reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with +you at once for the Vaudeville.” + +“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond +Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away +from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play _Un +mari qui lance sa femme_. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more +ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to +dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!” + +He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My +brother—to put it plainly—is myself. All the money put in the affair by +us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?” + +“But—— I really don’t know.” + +“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?” + +I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right +mind. + +“But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot +agree to that.” + +“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a +colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty +performances!” + +“Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of +Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend +on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for +your confidence.” + +At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they +were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my +resignation (from the Comédie Française). + +I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of +leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have +put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one +family “me” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows, +joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts. + +But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other +skies. + +I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His +wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, +their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me +to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I +ought to know. + +Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would +really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake +such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going, +there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of +my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens +of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits, +doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the +Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was +confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my +secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little note- +books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my godfather who had +commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his +death I had it continued. + +Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and noble words—words +written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallès, Jules +Lemaître, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed +Victor Hugo, François Coppée, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier, +Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand. + +I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but +I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the +superior minds afforded me infinite joy. + + + + + XXXII + EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO NEW YORK + + +The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and +other successes was named _L’Amérique_. It was the unlucky boat, the +boat that was haunted by the gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents, +and storms had been its lot. It had been blockaded for months with its +keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat, and +it had foundered on the shores of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set +afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre +roadstead, but no great damage was done. The poor boat had had a +celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous. + +In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted, and although this +system had been in use by the English for a long time, it was quite +unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have +these pumps worked by his crew, so that in case of any danger the men +should be ready to manipulate them easily. + +The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men +came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with +water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!” +shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked +frantically, and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the +captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers +safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after, +tried the pumps, which worked admirably, but in the contrary way to that +indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie +Transatlantique £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to run the +ship again and passengers refused to go by it, they offered my +_impresario_, Mr. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very +intelligent he was, for, in spite of all prognostications, nothing +further happened to the boat. + +I had hitherto travelled very little, and I was wild with delight. + +On October 15, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning, I entered my cabin. +It was a large one, and was hung with light red repp embroidered with my +initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was a large +brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers were everywhere. Adjoining +mine was a very comfortable cabin for _mon petit Dame_, and leading out +of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons in my +service were at the other end of the ship. + +The sky was misty, the sea grey, with no horizon. I was on my way over +there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a +mysterious rampart. + +The clearing of the deck for the departure upset every one and +everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the +bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the +shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in +time to catch the boat, the “Halloa!” “Look out!” of the men who were +pitching the packages from the quay into the hold, the sound of the +laughing waves breaking on the side of the boat, all this mingled +together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its +own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who up +to the last moment enjoyed the good-byes, the hand-shakings, the plans +about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over +flung themselves sobbing on their beds. + +For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears, +tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again; my will +power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven +o’clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold, and as +I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad resigned +face. The sea looked gloomy and colourless, and there were no waves. +Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against the ship that we were +both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the +benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my +feet with a bound, I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her +dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor managed to prevent the +poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much hurt +though she was, and a trifle confused, she thanked me in such a gentle +dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion. + +“You might have been killed, Madame,” I said, “down that horrible +staircase.” + +“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret; “but it was not God’s will.” + +“Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued, looking earnestly at me. + +“No, Madame,” I answered; “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.” + +She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her +brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely +audible, “I am the widow of President Lincoln.” + +I too stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had +just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have +done her—I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated +by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from +joining her beloved husband. + +I went back again to my cabin and stayed there two days, for I had not +the courage to meet the woman for whom I felt such sympathy and to whom +I should never dare to speak again. + +On the 22nd we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called +up hurriedly by Captain Jouclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went +on to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time +fairy-like. The heavy flakes met each other with a thud in their mad +waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by +all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding +the horizon. I was facing the sea, and as Captain Jouclas pointed out to +me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round +and saw that the ship was as white as a sea-gull: the ropes, the +cordage, the nettings, the port-holes, the shrouds, the boats, the deck, +the sails, the ladders, the funnels, the ventilators, everything was +white. The sea was black and the sky black. The ship alone was white, +floating along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high +funnel, spluttering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind +which was rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks +of the siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin +whiteness of this ship and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to +me as if I had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics. + +On the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the +birth of a child among the emigrants, in whom I was deeply interested. I +went at once to the mother, and did all I could for the poor little +creature who had just come into this world. Oh, the dismal moans in that +dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident +cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these +sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything +was there mingled together in this human medley—men, women, children, +rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates, +half open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish +women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and +fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under +the rags, knives in the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us +the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally- +looking fellow with a very determined expression on his face, and a +hatchet and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors +immediately seized the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall +never forget the scrutinising glance of the man; he had evidently made a +mental note of the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent +prayer that the two might never meet in a solitary place. + +I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of +me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty +little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul, and +would have thoughts! I felt quite sick, and I could never again look at +that child, although I was afterwards its godmother, without living over +again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I +wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so +rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and +emigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us +silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed +at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,” one +of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like wine. You +and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!” An old +woman clung to me as we passed: “Oh, Madame,” she said, “shall we be +shipwrecked with the boat rolling like this? Oh God! Oh God!” A tall +fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman +down again gently. “You can sleep in peace, mother,” he said. “If we are +shipwrecked I swear there shall be more saved down here than up above.” +He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The rich +folks—first-class—into the sea! The emigrants and the second-class in +the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from +everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my +feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the +scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor, and he saw that I was +uneasy. + +“Nonsense,” he said, laughing; “we should defend ourselves.” + +“But how many _could_ be saved,” I asked, “in case we were really in +danger?” + +“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most, with all the boats out, +if all arrived safely.” + +“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty +emigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred and twenty +passengers. How many do you reckon with the officers, the crew, and the +servants?” + +“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered. + +“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board, and you can only save two +hundred and fifty?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well then, I can understand the hatred of these emigrants, whom you +take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely +certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed!” + +“But we should save them when their turn came.” + +I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest +and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all +these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life and badly treated +by society would have no right to life until after _we_ were saved—we, +the more favoured ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally-looking +fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved at that +moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes, he was +quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first places, +always the first places. And so we should have the first places in the +water. + +“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain, who was just coming out of +his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?” + +“Yes, captain,” I answered; “but I am horrified.” + +Jouclas stepped back in surprise. + +“Good Heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked. + +“The way in which you treat your passengers——” + +He tried to put in a word, but I continued: + +“Why—you expose us in case of a shipwreck——” + +“We never have a shipwreck.” + +“Good. In case of a fire, then——” + +“We never have a fire——” + +“Good! In case of sinking——” + +“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose you, though, +Madame?” + +“To the very worst of deaths: to a blow on the head with an axe, to a +dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water——” + +He attempted to speak, but again I continued: + +“There are seven hundred and fifty emigrants below, and there are +scarcely three hundred of us, counting first-class passengers and the +crew. You have boats which might save two hundred persons, and even that +is doubtful——” + +“Well?” + +“Well, what about the emigrants?” + +“We should save them before the crew.” + +“But after us?” + +“Yes, after you.” + +“And you fancy that they would let you do it?” + +“We have guns with which to keep them in order.” + +“Guns—guns for women and children?” + +“No; the women and children would take their turn first.” + +“But that is idiotic!” I exclaimed; “it is perfectly absurd! Why save +women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them? +And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to +their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are +of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have +the same right that we have to defend themselves in such moments. They +have the courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to +gain in the struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that +you should expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and +perfectly justified crime.” + +The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted: + +“Without going as far as a shipwreck, only fancy if we were to be tossed +about for months on a raging sea. This has happened, and might happen +again. You cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand +people during two or three months.” + +“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man, +but very touchy. + +“Well then, what should you do?” I asked. + +“What would _you_ do?” asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed +expression on the purser’s face. + +“I—oh, I should have a ship for emigrants and a ship for passengers, and +I think that would be only just.” + +“Yes, but it would be ruinous.” + +“No; the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the +one for emigrants a sailing vessel.” + +“But that too would be unjust, Madame, for the steamer would go more +quickly than the sailing boat.” + +“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy people are always in +a hurry, and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting +them in the land to which they are going——” + +“It is the Promised Land.” + +“Oh, poor things! poor things! with their Promised Land! Dakota or +Colorado.... In the day-time they have the sun which makes their brains +boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth +endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their +patience. The Promised Land!... At night they have the terrible cold to +make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints and ruin their lungs. The +Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after +fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will +breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God +will have mercy on them though, for it is piteous to think that all +these poor creatures are delivered over, with their feet bound by +suffering and their hands bound by hope, to the slave-drivers who trade +in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s +cash-box which the slave-driver has paid for the transport of all these +poor creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or +trembling fingers. Poor money economised, copper by copper, tear by +tear. When I think of all this it makes me wish that we could be +shipwrecked, that _we_ could be all killed and all of them saved.” + +With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I +was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could +do nothing, absolutely nothing! + +The following morning I woke late, as I had not fallen asleep until very +late. My cabin was full of visitors, and they were all holding small +parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and could not quite +understand the meaning of this invasion. + +“My dear Sarah,” said Madame Guérard, coming to me and kissing me, +“don’t imagine that this day, your _fête_ day, could be forgotten by +those who love you.” + +“Oh,” I exclaimed, “is it the 23rd?” + +“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.” + +My eyes filled with tears, and it was through a mist that I saw the +portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in +the world, with a few words in his own handwriting. Then there were some +presents from friends—pieces of work from humble admirers. My little +godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket, with +oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star on +his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate had +been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude her husband, who were most +devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises. +Presently there was a knock at my door, and on my calling out “Come in!” +I saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet, which +they presented to me in the name of the whole crew. + +I was wild with admiration, and wanted to know how they had managed to +keep the flowers in such good condition. + +It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it in my hands I let it fall +to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The flowers were all +cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly done that the illusion was +complete at a little distance. Magnificent roses were cut out of +carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes had furnished sprays +of rose-buds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and all these relieved +by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the grassy plants used +for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together with a bow of tri- +coloured ribbon. One of the sailors made a very touching little speech +on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me for a trifling service +rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked them heartily, and this +was the signal for a little concert that had been organised in the cabin +of _mon petit Dame_. There had been a private rehearsal with two violins +and a flute, so that for the next hour I was lulled by the most +delightful music, which transported me to my own dear ones, to my home, +which seemed so distant from me at that moment. + +This little _fête_, which was almost a domestic one, together with the +music, had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears +that all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I +wept simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and +weary, and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst +of my tears, sighs, and sobs. + + + + + XXXIII +ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM-HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN + NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK + + +Finally the ship arrived on October 27, at half-past six in the morning. +I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild storms. My maid +had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe that we had +arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last minute. I had to +give in to the evidence, however, as the screw had stopped, and I heard +a sound of dull thuds echoing in the distance. I put my head out of my +port-hole, and saw some men endeavouring to make a passage for us +through the river. The Hudson was frozen hard, and the heavy vessel +could only advance with the aid of pick-axes cutting away the blocks of +ice. + +This sudden arrival delighted me, and everything seemed to be +transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts and the weariness +of the twelve days’ crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose-tinted, +dispersing the mists and shining over the ice, which, thanks to the +efforts of our pioneers, was splintered into a thousand luminous pieces. +I had entered the New World in the midst of a display of ice-fireworks. +It was fairy-like and somewhat crazy, but it seemed to me that it must +be a good omen. + +I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no sunshine I +should have been wretched and most anxious until after my first +performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this degree, +and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was in +those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country, I have, +thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the +other countries. I know them all now, and in any critical moment of my +life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk +a single step or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look at +the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for +despair, until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions +by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to +act. Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen, I began +to dress gleefully. + +Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door. + +“Do please be ready as soon as possible, Madame,” he said, “for there +are several boats, with the French colours flying, that have come out to +meet you.” + +I glanced in the direction of my port-hole, and saw a steamer, the deck +of which was black with people, and then two other small boats no less +laden than the first one. + +The sun lighted up all these French flags, and my heart began to beat +more quickly. + +I had been without any news for twelve days, as, in spite of all the +efforts of our good captain, _L’Amérique_ had taken twelve days for the +journey. + +A man had just come on deck, and I rushed towards him with outstretched +hands, unable to utter a single word. + +He gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see any one present, and I +heard no sound. I wanted to know something. And among all the telegrams +I was searching first for one, just one name. At last I had it, the +telegram I had waited for, feared and hoped to receive, signed Maurice. +Here it was at last. I closed my eyes for a second, and during that time +I saw all that was dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all. + +When I opened my eyes again I was slightly embarrassed, for I was +surrounded by a crowd of unknown people, all of them silent and +indulgent, but evidently very curious. Wishing to go away, I took Mr. +Jarrett’s arm and went to the saloon. As soon as I entered the first +notes of the Marseillaise rang out, and our Consul spoke a few words of +welcome and handed me some flowers. A group representing the French +colony presented me with a friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor +of the _Courrier des Etats Unis_, made a speech, as witty as it was +kindly. It was a thoroughly French speech. Then came the terrible moment +of introductions. Oh, what a tiring time that was! My mind was kept at a +tension to catch the names. Mr. Pemb——, Madame Harth——, with the _h_ +aspirated. With great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the +second finished in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants. +By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up listening; +I simply kept on with my little _risorius de Santorini_, half closed my +eyes, held out mechanically the arm at the end of which was the hand +that had to shake and be shaken. I replied all the time: “_Combien je +suis charmée, Madame.... Oh! Certainement.... Oh oui!... Oh non!... +Ah!... Oh!... Oh!..._” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with +standing. I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off the +fingers that were swelling with the repeated grips they were enduring. +My eyes were getting larger and larger with terror as they gazed at the +door through which the crowd continued to stream in my direction. There +were still the names of all these people to hear and all these hands to +shake. My _risorius de Santorini_ must still go on working more than +fifty times. I could feel the beads of perspiration standing out under +my hair, and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered and I +commenced stammering: “_Oh, Madame!... Oh!... Je suis cha——cha——_” I +really could not go on any longer. I felt that I should get angry or +burst out crying—in fact, that I was about to make myself ridiculous. I +decided therefore to faint. I made a movement with my hand as though it +wanted to continue but could not. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, and +fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick! Air!... A doctor!... Poor +thing.... How pale she is! Take her hat off!... Loosen her corset!... +She doesn’t wear one. Unfasten her dress!...” I was terrified, but +Félicie was called up in haste, and _mon petit Dame_ would not allow any +_deshabillage_. The doctor came back with a bottle of ether. Félicie +seized the bottle. + +“Oh no, doctor—not ether! When Madame is quite well the odour of ether +will make her faint.” + +This was quite true, and I thought it was time to come to my senses +again. The reporters were arriving, and there were more than twenty of +them; but Jarrett, who was very much affected, asked them to go to the +Albemarle Hotel, where I was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take +Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these +“asides,” he answered phlegmatically, “I have made an appointment with +them for one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes.” I +looked at him, petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and +said: + +“_Ah oui; il était nécessaire._” + +On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous, and wanted +to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once to my room in the suite +that had been engaged for me, and fastened the doors. There was neither +lock nor bolt on one of them, but I pushed a piece of furniture against +it, and then refused emphatically to open it. There were about fifty +people waiting in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful +weariness which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for +the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the rug, cross my +arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I did not want to talk any +more, and I did not want to have to smile or look at any one. I threw +myself down on the floor, and was deaf to the knocks on my door and to +Jarrett’s supplications. I did not want to argue the matter, so I did +not utter a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices, and Jarrett’s +words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard the rustle of +paper being pushed under the door, and Madame Guérard whispering to +Jarrett, who was furious. + +“You don’t know her, Monsieur Jarrett,” I heard her say. “If she thought +you were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the +furniture, she would jump out of the window!” + +Then I heard Félicie talking to a French lady who was insisting on +seeing me. + +“It is quite impossible,” she was saying. “Madame would be quite +hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest, and every one must wait!” + +For some little time I could hear a confused murmur which seemed to get +farther away, and then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself +as I went off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry, +nonplussed expression on the faces of my visitors. + +I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to +sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and +I then wake up quite peacefully without a shake at the time I choose to +rouse up. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and mind, +decided upon and regulated merely by my will. + +Very often when among my intimate friends I have lain down on the bear- +skin hearth-rug in front of the fire, telling every one to go on +talking, and to take no notice of me. I have then slept perhaps for an +hour, and on waking have found two or three new-comers in the room, who, +not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in the general conversation +whilst waiting until I should wake up and they could present their +respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge wide sofa in the little +Empire _salon_ which leads into my dressing-room, and I sleep whilst +waiting for the friends and artistes with whom I have made appointments +to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of my kind +friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have had +some rest. My mind is then tranquil, and I am ready to listen to all the +beautiful ideas proposed to me, or to decline the absurdities submitted +to me without being ungracious. + +I woke up then at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, and found myself +lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room, and discovered my dear +Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk. + +“Are there any people there still?” I asked. + +“Oh, Madame, there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie. + +“Help me to take my things off then quickly,” I said, “and find me a +white dress.” + +In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from +head to foot. I went into the drawing-room where all these unknown +persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me +well dressed and with a smiling face he postponed the sermon that he +wanted to preach to me. + +I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most +extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age. +He was tall, with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most +beautiful silver-white hair I have ever seen on a man’s head. His eyes +were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as +though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature, +his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip +showed his teeth and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grins +seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears, which were +always moving as though on the watch for prey. + +He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent; but from childhood he must +have been fighting with the world, and he had the most profound contempt +for all mankind. Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he +had no pity for others who suffered. He always said that every man was +armed for his own defence. He pitied women; did not care for them, but +was always ready to help them. He was very rich and very economical, but +not miserly. + +“I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two +weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most +terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people. The +former don’t know what it is and the latter don’t believe in it; while +the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep +their word.” + +He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. + +He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion +about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, +Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right +eye: “Look at that eye, sir. It is now reading in your mind all that you +are not saying.” + +“It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the +other, firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. + +“A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett. “This is the way to take aim for +effectually closing an eye.” + +And he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down +dead. + +When Jarrett told this story his lip curled up and his two incisors +appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of +stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an +upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and I like what +I remember of him. + +My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with +delight as I entered the drawing-room, which I had not yet seen. The +busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded +with flowers. All round the large room were sofas laden with cushions, +and, to remind me of my home in Paris, there were tall palms stretching +out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler, who had +suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I shook +hands with him, and we were friends from that time forth. + +The visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all +seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions. +One of them had crouched down tailor-fashion on a bear-skin, and was +leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin, and coughed +a great deal. I went towards him, and had just opened my lips to speak +to him, although I was rather shocked that he did not rise, when he +addressed me in a bass voice. + +“Which is your favourite _rôle_, Madame?” he asked. + +“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In +doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite. + +“What do you eat when you wake in the morning, Madame?” he inquired. + +I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett, +who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man, +answered quickly for me, “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was, +but the ferocious reporter continued his questions. + +“And what do you eat during the day?” + +“Mussels.” + +He wrote down phlegmatically, “Mussels during the day.” + +I moved towards the door, and a female reporter in a tailor-made skirt, +with her hair cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice, “Are you a +Jewess-Catholic-Protestant-Mohammedan-Buddhist-Atheist-Zoroaster-Theist- +or-Deist?” I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment. She had +said all that in a breath, accenting the syllables haphazard, and making +of the whole one word so wildly incoherent that my impression was that I +was not in safety near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked +uneasy, and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking gaily to +a little group of people, she came to my rescue, saying in very good +French, “This young lady is asking you, Madame, whether you are of the +Jewish religion or whether you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a +Mohammedan, a Buddhist, an Atheist, a Zoroastrian, a Theist, or a +Deist.” + +I sank down on a couch. + +“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, “will it be like this in all the cities I +visit?” + +“Oh no,” answered Jarrett placidly; “your interviews will be wired +throughout America.” + +“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then in an absent- +minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, Mademoiselle.” + +“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox Church?” she asked. + +I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance, and a very +young man then approached timidly. + +“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, Madame?” he asked. + +I remained standing, my profile turned towards him at his request. When +he had finished I asked to see what he had done, and, perfectly +unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly +wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day +that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription +beneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with +a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago +reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious +articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present, +always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up +for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the +invention of reporting, has ever had as much to endure as I had during +that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long +before I arrived in America, there was all the treachery of the friends +of the Comédie, and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not +succeed on my tour, so that I might return more quickly to the fold, +humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated +announcements invented by my _impresario_ Abbey and my representative +Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always +ridiculous; but I did not know their real source until long afterwards, +when it was too late—much too late—to undeceive the public, who were +fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I +therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to +me whether people believe one thing or another. + +Life is short, even for those who live a long time, and we must live for +the few who know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for +whom we have the same affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as +a mere crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is +nothing to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or +unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to hate very +rarely, as it is too fatiguing; remain indifferent to a great deal, +forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does not mean forgetting—at +least, it does not with me. I will not mention here any of the +outrageous and infamous attacks that were made upon me, as it would be +doing too great an honour to the wretched people who were responsible +for them, from beginning to end dipping their pen in the gall of their +own souls. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that any +one who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander can do it. For +that one must live. It is not given to every one to be able to do it, +but it depends on the will of God, who sees and judges. + +I took two days’ rest before going to the theatre, for I could feel the +movement of the ship all the time: my head was dizzy, and it seemed to +me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea +had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager, telling +him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day, as soon as +luncheon was over, I went to Booth’s Theatre, where our performances +were to take place. At the stage door I saw a compact, swaying crowd, +very much animated and gesticulating. These strange-looking individuals +did not belong to the world of actors. They were not reporters either, +for I knew them too well, alas! to be mistaken in them. They were not +there out of curiosity either, these people, for they seemed too much +occupied, and then, too, there were only men. When my carriage drew up, +one of them rushed forward to the door of it and then returned to the +swaying crowd. “Here she is! Here she is!” I heard, and then all these +common men, with their white neckties and questionable-looking hands, +with their coats flying open, and trousers the knees of which were worn +and dirty-looking, crowded behind me into the narrow passage leading to +the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my mind, and I mounted the +stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for me at the top: Mr. +Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two gentlemen and a charming +and most distinguished woman, whose friendship I have kept ever since, +although she does not care much for French people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who +was usually very dignified and cold, advance in the most gracious and +courteous way to one of the men who were following me. They raised their +hats to each other, and, followed by the strange and brutal-looking +regiment, they advanced towards the centre of the stage. + +I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the stage were my +forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign, twenty of the men came +forward, and placing themselves each one between two trunks, with a +quick movement with their right and left hands they took the covers off +the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett, with frowns and an +unpleasant grin, held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning +for my keys for the Customs. + +“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said; “don’t be uneasy,” and the way in which my +luggage had always been respected in other countries had given me +perfect confidence about it. + +The principal personage of the ugly group came towards me, accompanied +by Abbey, and Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official +from the American Custom-house. + +The Custom-house is an abominable institution in every country, but +worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared for all this, and +was most affable to the tormentor of a traveller’s patience. He raised +the melon which served him for a hat, and without taking his cigar out +of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to me. He then turned to +his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his hand, and uttered some +word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands of these twenty men +proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and laces. I rushed +forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous violation, and I +ordered the lady of our company who had charge of the costumes to lift +my gowns out one at a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid, +who was in tears at the small amount of respect shown by these boors to +all my beautiful, fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very +noisy and businesslike. One of them was short and stout: her nose seemed +to begin at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes, +and a mouth like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her +heavy flabby bust, and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of +her groin. She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a +terrapin, with her little black evil-looking head at the end of a neck +which was too long and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa +and drawing it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her +body bulged out flat. These two delightful persons were the dressmakers +sent for by the Custom-house to value my costumes. They glanced at me in +a furtive way, and gave a little bow full of bitterness and jealous rage +at the sight of my dresses; and I was quite aware that two more enemies +had now come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter +and argue, pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time. +They kept exclaiming in the most emphatic way, “Oh, how beautiful! What +magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these, +and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the +American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of +excitement for this chiffon court-martial. They kept lamenting, then +going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion. +The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval, and spat on the +ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one +of the inquisitors: + +“Oh, isn’t it beautiful? Show it! show it!” she exclaimed, seizing on a +dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in _La Dame aux +Camélias_. + +“This dress is worth at least ten thousand dollars,” she said; and then, +coming up to me, she asked, “How much did you pay for that dress, +Madame?” + +I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment +I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the +Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half-past five, and my feet were +frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The +rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly +band of men offered to put everything back in the trunks, but I objected +to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover +over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen, +stockings, furs, gloves, &c. &c. They then made me take my oath to +remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left +my steward there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and +a bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I +wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out +for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see Brooklyn Bridge. + +“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty +miseries of our red tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for +Brooklyn Bridge. + +Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing; and it makes one +feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realises that +a brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the +ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with +passengers, ten or twelve tramcars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and +carts, and thousands of foot passengers; and all that moving along +together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals—clanging, +clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and +things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful tempestuous +coming and going caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath. + +I made a sign for the carriage to stand still, and I closed my eyes. I +then had a strange, undefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened +my eyes again when my brain was a little more tranquil, and I saw New +York stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which +glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as +the firmament with its tunic of stars. + +I returned to the hotel reconciled with this great nation. + +I went to sleep, tired in body but rested in mind, and had such +delightful dreams that I was in a good humour the following day. I adore +dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are those which follow dreamless +nights. + +My great grief is that I cannot choose my dreams. How many times I have +done all in my power at the end of a happy day to make myself dream a +continuation of it. How many times I have called up the faces of those I +love just before falling asleep; but my thoughts wander and carry me off +elsewhere, and I prefer that a hundred times over to the absolute +negation of thought. + +When I am asleep my body has an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is +torture to me for my thoughts to slumber. + +My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am quite willing +to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as those of +which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke my maid +told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theatre so that the +valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to Jarrett +that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the Custom-house, and +I asked him to finish everything without me, as Madame Guérard would be +there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the Seated Cow, and the +Black Band made notes for the Custom-house, took sketches for the papers +and patterns of my dresses for customers. I began to get impatient, as +we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I was told on Thursday +morning that the business was over, and that I could not have my trunks +until I had paid twenty-eight thousand francs for duty. I was seized +with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been +terrified, caught it from me, and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth. + +“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must +make my _début_ on Monday the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I +shall be at the theatre on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks, +for there was nothing about the Custom-house in my contract. I will pay +half, though, of what you have to give.” + +The twenty-eight thousand francs were handed over to an attorney who +made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs. My trunks were left +with me, thanks to this payment, and the rehearsals commenced at Booth’s +Theatre. + +On Monday, November 8, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first +performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_. The house was crowded, and the +seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them +again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and +curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present, +as the piece was too immoral. Poor Adrienne Lecouvreur! + +The audience was very polite to the artistes of my company, but rather +impatient to see the strange person who had been described to them. + +In the play the curtain falls at the end of the first act without +Adrienne having appeared. A person in the house, very much annoyed, +asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my money back,” he said, “as la +Bernhardt is not in every act.” Abbey refused to return the money to the +extraordinary individual, and as the curtain was going up he hurried +back to take possession of his seat again. My appearance was greeted by +several rounds of applause, which I believe had been paid for in advance +by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced, and the sweetness of my voice in the +fable of the “Two Pigeons” worked the miracle. The whole house this time +burst out into hurrahs. A current of sympathy was established between +the public and myself. Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been +announced to them, they had before them a very frail-looking creature +with a sweet voice. The fourth act was applauded, and Adrienne’s +rebellion against the Princesse de Bouillon stirred the whole house. +Finally in the fifth act, when the unfortunate artiste is dying, +poisoned by her rival, there was quite a manifestation, and every one +was deeply moved. At the end of the third act all the young men were +sent off by the ladies to find all the musicians they could get +together, and to my surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a +charming serenade was played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had +assembled under my windows at the Albemarle Hotel, and I was obliged to +go out on to the balcony several times to bow and to thank this public, +which I had been told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From +the bottom of my heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers, +as it was through them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the +certainty of conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had +not dared to hope for it. + +I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were _Adrienne +Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _Hernani_, _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_, +and _L’Etrangère_. The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each +performance, including _matinées_. The last performance was given on +Saturday, December 4, as a _matinée_, for my company had to leave that +night for Boston, and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison’s +at Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland. + +Oh, that _matinée_ of Saturday, December 4! I can never forget it. When +I got to the theatre to dress it was mid-day, for the _matinée_ was to +commence at half-past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get +along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they +had borrowed from the neighbouring shops, or on folding seats which they +had brought themselves. The play was _La Dame aux Camélias_. I had to +get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order +to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it. +People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her +brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts +surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had +its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her note- +book and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small +boys under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their +cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my +hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I +turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had +tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she only succeeded in cutting +the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and shouted. I +could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered me, but +without any ceremony either for my admirers or for myself. Those +policemen were real brutes, and they made me very angry. I played _La +Dame aux Camélias_, and I counted seventeen calls after the third act +and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and +calls the play had lasted an hour longer than usual, and I was half dead +with fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my +hotel, when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000 +people waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened. + +“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed. I am tired out. I can do +no more.” + +But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius. + +“Come,” said he to my sister. “Put on Madame’s hat and boa and take my +arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now +we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.” + +He said all this in English, and Jarrett translated it to my sister, who +willingly accepted her part in this little comedy. During this time +Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of +the theatre where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this +course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour +later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my +hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the +little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public. + +We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in +travelling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston, +and my trunks were leaving the same day with my company, which preceded +me by several hours. + +Our meal was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the food +was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty special +train, all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had been kind +enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey all the same, for +at every moment we had to pull up to allow another train to pass or an +engine to manœuvre, or to wait to pass over the points. It was two +o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the station of +Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison. + +It was a very dark night, and the snow was falling silently in heavy +flakes. A carriage was waiting, and the one lamp of this carriage served +to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the +electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of +Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The +intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable +blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the +first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp. +There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten +in all. Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first +one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of +conspirators. The dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence +caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our +furs, and our anxious expression as we glanced around us—all this made +our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta. + +The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting +terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic +accident. + +I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along, for, lulled by the +movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was quietly +dozing, when a formidable “Hip, hip, hurrah!” made us all jump, my +travelling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as +thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on +the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed +forth triumphantly. + +The wheels of the carriage turned a few more times, and then drew up at +the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of people awaited us on +the verandah—four men, two ladies, and a young girl. My heart began to +beat quickly as I wondered which of these men was Edison. I had never +seen his photograph, and I had the greatest admiration for his genial +brain. I sprang out of the carriage, and the dazzling electric light +made it seem like day-time to us. I took the bouquet which Mrs. Edison +offered me, and thanked her for it, but all the time I was endeavouring +to discover which of these was the great man. + +They all four advanced towards me, but I noticed the flush that came +into the face of one of them, and it was so evident from the expression +of his blue eyes that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was +Edison. I felt confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well +that I was causing inconvenience to this man by my visit. He of course +imagined that it was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner eager to +court publicity. He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store +for him the following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to +utter. He was suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions +I should ask him, of all the explanations he would out of politeness be +obliged to give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to +me. His wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps, +enabled me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must +be won over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of +fascination in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful _savant_. I +made such an effort, and succeeded so well that half an hour later we +were the best of friends. + +I followed him about quickly, climbing up staircases as narrow and steep +as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in the air above veritable +furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I understood all, and I +admired him more and more, for he was so simple and charming, this king +of light. + +As we were leaning over a slightly unsteady bridge above the terrible +abyss, in which immense wheels encased in wide thongs were turning, +whirling about, and rumbling, he gave various orders in a clear voice, +and light then burst forth on all sides, sometimes in sputtering +greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes, or in serpentine trails like +streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a +large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon I. +There is certainly a great physical resemblance between these two men, +and I am sure that one compartment of their brain would be found to be +identical. Of course I do not compare their genius. The one was +destructive and the other creative, but whilst I execrate battles I +adore victories, and in spite of his errors I have raised an altar in my +heart to that god of glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at Edison +thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead. The +deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the changes +of light, all that together made my head whirl, and forgetting where I +was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which separated me +from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that before I +had recovered from my surprise Edison had helped me into an adjoining +room and installed me in an arm-chair without my realising how it had +all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy. + +After having done the honours of his telephonic discovery and of his +astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the +dining-room, where I found his family assembled. I was very tired, and +did justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us. + +I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning, and this time the +country round, the roads and the station were all lighted up _à giorno_, +by the thousands of lamps of my kind host. What a strange power of +suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had travelled a long way that +night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved +to be quite a short distance, and the roads were charming, although they +were now covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during +the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one +during the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my +admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his +timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of +Shakespeare. + + + + + XXXIV + AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE + + +The next day, or rather that same day, for it was then four in the +morning, I started with my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my +_impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was +nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from +Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this +one, nevertheless. In the middle of it there was a real bed, large and +comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there were an arm-chair, a pretty +dressing-table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and flowers +everywhere, but flowers without an overpowering perfume. In the car +adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I +went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied, and woke up at Boston. + +A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and +curious men and women—a public decidedly more interested than friendly, +not badly intentioned, but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in +New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had +been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid +and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some +people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated +these turpitudes, but every one knew that I had won in the end and that +I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that +clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by +the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration +from hell, &c. &c. Every one knew all this, but the public wanted to see +for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says that +it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the majority +there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent with a +certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this strange, +courteous, and cold crowd, and just as I was about to get into my +carriage a lady advanced towards me and said, “Welcome to Boston, +Madame!” + +“Welcome, Madame!” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American +women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now +approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them. + +I took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for +a moment when a reporter sprang on the steps of the carriage just as we +were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any +of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits, and I +pushed the impolite fellow back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this, +and saved him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen +down on the pavement as he deserved. + +“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this +extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke +French perfectly, and repeated his question. + +“He’s mad!” I said in a low voice to Jarrett. + +“No, Madame; I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you +will come and get on the whale? It would be better perhaps to come this +evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a +pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.” + +He went on talking, and as he talked he half seated himself beside +Jarrett, who was still holding him by the collar lest he should fall out +of the carriage. + +“But, Monsieur,” I exclaimed, “what do you mean? What is all this about +a whale?” + +“Ah, Madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the +harbour basin, and there are men employed day and night to break the ice +all round it.” + +He broke off suddenly, and standing on the carriage step he clutched the +driver. + +“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi! Hi! Henry, come here! Here’s Madame; +here she is!” + +The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony he jumped down +and pushed into my landau a little man, square all over, who was wearing +a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and an enormous diamond in his +cravat. He was the strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He did +not speak a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett, +whilst the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to the +vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from the station, +and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome. There were a great +many people awaiting my arrival, and I was quite ashamed of my new +companion. He talked in a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed +every one, and gave every one invitations. All the people seemed to be +delighted. A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck, +exclaiming, “Oh yes, papa; do please let us go!” + +“Well, but we must ask Madame,” he replied, and he came up to me in the +most polite and courteous manner. “Will you kindly allow us to join your +party when you go to see the whale to-morrow?” he asked. + +“But, Monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with a gentleman +once more, “I have no idea what all this means. For the last quarter of +an hour this reporter and that extraordinary man have been talking about +a whale. They declare authoritatively that I must go and pay it a visit, +and I know absolutely nothing about it all. These two gentlemen took my +carriage by storm; installed themselves in it without my permission, +and, as you see, are giving invitations in my name to people I do not +know, asking them to go with me to a place about which I know nothing, +for the purpose of paying a visit to a whale which is to be introduced +to me, and which is waiting impatiently to die in peace.” + +The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to come with us, +and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett and Madame Guérard, I went up +in a lift to the door of my suite of rooms. I found my apartments hung +with valuable pictures and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather +disturbed in my mind, for among these objects of art were two or three +very rare and beautiful things, which I knew must have cost an +exorbitant price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen, and I +spoke of my fear to the proprietor of the hotel. + +“Mr. X., to whom the knick-knacks belong,” he answered, “wished you to +have them to look at as long as you are here, Mademoiselle; and when I +expressed my anxiety about them to him, just as you have done to me, he +merely remarked that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures, +they belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a superb +Millet, which I should very much have liked to own. + +After expressing my gratitude and admiring these treasures, I asked for +an explanation of the story of the whale, and Mr. Max Gordon, the father +of the little girl, translated for me what the little man in the fur cap +had said. It appeared that he owned several fishing-boats, which he sent +out cod-fishing for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an +enormous whale, which still had two harpoons in it. The poor creature +was thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, and only a few miles +distant along the coast, so it had been easy to capture it and bring it +in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner of the boats. It was difficult to +say by what freak of fancy and by what turn of the imagination this man +had arrived at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name +as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the fact remained +that he insisted in such a droll way, and so authoritatively and +energetically, that the following morning at seven o’clock fifty of us +assembled, in spite of the icy cold rain, on the quay. + +Mr. Gordon had given orders that his mail coach with four beautiful +horses should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his daughter, +Jarrett, my sister, Madame Guérard, and another elderly lady, whose name +I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages followed. It was +all very amusing indeed. + +On our arrival at the quay we were received by this comic Henry, shaggy- +looking this time from head to foot, and his hands encased in fingerless +woollen gloves. Only his eyes and his huge diamond shone out from his +furs. I walked along the quay, very much amused and interested. There +were a few idlers looking on also, and alas!—three times over +alas!—there were reporters. + +Henry’s shaggy paw then seized my hand, and he drew me along with him +quickly to the steps. + +I only just escaped breaking my neck at least a dozen times. He pushed +me along, made me stumble down the ten steps of the basin, and I next +found myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it still +breathed, but I should not like to affirm that it really did; but the +splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor creature +caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered with glazed +frost, and twice I fell down full length on its spine. I laugh about it +now, but I was furious then. + +Every one around me insisted, however, on my pulling a piece of +whalebone from the blade of the poor captured creature, one of those +little bones which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to do +this, as I feared to cause it suffering, and I was sorry for the poor +thing, as three of us—Henry, the little Gordon girl, and I—had been +skating about on its back for the last ten minutes. Finally I decided to +do it. I pulled out the little whale bone, and went up the steps again, +holding my poor trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and +every one surrounded me. + +I was annoyed with this Henry Smith. I did not want to return to the +coach, as I thought I could hide bad temper better in one of the huge, +gloomy-looking landaus which followed, but the charming Miss Gordon +asked me so sweetly why I would not ride with them that I felt my anger +melt away before the child’s smiling face. + +“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I accepted with +pleasure. + +Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach as quickly as +his age and corpulence would allow him. + +“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he said, and he took +a seat in another carriage. I changed places boldly with Mr. Gordon in +order to drive, and we had not gone a hundred yards before I had let the +horses make for a chemist’s shop along the quay and got the coach itself +up on to the footpath, so that if it had not been for the quickness and +energy of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at the +hotel I went to bed, and stayed there until it was time for the theatre +in the evening. We played _Hernani_ that night to a full house. + +The seats had been sold to the highest bidders, and considerable prices +were obtained for them. We gave fifteen performances at Boston, at an +average of nineteen thousand francs for each performance. I was sorry to +leave that city, as I had spent two charming weeks there, my mind all +the time on the alert when holding conversations with the Boston women. +They are Puritans from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot, +but they are indulgent, and there is no bitterness about their +Puritanism. What struck me most about the women of Boston was the +harmony of their gestures and the softness of their voices. Brought up +among the severest and harshest of traditions, the Bostonian race seems +to me to be the most refined and the most mysterious of all the American +races. + +As the women are in the majority in Boston, many of the young girls +remain unmarried. All their vital forces which they cannot expend in +love and in maternity they employ in fortifying and making supple the +beauty of their body by means of exercise and sports, without losing any +of their grace. All the reserves of heart are expended in +intellectuality. They adore music, the stage, literature, painting, and +poetry. They know everything and understand everything, are chaste and +reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loud. + +They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North Pole is from +the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful, and captivating. + +It was therefore with a rather heavy heart that I left Boston for New +Haven, and to my great surprise, on arriving at the hotel there I found +Henry Smith the famous whale man. + +“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, flinging myself into an arm-chair, “what +does this man want now with me?” + +I was not left in ignorance very long, for the most infernal noise of +brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and, I should think, saucepans, drew +me to the window. I saw an immense carriage surrounded by an escort of +negroes dressed as minstrels. On this carriage was an abominable, +monstrous coloured advertisement representing me standing on the whale, +tearing away its blade while it struggled to defend itself. + +Some sandwich-men followed with posters on which were written the +following words: + + “COME AND SEE + THE ENORMOUS CETACEAN + WHICH + SARAH BERNHARDT + KILLED + BY TEARING OUT ITS WHALEBONE FOR HER CORSETS. + THESE ARE MADE BY MADAME LILY NOE, + WHO LIVES,” ETC. ETC. + +Some of the other sandwich-men carried posters with these words: + + “THE WHALE IS JUST AS FLOURISHING (_sic_) AS + WHEN IT WAS ALIVE! + + It has five hundred dollars’ worth of salt in its stomach, + and every day the ice upon which it is resting is + renewed at a cost of one hundred dollars!” + +My face turned more livid than that of a corpse, and my teeth chattered +with fury on seeing this. + +Henry Smith advanced towards me, and I struck him in my anger, and then +rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with vexation, disgust, and utter +weariness. + +I wanted to start back to Europe at once, but Jarrett showed me my +contract. I then wanted to take steps to have this odious exhibition +stopped, and in order to calm me I was promised that this should be +done, but in reality nothing was done at all. + +Two days later I was at Hartford, and the same whale was there. It +continued its tour as I continued mine. + +They gave it more salt and renewed its ice, and it went on its way, so +that I came across it everywhere. I took proceedings about it, but in +every State I was obliged to begin all over again, as the law varied in +the different States. And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found +there an immense bouquet awaiting me, with the horrible card of the +showman of the whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and trampled on +them, and much as I love flowers, I had a horror of these. Jarrett went +to see the man and begged him not to send me any more bouquets, but it +was all of no use, as it was the man’s way of avenging the box on the +ears I had given him. Then too he could not understand my anger. He was +making any amount of money, and had even proposed that I should accept a +percentage of the receipts. Ah, I would willingly have killed that +execrable Smith, for he was poisoning my life. I could see nothing else +in all the different cities I visited, and I used to shut my eyes to go +from the hotel to the theatre. When I heard the minstrels I used to fly +into a rage and turn green with anger. Fortunately I was able to rest +when once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this show. I +should certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I saw nothing but +that, I could think of nothing else, and my very dreams were about it. +It haunted me; it was an obsession and a perpetual nightmare. When I +left Hartford, Jarrett swore to me that Smith would not be at Montreal, +as he had been taken suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had +found a way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine which +had stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of this, as the +ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily _en route_, but anyhow I was +infinitely grateful to him for ridding me of the man for the present. + + + + + XXXV + MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN ESCAPADE ON THE ST. + LAWRENCE RIVER + + +At last we arrived at Montreal. + +For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had dreamed about +Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret, with considerable fury, +the surrender of that territory by France to England. + +I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding them, the +pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense fortune that lay in its +lands, &c., and that country had seemed to my imagination the far-off +promised land. + +Awakened some considerable time before by the strident whistle of the +engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock in the evening, I was +informed. We were within fifteen minutes of the station. The sky was +black and smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns placed at distant +intervals caught the whiteness of the snow heaped up there for how many +days? The train stopped suddenly, and then started again with such a +slow and timid movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility +of its running off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing louder every +second, fell upon my attentive ears. This sound soon resolved itself +into music—and it was in the midst of a formidable “Hurrah! long live +France!” shouted by ten thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra +playing the “Marseillaise” with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry +into Montreal. + +The place where the train stopped in those days was very narrow. A +somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the slight platform of the +station. + +Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with emotion upon +the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank was packed with bears +holding lanterns. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. In the +narrow space between the bank and the train, which had come to a stop, +there were more bears, large and small, and I wondered with terror how I +should manage to reach my sleigh. + +Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way, and I got out. But a +deputy, whose name I cannot make out on my notes (what commendation for +my writing!)—a deputy advanced towards me and handed me an address +signed by the notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I +could, and took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in +the name of the signatories to the address. When I lifted the flowers to +my face in order to smell them I hurt myself slightly with their pretty +petals, which were frozen by the cold. + +However, I began myself to feel both arms and legs were getting +benumbed. The cold crept over my whole body. That night, it appears, was +one of the coldest that had been experienced for many years past. + +The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the French +company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior of the station, +with the exception of Mrs. Jos. Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of rare +flowers and gave me a kiss. The temperature was twenty-two degrees below +zero. I whispered low to Jarrett, “Let us continue our journey; I am +turning into ice. In ten minutes I shall not be able to move a step.” + +Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey, who applied to the Chief of Police. +The latter gave orders in English, and another police officer repeated +them in French. And we were able to proceed for a few yards. But the +main station was still some way off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one +time I felt as though I were about to faint. I took courage, however, +holding or rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every +minute I thought I should fall, for the platform was like a mirror. + +We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred lanterns, +held aloft by a hundred students’ hands, suddenly lit up the place. + +A tall young man separated himself from the group and came straight +towards me, holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice +declaimed: + + A SARAH BERNHARDT. + + Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante dona Sol! + Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol, + Notre sol tout couvert de givre, + Est-ce frisson d’orgueil ou d’amour? je ne sais; + Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang français + Quelque chose qui nous enivre! + + Femme vaillante au cœur saturé d’idéal, + Puisque tu n’as pas craint notre ciel boréal, + Ni redouté nos froids sévères. + Merci! De l’âpre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers, + Nous rêvons à ta vue aux rayons printaniers + Qui font fleurir les primevères! + + Oui, c’est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rêver! + Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver + L’horreur de nos saisons perfides, + Aux clairs rayonnements d’un chaud soleil de mai, + Nous croyons voir, du fond d’un bosquet parfumé, + Surgir la reine des sylphides. + + Mais non: de floréal ni du blond messidor, + Tu n’es pas, O Sarah, la fée aux ailes d’or + Qui vient répandre l’ambroisie; + Nous saluons en toi l’artiste radieux + Qui sut cueillir d’assaut dans le jardin des dieux + Toutes les fleurs de poesie! + + Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau; + Que le paros brilliant vive sous ton ciseau, + Ou l’argile sous ton doigt rose; + Que sur la scène, au bruit délirant des bravos, + En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux, + Ton talent se métamorphose; + + Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain, + Toi-même oses ravir la muse au front serein, + A ta sourire toujours prête; + Soit qu’aux mille vivats de la foule à genoux, + Des grands maîtres anciens ou modernes, pour nous + Ta voix se fasse l’interprète; + + Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent, + Qu’il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang, + Laissant glapir la calomnie, + Tour à tour par ton œuvre et ta grâce enchanté + Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté + De ton universel génie! + + Salut donc, O Sarah! salut, O dona Sol! + Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol, + Te montrer de l’indifférence + Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront; + Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front, + C’est encore celle de la France! + LOUIS FRÉCHETTE. + +He read very well, it is true; but those lines, read at a temperature of +twenty-two degrees of cold to a poor woman dumfounded through listening +to a frenzied “Marseillaise,” stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten +thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervour, were more than my +strength could bear. + +I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed with +fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning round in a mad farandole. I +felt myself raised from the ground, and heard a voice which seemed to +come from far away, “Make room for our French lady!” Then I heard +nothing further, and only recovered my senses in my room at the Hotel +Windsor. + +My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the movement of the +crowd. But the poet Fréchette, a Franco-Canadian, acted as escort, and +brought her several minutes later, safe and sound, but trembling on my +account, and this is what she told me. “Just imagine. When the crowd was +pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head fall back +with closed eyes on to Abbey’s shoulder,” I shouted out, ‘Help! My +sister is being killed.’ I had become mad. A man of enormous size, who +had followed us for a long time, worked his elbows and hips to make the +enthusiastic but overexcited mob give way, with a quick movement placed +himself before you just in time to prevent you from falling. The man, +whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden beneath a fur +cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire face, raised you +up as though you had been a flower, and held forth to the crowd in +English. I did not understand anything he said, but the Canadians were +struck with it, for the pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two +compact files in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it +made me feel quite impressed to see you, so slender, with your head +back, and the whole of your poor frame borne at arm’s length by that +Hercules. I followed as fast as I could, but having caught my foot in +the flounce of my skirt, I had to stop for a second, and that second was +enough to separate us completely. The crowd, having closed up after your +passage, formed an impenetrable barrier. “I can assure you, dear sister, +that I felt anything but at ease, and it was M. Fréchette who saved me.” + +I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman, and thanked him this time as +well as I could for his fine poem; then I spoke to him of other poems of +his, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for alas! to my shame +I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Fréchette up to the time of +my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little in +Paris. + +He was very much touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the +finest of his work. He thanked me. We remained friends. + +The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck when a card was sent +up to me on which were written these words, “He who had the joy of +saving you, Madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment’s +interview.” I directed that the man should be shown into the drawing- +room, and after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with +me,” I said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing-gown, and we went in the +direction of the large, the immense drawing-room of my suite, for a +bicycle would have been necessary to traverse without fatigue the entire +length of my rooms, drawing-room, dining-room and bedroom. On opening +the door I was struck by the beauty of the man who was before me. He was +very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and +curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine-looking, but seemed uneasy. +He blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude, and asked to +be excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully the bouquet of +violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in a low voice, “If you +ever hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service +I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered. His face was pale, +as he walked towards the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could, +however, catch the words, “detective ... door ... assassination ... +impossibility ... New Orleans.” The stranger’s sunburnt complexion +became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he glanced towards the door. +Then, as flight appeared impossible, he looked at Jarrett and in a +peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said, “Well!” as he went towards the +door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let fall his bouquet, +which he picked up whilst looking at me with a supplicating and +appealing air. I understood, and said to him in a loud tone of voice, “I +swear to it, Monsieur.” The man disappeared with his flowers. I heard +the uproar of people behind the door and of the crowd in the street. I +did not wish to listen to anything further. + +When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell +me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears. + +Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an +account of his death by hanging, I refused to hear anything about it. +And now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to +remember the service rendered and my pledged word. + +This incident left me somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal +was necessary to enable me to regain my good humour. That prelate, after +holding forth in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature, +forbade his flock to go the theatre. He spoke violently and spitefully +against modern France. As to Scribe’s play (_Adrienne Lecouvreur_), he +tore it into shreds, as it were, declaiming against the immoral love of +the _comédienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the +Princesse de Bouillon. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and +he cried out, with fury intensified by outrage: “In this infamous +lucubration of French authors there is a court abbé, who, thanks to the +unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult +to the clergy.” Finally he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who +was already dead, against Legouvé, against me, and against all my +company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four +performances, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame aux Camélias_ +(matinée), and _Hernani_ had a colossal success and brought in fabulous +receipts. + +I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not +remember to pay a visit to the Iroquois. I accepted with joy, and went +there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always +ready for a dangerous excursion. I felt in safety in the presence of +this artiste, full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean +strength. The only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He +had none then, and never did have any. + +The St. Lawrence river was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in +a carriage along a route indicated by two rows of branches fixed in the +ice. We had four carriages. The distance between Caughnanwaga and +Montreal was five kilometres. + +This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was introduced +to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes. Alas! this +former chief, son of “Big White Eagle,” surnamed during his childhood +“Sun of the Nights,” now clothed in sorry European rags, was selling +liquor, thread, needles, flax, pork fat, chocolate, &c. All that +remained of his mad rovings through the old wild forests—when he roamed +naked over a land free of all allegiance—was the stupor of the bull held +prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy, and that he +quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of +forgetfulness. + +Sun of the Nights introduced me to his daughter, a girl of eighteen to +twenty years of age, insipid, and devoid of beauty and grace. + +She sat down at the piano and played a tune that was popular at the +time—I do not remember what. I was in a hurry to leave the store, the +home of these two victims of civilisation. + +I visited Caughnanwaga, but found no pleasure in it. The same +compression of the throat, the same retrospective anguish, caused me to +revolt against man’s cowardice which hid under the name of civilisation +the most unjust and most protected of crimes. + +I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success of our four +performances was extraordinary, but what gave them a special charm in my +eyes was the infernal and joyous noise made by the students. The doors +of the theatre were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They +then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were gifted with +magnificent voices. They separated into groups according to the +requirements of the songs they wished to sing. They then prepared, by +means of a strong string worked by a pulley, the aerial route that was +to be followed by the flower-bedecked baskets which descended from their +paradise to where I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves +bearing sonnets and good wishes. + +These flowers and birds were sent off during the “calls,” and by a happy +disposition of the strings the flowers fell at my feet, the doves flew +where their astonishment led them; and every evening these messages of +grace and beauty were repeated. I experienced considerable emotion the +first evening. The Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria, +Governor of Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The +house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the curtain I gazed +on the composition of this assembly. All of a sudden a silence came over +it without any outward reason for it, and the “Marseillaise” was sung by +three hundred warm young male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur +the Governor stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole +house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem echoed in +our hearts like a call from the mother-country. I do not believe I ever +heard the “Marseillaise” sung with keener emotion and unanimity. As soon +as it was over, the plaudits of the crowd broke out three times over; +then, upon a sharp gesture from the Governor, the band played “God save +the Queen.” + +I never saw a prouder or more dignified gesture than that of the Marquis +of Lorne when he motioned to the conductor of the orchestra. He was +quite willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen to feel a +regret, perhaps even a flickering hope. The first on his feet, he +listened to that fine plaint with respect, but he smothered its last +echo beneath the English National Anthem. + +Being an Englishman, he was incontestably right in doing so. + +I gave for the last performance, on December 25, Christmas Day, +_Hernani_. + +The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against Scribe and +Legouvé, and the poor artistes who had come with me, who could not help +it. I do not know whether he did not even threaten to excommunicate all +of us, living and dead. Lovers of France and French art, in order to +reply to his abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost +carried by an immense crowd, among which were the deputies and +notabilities of the city. + +One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to realise the +crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel. + +The day following, Sunday, I went at seven o’clock in the morning, in +company with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade on the banks of the +St. Lawrence river. At a given moment I ordered the carriage to stop, +with the object of walking a little way. + +My sister laughingly said, “What if we climb on to that large piece of +ice that seems ready to crack?” + +No sooner thought of than done. + +And behold both of us walking on the ice, trying to break it loose! All +of a sudden a loud shout from Jarrett made us understand that we had +succeeded. As a matter of fact, our ice barque was already floating free +in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open on account +of the force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece of +ice rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh +inordinately. Jarrett’s cries caused people to gather. Men armed with +boat-hooks endeavoured to stop our progress, but it was not easy, for +the edges of the channel were too friable to bear the weight of a man. +Ropes were thrown out to us. We caught hold of one of them with our four +hands, but the sudden pull of the men in drawing us towards them cast +our raft so suddenly against the ice edges that it broke in two, and we +remained, full of fear this time, on one small part of our skiff. I +laughed no longer, for we were beginning to travel somewhat fast, and +the channel was opening out in width. But in one of the turns it made we +were fortunately squeezed in between two immense blocks, and to this +fact we owed being able to escape with our lives. + +The men who had followed our very rapid ride with real courage climbed +on to the blocks. A harpoon was thrown with marvellous skill on to our +icy wreck so as to retain us in our position, for the current, rather +strong underneath, might have caused us to move. A ladder was brought +and planted against one of the large blocks; its steps afforded us means +of delivery. My sister was the first to climb up, and I followed, +somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous escapade. + +During the length of time required to regain the bank the carriage, with +Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was pallid, not from fear of +the danger I had undergone, but at the idea that if I died the tour +would come to an end. He said to me quite seriously, “If you had lost +your life, Madame, you would have been dishonest, for you would have +broken your contract of your own free will.” + +We had just enough time to get to the station, where the train was ready +to take me to Springfield. + +An immense crowd was waiting, and it was with the same cry of love, +underlined with _au revoirs_, that the Canadian public wished us good- +bye. + + + + + XXXVI +SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES BETWEEN ST. LOUIS + AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT + + +After our immense and noisy success at Montreal, we were somewhat +surprised with the icy welcome of the public at Springfield. + +We played _La Dame aux Camélias_—in America _Camille_, why, no one was +ever able to tell me. This play, which the public rushed to see in +crowds, shocked the over-strained Puritanism of the small American +towns. The critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene. +But those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This +stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the +impurity of Marguerite Gautier, we met with from time to time in the +small cities. Springfield at that time had barely thirty thousand +inhabitants. + +During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmith’s to +purchase a rifle. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow +courtyard, where I tried several shots. On turning round I was surprised +and confused to see two gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I +wished to withdraw at once, but one of them came up to me: + +“Would you like, Madame, to come and fire off a cannon?” I almost fell +to the ground with surprise, and did not reply for a second. Then I +said, “Yes, I would.” + +An appointment was made with my strange questioner, who was the director +of the Colt gun factory. An hour afterwards I went to the rendezvous. + +More than thirty people who had been hastily invited were there already. +It got on my nerves a trifle. I fired off the newly invented quick- +firing cannon. It amused me very much without procuring me any emotion, +and that evening, after the icy performance, we left for Baltimore with +a vertiginous rush, the play having finished later than the hour fixed +for the departure of the train. It was necessary to catch it up at any +cost. The three enormous carriages that made up my special train went +off under full steam. With two engines, we bounded over the metals and +dropped again, thanks to some miracle. + +We finally succeeded in catching up the express, which knew we were on +its track, having been warned by telegram. It made a short stop, just +long enough to couple us to it anyhow, and in that way we reached +Baltimore, where I stayed four days and gave five performances. + +Two things struck me in that city: the deadly cold in the hotels and the +theatre, and the loveliness of the women. + +I felt a profound sadness at Baltimore, for I spent the 1st of January +far from everything that was dear to me. I wept all night, and underwent +that moment of discouragement that makes one wish for death. + +Our success, however, had been colossal in that charming city, which I +left with regret to go to Philadelphia, where we were to remain a week. + +That handsome city I do not care for. I received an enthusiastic welcome +there, in spite of a change of programme the first evening. Two artistes +having missed the train, we could not play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, and I +had to replace it by _Phèdre_, the only piece in which the absentees +could be replaced. The receipts averaged twenty thousand francs for the +seven performances given in six days. My sojourn was saddened by a +letter announcing the death of my friend Gustave Flaubert, the writer +who had the beauty of our language at heart. + +From Philadelphia we proceeded to Chicago. + +At the station I was received by a deputation of Chicago ladies, and a +bouquet of rare flowers was handed to me by a delightful young lady, +Madame Lily B. + +Jarrett then led me into one of the rooms of the station, where the +French delegates were waiting. + +A very short but highly emotional speech from our Consul spread +confidence and friendly feelings among every one, and after having +returned heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave the station, when I +stopped stupefied—and it seems that my features assumed such an intense +expression of suffering that everybody ran towards me to offer +assistance. + +But a sudden anger electrified all my being, and I walked straight +towards the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the whale +man! He was alive, that terrible Smith!—enveloped in furs, with diamonds +on all of his fingers. He was there with a bouquet in his hand, the +wretched brute! I refused the flowers and repulsed him with all my +strength, increased tenfold by anger, and a flood of confused words +escaped from my pallid lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was +repeated and spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors +than ever. + +I went to the Palmer House, one of the most magnificent hotels of that +day, whose proprietor, Mr. Potter-Palmer, was a perfect gentleman, +courteous, kind, and generous, for he filled the immense apartment I +occupied with the rarest flowers, and taxed his ingenuity in order to +have my meals cooked and served in the French style, a difficult matter +in those days. + +We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success exceeded all +expectations. These two weeks seemed to me the most agreeable days I had +had since my arrival in America. First of all, there was the vitality of +the city in which men pass each other without ever stopping, with +knitted brows, with one thought in mind, “the end to attain.” They move +on and on, never turning for a cry or prudent warning. What takes place +behind them matters little. They do not wish to know why a cry is +raised, and they have no time to be prudent: “the end to attain” awaits +them. + +Women here, as everywhere else in America, do not work, but they do not +stroll about the streets, as in other cities: they walk quickly; they +also are in a hurry to seek amusement. During the day-time I went some +distance into the surrounding country in order not to meet the sandwich- +men advertising the whale. + +One day I went to the pigs’ slaughter-house. Ah, what a dreadful and +magnificent sight! There were three of us, my sister, myself, and an +Englishman, a friend of mine. + +On arrival we saw hundreds of pigs hurrying, bunched together, grunting +and snorting, along a small narrow raised bridge. + +[Illustration: + + SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER + COMPANY OUT SHOOTING +] + +Our carriage passed under this bridge, and stopped before a group of men +who were waiting for us. The manager of the stock-yards received us and +led the way to the special slaughterhouses. On entering into the immense +shed, which is dimly lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an +abominable smell gets into your throat, a smell that only leaves one +several days afterwards. A sanguinary mist rises everywhere, like a +light cloud floating on the side of a mountain and lit up by the setting +sun. An infernal hubbub drums itself into your brain: the almost human +cries of the pigs being slaughtered, the violent strokes of the hatchets +lopping off the limbs, the repeated shouts of the “ripper,” who with a +superb and sweeping gesture lifts the heavy hatchet, and with one stroke +opens from top to bottom the unfortunate, quivering animal hung on a +hook. During the terror of the moment one hears the continuous grating +of the revolving razor which in one second removes the bristles from the +trunk thrown to it by the machine that has cut off the four legs; the +whistle of the escaping steam from the hot water in which the head of +the animal is scalded; the rippling of the water that is constantly +renewed; the cascade of the waste water; the rumbling of the small +trains carrying under wide arches trucks loaded with hams, sausages, +&c., and the whistling of the engines warning one of the danger of their +approach, which in this spot of terrible massacre seems to be the +perpetual knell of wretched agonies. + +Nothing was more Hoffmanesque than this slaughter of pigs at the period +I am speaking about, for since then a sentiment of humanity has crept, +although still somewhat timidly, into this temple of porcine hecatombs. + +I returned from this visit quite ill. That evening I played in _Phèdre_. +I went on to the stage quite unnerved, and trying to do everything to +get rid of the horrible vision of the stock-yard. I threw myself heart +and soul into my _rôle_, so much so that at the end of the fourth act I +absolutely fainted on the stage. + +On the day of my last performance a magnificent collar of camellias in +diamonds was handed me on behalf of the ladies of Chicago. I left that +city fond of everything in it: its people; its lake, as big as a small +inland sea; its audiences, who were so enthusiastic; everything, +everything—except its stock-yards. + +I did not even bear any ill-will towards the Bishop, who also, as had +happened in other cities, had denounced my art and French literature. By +the violence of his sermons he had, as a matter of fact, advertised us +so well that Mr. Abbey, the manager, wrote the following letter to him: + + “Your Grace ——, Whenever I visit your city, I am accustomed to spend + four hundred dollars in advertising. But as you have done the + advertising for me, I send you two hundred dollars for your poor. + + “HENRY ABBEY.” + +We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after having +covered 283 miles in fourteen hours. + +In the drawing-room of my car, Abbey and Jarrett showed me the statement +of the sixty-two performances that had been given since our arrival. The +gross receipts were $227,459, that is to say, 1,137,295 francs, an +average of 18,343 francs per performance. This gave me great pleasure on +Henry Abbey’s account, for he had lost all he had in his previous tour +with an admirable troop of opera artistes, and greater pleasure still on +my own account, as I was to receive a good share of the takings. + +We stayed at St. Louis all the week, from January 24 to 31. I must admit +that this city, which was specially French, was less to my liking than +the other American cities, as it was dirty and the hotels were not very +comfortable. Since then St. Louis has made great strides, but it was the +Germans who planted there the bulb of progress. At the time of which I +speak, the year 1881, the city was repulsively dirty. In those days, +alas! we were not great at colonising, and all the cities where French +influence preponderated were poor and behind the times. I was bored to +death at St. Louis, and I wanted to leave the place at once, after +paying an indemnity to the manager, but Jarrett, the upright man, the +stern man of duty, the ferocious man, said to me, holding my contract in +his hand: + +“No, Madame; you must stay. You can die of _ennui_ here if you like, but +stay you must.” + +By way of entertaining me he took me to a celebrated grotto where we +were to see some millions of fish without eyes. The light had never +penetrated into this grotto, and as the first fish who lived there had +no use for their eyes, their descendants had no eyes at all. We went to +see this grotto. It was a long way off. We went down and groped our way +to the grotto very cautiously, on all fours like cats. The road seemed +to me interminable, but at last the guide told us that we had arrived at +our destination. We were able to stand upright again, as the grotto +itself was higher. I could see nothing, but I heard a match being +struck, and the guide then lighted a small lantern. Just in front of me, +nearly at my feet, was a rather deep natural basin. “You see,” remarked +our guide phlegmatically, “that is the pond, but just at present there +is no water in it; neither are there any fish. You must come again in +three months’ time.” + +Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with an +uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which borders +on madness. I was suffocated with it, and I choked and laughed till the +tears came. I then went down into the basin of the pond in search of a +relic of some kind, a little skeleton of a dead fish, or anything, no +matter what. There was nothing to be found, though—absolutely nothing. +We had to return on all fours, as we came. I made Jarrett go first, and +the sight of his big back in his fur coat and of him walking on hands +and feet, grumbling and swearing as he went, gave me such delight that I +no longer regretted anything, and I gave ten dollars to the guide for +his ineffable surprise. + +We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweller had been +waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweller!” I exclaimed; “but I +have no intention of buying any jewellery. I have too much as it is.” +Jarrett, however, winked at Abbey, who was there as we entered. I saw at +once that there was some understanding between the jeweller and my two +_impresarii_. I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the +jeweller would undertake to make them look like new, repair them if they +required it, and in a word exhibit them. I rebelled, but it was of no +use. Jarrett assured me that the ladies of St. Louis were particularly +fond of shows of this kind. He said it would be an excellent +advertisement; that my jewellery was very much tarnished, that several +stones were missing, and that this man would replace them for nothing. +“What a saving!” he added. “Just think of it!” + +I gave up, for discussions of that kind bore me to death, and two days +later the ladies of St. Louis went to admire my ornaments in this +jeweller’s show-cases under a blaze of light. Poor Madame Guérard, who +also went to see them, came back horrified. + +“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs of ear-rings, +two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette studded with diamonds and +rubies, a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises; a small pipe, the +amber mouthpiece of which is encircled with diamond stars; sixteen +bracelets, a tooth-pick studded with sapphires, a pair of spectacles +with gold mounts ending with small acorns of pearls. + +“They must have been made specially,” said poor Guérard, “for there +can’t be any one who would wear such glasses, and, on them were written +the words, ‘Spectacles which Madame Sarah Bernhardt wears when she is at +home.’” + +I certainly thought that this was exceeding all the limits allowed to +advertisement. To make me smoke pipes and wear spectacles was going +rather too far, and I got into my carriage and drove at once to the +jeweller’s. I arrived just in time to find the place closed. It was five +o’clock on Saturday afternoon; the lights were out, and everything was +dark and silent. I returned to the hotel, and spoke to Jarrett of my +annoyance. “What does it all matter, Madame?” he said tranquilly. “So +many girls wear spectacles; and as to the pipe, the jeweller tells me he +has received five orders from it, and that it is going to be quite the +fashion. Anyhow, it is of no use worrying about the matter, as the +exhibition is now over. Your jewellery will be returned to-night, and we +leave here the day after to-morrow.” + +That evening the jeweller returned all the objects I had lent him, and +they had been polished and repaired so that they looked quite new. He +had included with them a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises, the +very one that had been on view. I simply could not make that man +understand anything, and my anger cooled down when confronted by his +pleasant manner and his joy. + +This advertisement, though, came very near costing me my life. Tempted +by this huge quantity of jewellery, the greater part of which did not +belong to me, a little band of sharpers planned to rob me, believing +that they would find all these valuables in the large hand-bag which my +steward always carried. + +On Sunday, January 30, we left St. Louis at eight o’clock in the morning +for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently appointed Pullman car, and I +had requested that the car should be put at the end of our special +train, so that from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the +landscape, which passes before one like a continually changing living +panorama. + +We had scarcely been more than ten minutes _en route_ when the guard +suddenly stooped down and looked over the little balcony. He then drew +back quickly, and his face turned pale. Seizing my hand, he said in a +very excited tone in English, “Please go inside, Madame!” I understood +that we were in danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a +sign to another guard, and before the train had quite come to a +standstill the two men sprang down and disappeared under the train. + +The guard had fired a revolver in order to attract every one’s +attention, and Jarrett, Abbey, and the artistes hurried out into the +narrow corridor. I found myself in the midst of them, and to our +stupefaction we saw the two guards dragging out from underneath my +compartment a man armed to the teeth. With a revolver held to his temple +on either side, he decided to confess the truth of the matter. + +The jeweller’s exhibition had excited the envy of all the gangs of +thieves, and this man had been despatched by an organised band at St. +Louis to relieve me of my jewellery. + +He was to unhook my carriage from the rest of the train between St. +Louis and Cincinnati, at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.” + +As this was to be done during the night, and as my carriage was the +last, the thing was comparatively easy, since it was only a question of +lifting the enormous hook and drawing it out of the link. + +The man, a veritable giant, was fastened on to my carriage. We examined +his apparatus, and found that it merely consisted of very thick wide +straps of leather about half a yard wide. By means of these he was +secured firmly to the underpart of the train, with his hands perfectly +free. The courage and the _sang-froid_ of that man were admirable. He +told us that seven armed men were waiting for us at the Little Incline, +and that they certainly would not have injured us if we had not +attempted to resist, for all they wanted was my jewellery and the money +which the secretary carried (two thousand three hundred dollars). Oh, he +knew everything; he knew every one’s name, and he gabbled on in bad +French, “Oh, as for you, Madame, we should not have done you any harm, +in spite of your pretty little revolver. We should even have let you +keep it.” + +And so this man and his gang knew that the secretary slept at my end of +the train, and that he was not to be dreaded much (poor Chatterton!); +that he had with him two thousand three hundred dollars, and that I had +a very prettily chased revolver, ornamented with cats-eyes. The man was +firmly bound and taken in charge by the two guards, and the train was +then backed into St. Louis; we had only started a quarter of an hour +before. The police were informed, and they sent us five detectives. A +goods train which should have departed half an hour before us was sent +on ahead of us. Eight detectives travelled on this goods train, and +received orders to get out at the Little Incline. Our giant was handed +over to the police authorities, but I was promised that he should be +dealt with mercifully on account of the confession he had made. Later on +I learnt that this promise had been kept, as the man was sent back to +his native country, Ireland. + +From this time forth my compartment was always placed between two others +every night. In the day-time I was allowed to have my carriage at the +end on condition that I would agree to have on the platform an armed +detective whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. Our dinner +was very gay, and every one was rather excited. As to the guard who had +discovered the giant hidden under the train, Abbey and I had rewarded +him so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and kept coming on every +occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s tears, repeating all +the time, “I saved the French lady; I’m a gentleman.” + +When finally we approached the Little Incline, it was dark. The engine- +driver wanted to rush along at full speed, but we had not gone five +miles when crackers exploded under the wheels and we were obliged to +slacken our pace. We wondered what new danger there was awaiting us, and +we began to feel anxious. The women were nervous, and some of them were +in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness, trying to +make out the form of a man or of several men by the light of each +cracker. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these crackers had +been placed along the line by the bandits, who had probably thought of +some way of stopping the train in case their giant did not succeed in +unhooking the carriage. The engine-driver refused to go more quickly, +declaring that these crackers were signals placed there by the railway +company, and that he could not risk every one’s life on a mere +supposition. The man was quite right, and he was certainly very brave. + +“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said, “but I could +not answer for any one’s life if the train went off the lines, clashed +into or collided with something, or went over a precipice.” + +We continued therefore to go slowly. The lights had been turned off in +the car, so that we might see as much as possible without being seen +ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth from the artistes, except from +three men whom I had sent for to my carriage. The artistes really had +nothing to fear from the robbers, as I was the only person at whom they +were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions and evasive answers, we +sent the secretary to tell them that as there was some obstruction on +the line, the train had to go slowly. They were also told that one of +the gas-pipes had to be repaired before we could have the light again. +The communication was then cut between my car and the rest of the train. +We had been going along like this for ten minutes perhaps when +everything was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a gang of +railway-men hastening towards us. It makes me shudder now when I think +how nearly these poor fellows escaped being killed. Our nerves had been +in such a state of tension for several hours that we imagined at first +that these men were the wretched friends of the giant. Some one fired at +them, and if it had not been for our plucky engine-driver calling out to +them to stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two or three of +these poor men would have been wounded. I too had seized my revolver, +but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which serves as a cog to +prevent it from going off, any one would have had time to seize me, bind +me, and kill me a hundred times over. + +And still any time I go to a place where I think there is danger, I +invariably take my pistol with me, for it is a pistol, and not a +revolver. I always call it a revolver, but in reality it is a pistol, +and a very old-fashioned make too, with this ramrod and the trigger so +hard to pull that I have to use my other hand as well. I am not a bad +shot, for a woman, provided that I may take my time, but this is not +very easy when one wants to fire at a robber. And yet I always have my +pistol with me; it is here on my table, and I can see it as I write. It +is in its case, which is rather too narrow, so that it requires a +certain amount of strength and patience to pull it out. If an assassin +should arrive at this particular moment I should first have to unfasten +the case, which is not an easy matter, then to get the pistol out, pull +out the ramrod, which is rather too firm, and press the trigger with +both hands. And yet, in spite of all this, the human animal is so +strange that this ridiculously useless little object here before me +seems to me an admirable protection. And nervous and timid as I am, +alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to this little friend of mine, +who must roar with laughter inside the little case out of which I can +scarcely drag it. + +Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train which had +started before us ran off the line, but no great damage was done, and no +one was killed. The St. Louis band of robbers had arranged everything, +and had prepared to have this little accident two miles from the Little +Incline, in case their comrade crouching under my car had not been able +to unhook it. The train had left the rails, but when the wretches rushed +forward, believing that it was mine, they found themselves surrounded by +the band of detectives. It seems that they fought like demons. One of +them was killed on the spot, two more wounded, and the remainder taken +prisoners. A few days later the chief of this little band was hanged. He +was a Belgian, named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five years of age. + +I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that +unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan. + +If Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if they +had not added more than six hundred thousand francs’ worth of jewellery +to mine, this man, this wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the +stupid idea of robbing me. Who can say what schemes had floated through +the mind of the poor fellow, who was perhaps half-starved, or perhaps +excited by a clever, inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped and looked +at the jeweller’s window he said to himself: “There is jewellery there +worth a million francs. If it were all mine I would sell it and go back +to Belgium. What joy I could give to my poor mother, who is blinding +herself with work by gaslight, and I could help my sister to get +married.” Or perhaps he was an inventor, and he thought to himself: “Ah, +if only I had the money which that jewellery represents I could bring +out my invention myself, instead of selling my patent to some highly +esteemed rascal, who will buy it from me for a crust of bread. What +would it matter to the artiste. Ah, if only I had the money!” Ah, if I +had the money!—perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all +this wealth belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime +germinated in this way in a mind which had hitherto been pure. Ah, who +can tell to what hope may give birth in a young mind? At first it may be +only a beautiful dream, but this may end in a mad desire to realise the +dream. To steal the goods of another person is certainly not right, but +this should not be punished by death—it certainly should not. To kill a +man of twenty-five years of age is a much greater crime than to steal +jewellery even by force, and a society which bands together in order to +wield the sword of Justice is much more cowardly when it kills than the +man who robs and kills quite alone, at his own risk and peril. Oh, what +tears I wept for that man, whom I did not know at all—who was a rascal +or perhaps a hero! He was perhaps a man of weak intellect who had turned +thief, but he was only twenty-five years of age, and he had a right to +live. + +How I hate capital punishment! It is a relic of cowardly barbarism, and +it is a disgrace for civilised countries still to have their guillotines +and scaffolds. Every human being has a moment when his heart is easily +touched, when the tears of grief will flow; and those tears may +fecundate a generous thought which might lead to repentance. + +I would not for the whole world be one of those who condemn a man to +death. And yet many of them are good, upright men, who when they return +to their families are affectionate to their wives, and reprove their +children for breaking a doll’s head. + +I have seen four executions, one in London, one in Spain, and two in +Paris. + +In London the method is hanging, and this seems to me more hideous, more +repugnant, more weird than any other death. The victim was a young man +of about thirty, with a strong, self-willed looking face. I only saw him +a second, and he shrugged his shoulders as he glanced at me, his eyes +expressing his contempt for my curiosity. At that moment I felt that +individual’s ideas were very much superior to mine, and the condemned +man seemed to me greater than all who were there. It was, perhaps, +because he was nearer than we all were to the great mystery. I can see +him now smile as they covered his face with the hood, while, as for me, +I rushed away completely upset. + +In Madrid I saw a man garrotted, and the barbarity of this torture +terrified me for weeks after. He was accused of having killed his +mother, but no real proof seemed to have been brought forward against +the wretched man. And he cried out, when they were holding him down on +his seat before putting the garrotte on him, “Mother, I shall soon be +with you, and you will tell them all, in my presence, that they have +lied.” + +These words were uttered in Spanish, in a voice that vibrated with +earnestness. They were translated for me by an _attaché_ to the British +Embassy, with whom I had gone to see the hideous sight. The wretched man +cried out in such a sincere, heartrending tone of voice that it was +impossible for him not to have been innocent, and this was the opinion +of all those who were with me. + +The two other executions which I witnessed were at the Place de la +Roquette, Paris. The first was that of a young medical student, who with +the help of one of his friends had killed an old woman who sold +newspapers. It was a stupid, odious crime, but the man was more mad than +criminal. He was more than ordinarily intelligent, and had passed his +examinations at an earlier age than is usual. He had worked too hard, +and it had affected his brain. He ought to have been allowed to rest, to +have been treated as an invalid, cured in mind and body, and then +returned to his scientific pursuits. He was a young man quite above the +average as regards intellect. I can see him now, pale and haggard, with +a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, an expression of infinite sadness. +I know, of course, that he had killed a poor, defenceless old woman. +That was certainly odious, but he was only twenty-three years old, and +his mind was disordered through study and overwork, too much ambition, +and the habit of cutting off arms and legs and dissecting the dead +bodies of women and children. All this does not excuse the man’s +abominable deed, but it had all contributed to unhinge his moral sense, +which was perhaps already in a wavering state, thanks to study, poverty, +or atavism. I consider that a crime of high treason against humanity was +committed in taking the life of a man of intellect, who, when once he +had recovered his reason, might have rendered great service to science +and to humanity. + +The last execution at which I was present was that of Vaillant, the +anarchist. He was an energetic man, and at the same time mild and +gentle, with very advanced ideas, but not much more advanced than those +of men who have since risen to power. + +My theatre at that time was the Renaissance, and he often applied to me +for free seats, as he was too poor to pay for the luxuries of art. Ah, +poverty, what a sorry counsellor art thou, and how tolerant we ought to +be to those who have to endure misery! + +One day Vaillant came to see me in my dressing-room at the theatre. I +was playing Lorenzaccio, and he said to me: “Ah, that Florentine was an +anarchist just as I am, but he killed the tyrant and not tyranny. That +is not the way I shall go to work.” + +A few days later he threw a bomb in a public building, the Chamber of +Deputies. The poor fellow was not as successful as the Florentine, whom +he seemed to despise, for he did not kill any one, and did no real harm +except to his own cause. + +I said I should like to know when he was to be executed, and the night +before, a friend of mine came to the theatre and told me that the +execution was to take place the following day, Monday, at seven in the +morning. + +I started after the performance, and went to the Rue Merlin, at the +corner of the Rue de la Roquette. The streets were still very animated, +as that Sunday was Dimanche Gras (Shrove Sunday). People were singing, +laughing, and dancing everywhere. I waited all night, and as I was not +allowed to enter the prison, I sat on the balcony of a first floor flat +which I had engaged. The cold darkness of the night in its immensity +seemed to enwrap me in sadness. I did not feel the cold, for my blood +was flowing rapidly through my veins. The hours passed slowly, the hours +which rang out in the distance, _L’heure est morte. Vive l’heure!_ I +heard a vague, muffled sound of footsteps, whispering, and of wood which +creaked heavily, but I did not know what these strange, mysterious +sounds were until day began to break. I saw that the scaffold was there. +A man came to extinguish the lamps on the Place de la Roquette, and an +anæmic-looking sky spread its pale light over us. The crowd began to +collect gradually, but remained in compact groups, and circulation in +the streets was interrupted. Every now and then a man, looking quite +indifferent, but evidently in a hurry, pushed aside the crowd, presented +a card to a policeman, and then disappeared under the porch of the +prison. I counted more than ten of these men: they were journalists. +Presently the military guard appeared suddenly on the spot, and took up +its position around the melancholy-looking pedestal. The usual number of +the guard had been doubled for this occasion, as some anarchist plot was +feared. On a given signal swords were drawn and the prison door opened. + +Vaillant appeared, looking very pale, but energetic and brave. He cried +out in a manly voice, with perfect assurance, “_Vive l’anarchie!_” There +was not a single cry in response to his. He was seized and thrown back +over the slab. The knife fell with a muffled sound. The body tottered, +and in a second the scaffold was taken away, the place swept; the crowds +were allowed to move. They rushed forward to the place of execution, +gazing down on the ground for a spot of blood which was not to be seen, +sniffing in the air for any odour of the drama which had just been +enacted. + +There were women, children, old men, all joking there on the very spot +where a man had just expired in the most supreme agony. And that man had +made himself the apostle of this populace; that man had claimed for this +teeming crowd all kinds of liberties, all kinds of privileges and +rights. + +I was thickly veiled so that I could not be recognised, and accompanied +by a friend as escort. + +I mingled with the crowd, and it made me sick at heart and desperate. +There was not a word of gratitude to this man, not a murmur of vengeance +nor of revolt. + +I felt inclined to cry out: “Brutes that you are! Kneel down and kiss +the stones that the blood of this poor madman has stained for your +sakes, for you, because he believed in you.” + +But before I had time for this a street urchin was calling out, “Buy the +last moments of Vaillant! Buy, buy!” + +Oh, poor Vaillant! His headless body was then being taken to Clamart, +and the crowds for whom he had wept, worked, and died were now going +quietly away, indifferent and bored. Poor Vaillant! His ideas were +exaggerated ones, but they were generous. + + + + + XXXVII + NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA + + +We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances +there, and set off once more for New Orleans. + +Now, I thought, we shall have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm +our poor limbs, which were stiffened with three months of mortal cold. +We shall be able to open our windows and breathe fresh air instead of +the suffocating and anæmia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep, and dreams +of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock roused me +suddenly, and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did +not growl, I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door, and +Jarrett, followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came +in on tip-toe, and closed the door again. + +“Well, what is it now?” I asked. + +“Why,” replied Jarrett, “the incessant rain during the last twelve days +has swollen the water to such a height that the bridge of boats across +the bay here is liable to give way under the terrible pressure of the +water. Do you hear the awful storm of wind that is now blowing? If we go +back by the other route it will require three or four days.” + +I was furious. Three or four days, and to go back to the snow again! Ah +no! I felt I must have sunshine. + +“Why can we not pass? Oh, Heavens! what shall we do?” I exclaimed. + +“Well, the engine-driver is here. He thinks that he might get across; +but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition +that you give him two thousand five hundred dollars, which he will at +once send to Mobile, where his father and wife live. If we get safely to +the other side he will give you back this money, but if not it will +belong to his family.” + +I must confess that I was stupefied with admiration for this plucky man. +His daring excited me, and I exclaimed: + +“Yes, certainly. Give him the money, and let us cross.” + +As I have said, I generally travelled by special train. This one was +made up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a +moment as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did +not tell any one about it except my sister, my beloved Guérard, and my +faithful Félicie and her husband Claude. The comedian Angelo, who was +sleeping in Jarrett’s berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was +courageous, and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the +engine-driver, who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were +actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had +taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of +thirty-two persons. It was too late then to do anything: the train had +started, and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge of boats. I had +taken my seat on the platform, and the bridge bent and swayed like a +hammock under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way +across it gave way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered, +“Ah, we are drowning!” She closed her eyes and clutched me nervously, +but was quite brave. I certainly imagined as she did that the supreme +moment had arrived; and abominable as it was, I never for a second +thought of all those who were full of confidence and life, whom I was +sacrificing, whom I was killing. My only thought was of a dear little +face which would soon be in mourning for me. And to think that we take +about within us our most terrible enemy, thought, and that it is +continually at variance with our deeds. It rises up at times, terrible, +perfidious, and we try to drive it away without success. We do not, +thanks to God, invariably obey it; but it pursues us, torments us, makes +us suffer. How often the most evil thoughts assail us, and what battles +we have to fight in order to drive away these children of our brain! +Anger, ambition, revenge give birth to the most detestable thoughts, +which make us blush with shame as we should at some horrible blemish. +And yet they are not ours, for we have not evoked them; but they defile +us nevertheless, and leave us in despair at not being masters of our own +heart, mind, and body. + +My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the book of +destiny. The train pulled itself together, and, half leaping and half +rolling along, we arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we +heard a terrible noise, a column of water falling back like a huge +sheaf. The bridge had given way! For more than a week the trains from +the east and the north could not run over this route. + +I left the money to our brave engine-driver, but my conscience was by no +means tranquil, and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most +frightful nightmares; and when any of the artistes spoke to me of their +child, their mother, or their husband, whom they longed to see once +more, I felt myself turn pale; a thrill of deep emotion went through me, +and I had the deepest pity for my own self. + +When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive from +retrospective emotion. I had to submit to receiving a most friendly +though fatiguing deputation of my compatriots. Then, loaded with +flowers, I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel. +The roads were rivers, and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part +of the city, the coachman explained to us in French, with a strong +Marseilles accent, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. Hundreds +of negroes had been drowned. “Ah, _bagasse_!” he cried, as he whipped up +his horses. + +At that period the hotels in New Orleans were squalid—dirty, +uncomfortable, black with cockroaches, and as soon as the candles were +lighted the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed +round and fell on one’s shoulder, sticking in one’s hair. Oh, I shudder +still when I think of it! + +At the same time as our company, there was at New Orleans an opera +company, the “star” of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at +one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The country was poor, +like all the other American districts where the French were to be found +preponderating. + +The opera did very poor business, and we did not do excellently either. +Six performances would have been ample in that city: we gave eight. + +Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely. + +An infinite charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different, +black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The +shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their windows. The open- +air traders under the arcades challenged one another with joyful flashes +of wit. The sun, however, did not show itself once. But these people had +the sun within themselves. + +I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up +to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a +carriage if the pavements had not been a metre high and occasionally +more. + +Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use to think of +banking up the river or arm of the sea. But circulation was made easy by +the high pavements and small movable bridges. The dark children amused +themselves catching cray-fish in the streams. (Where did they come +from?) And they sold them to passers-by. + +Now and again we would see a whole family of water serpents speed by. +They swept along, with raised head and undulating body, like long starry +sapphires. + +I went down towards the lower part of the town. The sight was +heartrending. All the cabins of the coloured inhabitants had fallen into +the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds, squatting upon these +moving wrecks, with eyes burning from fever. Their white teeth chattered +with hunger. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies with swollen +stomachs floating about, knocking up against the wooden piles. Many +ladies were distributing food, endeavouring to lead away these +unfortunate creatures. No. They would stay where they were. With a +blissful smile they would reply, “The water go away. House be found. Me +begin again.” And the women would slowly nod their heads in token of +assent. Several alligators had shown themselves, brought up by the tide. +Two children had disappeared. + +One child of fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the +hospital with his foot cut clean off at the ankle by one of these marine +monsters. His family were howling with fury. They wished to keep the +youngster with them. The negro quack doctor pretended that he could have +cured him in two days, and that the white “quacks” would leave him for a +month in bed. + +I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city I had +visited up to then. We were really surprised to find that none of our +party were missing—they had gone through, so they said, various dangers. +The hairdresser alone, a man called Ibé, could not recover his +equilibrium, having become half mad from fear the second day of our +arrival. At the theatre he generally slept in the trunk in which he +stored his wigs. However strange it may seem, the fact is quite true. +The first night everything passed off as usual, but during the second +night he woke up the whole neighbourhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate +fellow had got off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that +his mattress, which lay suspended over his collection of wigs, was being +raised by some inconceivable movements. He thought that some cat or dog +had got into the trunk, and he lifted up the feeble rampart. Two +serpents were either quarrelling or making love to each other—he could +not say which; two serpents of a size sufficient to terrify the people +whom the shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round. + +He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the boat that was +to take us to our train. I called him, and begged he would relate to me +the Odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he pointed to +his big leg: “They were as thick as that, Madame. Yes, like that——” And +he quaked with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the reptiles. I +thought that they were about one quarter as thick as his leg, and that +would have been enough to justify his fright, for the serpents in +question were not inoffensive water-snakes that bite out of pure +viciousness, but have no venom fangs. + +We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day. + +We had stopped at that city on our way to New Orleans, and I had had a +real attack of nerves caused by the “cheek” of the inhabitants, who, in +spite of the lateness of the hour, had got up a deputation to wait upon +me. I was dead with fatigue, and was dropping off to sleep in my bed in +the car. I therefore energetically declined to see anybody. But these +people knocked at my windows, sang round about my carriage, and finally +exasperated me. I quickly threw up one of the windows and emptied a jug +of water on their heads. Women and men, amongst whom were several +journalists, were inundated. Their fury was great. + +I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story, embellished +in their favour by the drenched reporters. But on the other hand, there +were others who had been more courteous, and had refused to go and +disturb a lady at such an unearthly hour of the night. These latter were +in the majority, and took up my defence. + +It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared before the +public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the good opinion of my +defenders and confound my detractors. + +Yes, but a sprite who had decided otherwise was there. + +Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_. +There was only one theatre. It had been let to the tragedian Barrett, +who was to appear six days after me. All that remained was a miserable +place, so small that I know of nothing that can be compared to it. We +were playing _La Dame aux Camélias_. When Marguerite Gautier orders +supper to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table ready +laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was impossible. +Nothing could be more comical than to see those unfortunate servants +adopt every expedient. + +The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators was one that +became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen, who had got in somehow, +was standing on a chair, and with his two hands holding on to his knees, +his body bent, head forward, mouth open, he was laughing with such a +shrill and piercing tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught +it too. I had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being +removed to allow the table to be brought in. + +I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination of +suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table, and the supper was +drawing to a close as usual. But just as the servants were entering to +remove the table, one of them caught the scenery, which had been badly +adjusted by the scene-shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene +fell on our heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those +days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round our +necks, and we had to remain in that position without being able to move. +Our heads having gone through the paper, our appearance was most comical +and ridiculous. The young nigger’s laughter started again more piercing +than ever, and this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that +left me without any strength. + +The money paid for admission was returned to the public. It exceeded +fifteen thousand francs. + +This city was an unlucky one for me, and came very near proving fatal +during the third visit I paid to it, as I will narrate in the second +volume of these Memoirs. + +That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after playing _La +Dame aux Camélias_, we left again the same evening for Nashville. + +We stayed an entire day at Memphis, and gave two performances there. + +At one in the morning we left for Louisville. During the journey from +Memphis to Louisville we were awakened by the sound of a fight, by oaths +and cries. I opened the door of my railway carriage, and recognised the +voices. Jarrett came out at the same time. We went towards the spot +whence the noise came—to the small platform, where the two combatants, +Captain Hayné and Marcus Mayer, were fighting with revolvers in their +hands. Marcus Mayer’s eye was out of its orbit, and blood covered the +face of Captain Hayné. I threw myself without a moment’s reflection +between the two madmen, who, with that brutal but delightful courtesy of +North Americans, stopped their fight. + +We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns, arriving at +three, four, and sometimes six o’clock in the evening, and leaving +immediately after the play. I only left my car to go to the theatre, and +returned as soon as the play was over to retire to my elegant but +diminutive bedroom. I sleep well on the railway. I felt an immense +pleasure travelling in that way at high speed, sitting outside on the +small platform, or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the +ever-changing spectacle of American plains and forests that passed +before me. Without stopping we went through Louisville, Cincinnati for +the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph, where one +gets the best beer in the world, and where, when I was obliged to go to +an hotel on account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car, a +drunken dancer at a big ball given in the hotel seized me in the +corridor leading to my room. This brutal fellow caught hold of me just +as I was getting out of the elevator, and dragged me off with cries like +those of a wild animal finding its prey after five days of enforced +hunger. My dog, mad with excitement on hearing me scream, bit his legs +severely, and that aroused the drunken man to the point of fury. It was +with the greatest difficulty that I was delivered from the clutches of +this demoniac. Supper was served. What a supper! Fortunately the beer +was light both in colour and consistency, and enabled me to swallow the +dreadful things that were served up. + +The ball lasted all night, accompanied by revolver shots. + +We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield, but not the Springfield in +Massachusetts—the one in Illinois. + +During the journey from Springfield to Chicago we were stopped by the +snow in the middle of the night. + +The sharp and deep groanings of the locomotive had already awakened me. +I summoned my faithful Claude, and learned that we were to stop and wait +for help. + +Aided by my Félicie, I dressed in haste and tried to descend, but it was +impossible. The snow was as high as the platform of the car. I remained +wrapped up in furs, contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was +hard, implacable, without a star, but all the same translucid. Lights +extended as far as the eye could see along the rails before me, for I +had taken refuge on the rear platform. These lights were to warn the +trains that followed. Four of these came up, and stopped when the first +fog-signals went off beneath their wheels, then crept slowly forward to +the first light, where a man who was stationed there explained the +incident. The same lights were lit immediately for the following train, +as far off as possible, and a man, proceeding beyond the lights, placed +detonators on the metals. Each train that arrived followed that course. + +We were blocked by the snow. The idea came to me of lighting the kitchen +fire, and I thus got sufficient boiling water to melt the top coating of +snow on the side where I wanted to alight. Having done this, Claude and +our coloured servants got down and cleared away a small portion as well +as they could. + +I was at last able to descend myself, and I tried to remove the snow to +one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each other, +and the _melée_ became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary, and +several of the artistes joined in, and we were warmed by this small +battle with white cannon-balls. + +When dawn appeared we were to be seen firing a revolver and Colt rifle +at a target made from a champagne case. A distant sound, deadened by the +cotton-wool of the snow, at length made us realise that help was +approaching. As a matter of fact, two engines, with men who had shovels, +hooks, and spades, were coming at full speed from the opposite +direction. They were obliged to slow down on getting to within one +kilometre of where we were, and the men began clearing the way before +them. They finally succeeded in reaching us, but we were obliged to go +back and take the western route. The unfortunate artistes, who had +counted on getting breakfast in Chicago, which we ought to have reached +at eleven o’clock, were lamenting, for with the new itinerary that we +were forced to follow we could not reach Milwaukee before half-past one. +There we were to give a _matinée_ at two o’clock—_La Dame aux Camélias_. +I therefore had the best lunch I could get prepared, and my servants +carried it to my company, the members of which showed themselves very +grateful. + +The performance only began at three, and finished at half-past six +o’clock; we started again at eight with _Froufrou_. + +Immediately after the play we left for Grand Rapids, Detroit, Cleveland, +and Pittsburg, in which latter city I was to meet an American friend of +mine who was to help me to realise one of my dreams—at least, I fancied +so. In partnership with his brother, my friend was the owner of large +steel works and several petroleum wells. I had known him in Paris, and +had met him again at New York, where he offered to conduct me to +Buffalo, so that I could visit or rather he could initiate me into the +Falls of Niagara, for which he entertained a lover’s passion. Frequently +he would start off quite unexpectedly like a madman and take a rest at a +place just near the Niagara Falls. The deafening sound of the cataracts +seemed like music after the hard, hammering, strident noise of the +forges at work on the iron, and the limpidity of the silvery cascades +rested his eyes and refreshed his lungs, saturated as they were with +petroleum and smoke. + +My friend’s buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, took us along in a +bewildering whirlwind of mud splashing over us and snow blinding us. It +had been raining for a week, and Pittsburg in 1881 was not what it is at +present, although it was a city which impressed one on account of its +commercial genius. The black mud ran along the streets, and everywhere +in the sky rose huge patches of thick, black, opaque smoke; but there +was a certain grandeur about it all, for work was king there. Trains ran +through the streets laden with barrels of petroleum or piled as high as +possible with charcoal and coal. That fine river, the Ohio, carried +along with it steamers, barges, loads of timber fastened together and +forming enormous rafts, which floated down the river alone, to be +stopped on the way by the owner for whom they were destined. The timber +is marked, and no one else thinks of taking it. I am told that the wood +is not conveyed in this way now, which is a pity. + +The carriage took us along through streets and squares in the midst of +railways, under the enervating vibration of the electric wires, which +ran like furrows across the sky. We crossed a bridge which shook under +the light weight of the buggy. It was a suspension bridge. Finally we +drew up at my friend’s home. He introduced his brother to me, a charming +man, but very cold and correct, and so quiet that I was astonished. + +“My poor brother is deaf,” said my companion, after I had been exerting +myself for five minutes to talk to him in my gentlest voice. I looked at +this poor millionaire, who was living in the most extraordinary noise, +and who could not hear even the faintest echo of the outrageous uproar. +He could not hear anything at all, and I wondered whether he was to be +envied or pitied. I was then taken to visit his incandescent ovens and +his vats in a state of ebullition. I went into a room where some steel +discs were cooling, which looked like so many setting suns. + +The heat from them seemed to scorch my lungs, and I felt as though my +hair would take fire. + +We then went down a long, narrow road through which small trains were +running to and fro. Some of those trains were laden with incandescent +metals which made the atmosphere iridescent as they passed. We walked in +single file along the narrow passage reserved for foot passengers +between the rails. I did not feel at all safe, and my heart began to +beat fast. Blown first one way then the other by the wind from the two +trains coming in opposite directions and passing each other, I drew my +skirts closely round me so that they should not be caught. Perched on my +high heels, at every step I took I was afraid of slipping on this +narrow, greasy, coal-strewn pavement. + +To sum up briefly, it was a very unpleasant moment, and very delighted I +was to come to the end of that interminable street, which led to an +enormous field stretching away as far as the eye could see. There were +rails lying all about here, which men were polishing and filing, &c. I +had had quite enough, though, and I asked to be allowed to go back and +rest. So we all three returned to the house. + +On arriving there, valets arrayed in livery opened the doors, took our +furs, walking on tip-toe as they moved about. There was silence +everywhere, and I wondered why, as it seemed to me incomprehensible. My +friend’s brother scarcely spoke at all, and when he did his voice was so +low that I had great difficulty in understanding him. When we asked him +any question by gesticulating we had to listen most attentively to catch +his reply, and I noticed that an almost imperceptible smile lighted up +for an instant his stony face. I understood very soon that this man +hated humanity, and that he avenged himself in his own way for his +infirmity. + +Lunch had been prepared for us in the winter conservatory, a nook of +magnificent verdure and flowers. We had just taken our seats at the +table when the songs of a thousand birds burst forth like a veritable +fanfare. Underneath some large leaves, whole families of canaries were +imprisoned by invisible nets. They were everywhere, up in the air, down +below, under my chair, on the table behind me, all over the place. I +tried to quiet this shrill uproar by shaking my napkin and speaking in a +loud voice, but the little feathered tribe began to sing in a maddening +way. The deaf man was leaning back in a rocking-chair, and I noticed +that his face had lighted up. He laughed aloud in an evil, spiteful +manner. Just as my own temper was getting the better of me a feeling of +pity and indulgence came into my heart for this man, whose vengeance +seemed to me as pathetic as it was puerile. Promptly deciding to make +the best of my host’s spitefulness, and assisted by his brother, I took +my tea into the hall at the other end of the conservatory. I was nearly +dead with fatigue, and when my friend proposed that I should go with him +to see his petroleum wells, a few miles out of the city, I gazed at him +with such a scared, hopeless expression that he begged me in the most +friendly and polite way to forgive him. + +It was five o’clock and quite dusk, and I wanted to go back to my hotel. +My host asked if I would allow him to take me back by the hills. The +road was rather longer, but I should be able to have a bird’s eye view +of Pittsburg, and he assured me that it was quite worth while. We +started off in the buggy with two fresh horses, and a few minutes later +I had the wildest dream. It seemed to me that he was Pluto, the god of +the infernal regions, and I was Proserpine. We were travelling through +our empire at a quick trot, drawn by our winged horses. All round us we +could see fire and flames. The blood-red sky was blurred with long black +trails that looked like widows’ veils. The ground was covered with long +arms of iron stretched heavenwards in a supreme imprecation. These arms +threw forth smoke, flames, or sparks, which fell again in a shower of +stars. The buggy carried us on up the hills, and the cold froze our +limbs while the fires excited our brains. It was then that my friend +told me of his love for the Niagara Falls. He spoke of them more like a +lover than an admirer, and told me he liked to go to them alone. He +said, though, that for me he would make an exception. He spoke of the +rapids with such intense passion that I felt rather uneasy, and began to +wonder whether the man was not mad. I grew alarmed, for he was driving +along over the very verge of the precipice, jumping the stone heaps. I +glanced at him sideways: his face was calm, but his under-lip twitched +slightly; and I had noticed this particularly with his deaf brother, +also. + +By this time I was quite nervous. The cold and the fires, this +demoniacal drive, the sound of the anvil ringing out mournful chimes +which seemed to come from under the earth, and then the deep forge +whistle sounding like a desperate cry rending the silence of the night; +the chimney-stacks too, with their worn-out lungs spitting forth their +smoke with a perpetual death-rattle, and the wind which had just risen +twisting the streaks of smoke into spirals which it sent up towards the +sky or beat down all at once on to us, all this wild dance of the +natural and the human elements, affected my whole nervous system so that +it was quite time for me to get back to the hotel. I sprang out of the +carriage quickly on arriving, and arranged to see my friend at Buffalo, +but, alas! I was never to see him again. He took cold that very day, and +could not meet me there; and the following year I heard that he had been +dashed against the rocks when trying to navigate a boat in the rapids. +He died of his passion,—for his passion. + +At the hotel all the artistes were awaiting me, as I had forgotten we +were to have a rehearsal of _La Princesse Georges_ at half-past four. I +noticed a face that was unknown to me among the members of our company, +and on making inquiries about this person found that he was an +illustrator who had come with an introduction from Jarrett. He asked to +be allowed to make a few sketches of me, and after giving orders that he +should be taken to a seat, I did not trouble any more about him. We had +to hurry through the rehearsal in order to be at the theatre in time for +the performance of _Froufrou_, which we were giving that night. The +rehearsal was accordingly rushed and gabbled through, so that it was +soon over, and the stranger took his departure, refusing to let me look +at his sketches on the plea that he wanted to touch them up before +showing them. My joy was great the following day when Jarrett arrived at +my hotel perfectly furious, holding in his hand the principal newspaper +of Pittsburg, in which our illustrator, who turned out to be a +journalist, had written an article giving at full length an account of +the dress rehearsal of _Froufrou_! “In the play of _Froufrou_,” wrote +this delightful imbecile, “there is only one scene of any importance, +and that is the one between the two sisters. Madame Sarah Bernhardt did +not impress me greatly, and as to the artistes of the Comédie Française, +I considered they were mediocre. The costumes were not very fine, and in +the ball scene the men did not wear dress suits.” + +Jarrett was wild with rage and I was wild with joy. He knew my horror of +reporters, and he had introduced this one in an underhand way, hoping to +get a good advertisement out of it. The journalist imagined that we were +having a dress rehearsal of _Froufrou_, and we were merely rehearsing +Alexandre Dumas’s _Princesse Georges_ for the sake of refreshing our +memory. He had mistaken the scene between Princesse Georges and the +Comtesse de Terremonde for the scene in the third act between the two +sisters in _Froufrou_. We were all of us wearing our travelling +costumes, and he was surprised at not seeing the men in dress coats and +the women in evening dress. What fun this was for our company and for +all the town, and I may add what a subject it furnished for the jokes of +all the rival newspapers. + +I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on to Bradford, Erie, +Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo on Sunday. It was my intention to give +all the members of my company a day’s outing at Niagara Falls, but Abbey +too wanted to invite them. We had a discussion on the subject, and it +was extremely animated. He was very dictatorial, and so was I, and we +both preferred giving the whole thing up rather than yield to each +other. Jarrett, however, pointed out the fact to us that this course +would deprive the artistes of a little festivity about which they heard +a great deal and to which they were looking forward. We therefore gave +in finally, and in order to settle the matter we agreed to share the +outlay between us. The artistes accepted our invitation with the most +charming good grace, and we took the train for Buffalo, where we arrived +at ten minutes past six in the morning. We had telegraphed beforehand +for carriages and coffee to be in readiness, and to have food provided +for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to arrive on a +Sunday in such towns as these without giving notice of such an event. We +had a special train going at full speed over the lines, which were +entirely clear on Sundays, and it was decorated with festoons of +flowers. The younger artistes were as delighted as children; those who +had already seen everything before told about it; then there was the +eloquence of those who had heard of it, &c. &c.; and all this, together +with the little bouquets of flowers distributed among the women and the +cigars and cigarettes presented to the men, made every one good- +humoured, so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met our train +and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre, which had been kept open for us. +There were flowers everywhere, and any number of small tables upon which +were coffee, chocolate, or tea. Every table was soon surrounded with +guests. I had my sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal artistes at +my table. The meal was of short duration and very gay and animated. We +then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour on the balcony +hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with tears as I stood there, +for I was deeply moved by the splendour of the sight. A radiant sun made +the air around us iridescent. There were rainbows everywhere, lighting +up the atmosphere with their soft silvery colours. The pendants of hard +ice hanging down along the rocks on each side looked like enormous +jewels. I was sorry to leave this balcony. We went down in narrow cages +which glided gently into a tube arranged in the cleft of the enormous +rock. We arrived in this way under the American Falls. They were there +almost over our heads, sprinkling us with their blue, pink, and mauve +drops. In front of us, protecting us from the Falls, was a heap of +icicles forming quite a little mountain. We climbed over this to the +best of our ability. My heavy fur mantle tired me, and about half way +down I took it off and let it slip over the side of the ice mountain, to +take it again when I reached the bottom. I was wearing a dress of white +cloth with a satin blouse, and every one screamed with surprise on +seeing me. Abbey took off his overcoat and threw it over my shoulders. I +shook this off quickly, and Abbey’s coat went to join my fur cloak +below. The poor _impresario’s_ face looked very blank. As he had taken a +fair number of cocktails, he staggered, fell down on the ice, got up, +and immediately fell again, to the amusement of every one. I was not at +all cold, as I never am when out of doors. I only feel the cold inside +houses when I am inactive. + +Finally we arrived at the highest point of the ice, and the cataract was +really most threatening. We were covered by the impalpable mist; which +rises in the midst of the tumultuous noise. I gazed at it all, +bewildered and fascinated by the rapid movement of the water, which +looked like a wide curtain of silver, unfolding itself to be dashed +violently into a rebounding, splashing heap with a noise unlike any +sound I had ever heard. I very easily turn dizzy, and I know very well +that if I had been alone I should have remained there for ever with my +eyes fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed, my mind +lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed by the treacherous +cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged away, but I am soon myself +again when confronted by an obstacle. + +We had to go down again, and this was not as easy as it had been to +climb up. I took the walking-stick belonging to one of my friends, and +then sat down on the ice. By putting the stick under my legs I was able +to slide down to the bottom. All the others imitated me, and it was a +comical sight to see thirty-two people descending the ice-hill in this +way. There were several somersaults and collisions, and plenty of +laughter. A quarter of an hour later we were all at the hotel, where +luncheon had been ordered. + +We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel, and the meal +smelt good. When luncheon was over the landlord of the hotel asked me to +go into a small drawing-room, where a surprise awaited me. On entering I +saw on a table, protected under a long glass box, the Niagara Falls in +miniature, with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass +represented the sheet of water, and glass threads represented the Falls. +Here and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing up on a +little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It was enough to +make any one howl with horror, for it was all so hideous. I managed to +raise a broad smile for the benefit of the hotel keeper by way of +congratulating him on his good taste, but I was petrified on recognising +the man-servant of my friends the Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had +sent this monstrous caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world. + +I read the letter which their domestic handed me, and all my disdain +melted away. They had gone to so much trouble in order to explain what +they wanted me to understand, and they were so delighted at the idea of +giving me any pleasure. + +I dismissed the valet, after giving him a letter for his masters, and I +asked the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris, packed +carefully. I hoped that it might arrive in fragments. + +The thought of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s +passion for the Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a gift. +Whilst admitting that his imaginative mind might have hoped to be able +to carry out his idea, how was it that he was not indignant at the sight +of this grotesque imitation? How had he dared to send it to me? How was +it that my friend loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their +marvellous grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory of +him a hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them, tossed about in +their waters, killed by their caresses; and I cannot think that he could +ever have seen how beautiful they really were. Fortunately I was called +away, as the carriage was there and every one waiting for me. The horses +started off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’ +horses. + +When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground and array +ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes. We looked like so many heavy, +dumpy sailors who were wearing these garments for the first time. There +were two large cells to shelter us, one for the women and the other for +the men. Every one undressed more or less in the midst of wild +confusion, and making a little package of our clothes, we gave this into +the keeping of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh hood drawn +tightly under the chin, hiding the hair entirely, an enormous blouse +much too wide covering the whole body, fur boots with roughed soles to +avoid broken legs and heads, and immense mackintosh breeches in zouave +style, the prettiest and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a +huge, cumbersome, awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry in the +hand completed this becoming costume. I looked more ridiculous than the +others, for I would not cover my hair, and in the most pretentious way I +had fastened some roses into my mackintosh blouse. The women went into +raptures on seeing me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed. +“She always finds a way to be _chic, quand-même!_” The men kissed my +bear’s paw in the most gallant way, bowing low and saying in low tones: +“Always and _quand-même_ the queen, the fairy, the goddess, the +divinity,” &c. &c. And I went along, purring with content and quite +satisfied with myself, until, as I passed by the counter where the girl +who gives the tickets was sitting, I caught sight of myself in the +glass. I looked enormous and ridiculous with my roses pinned in, and the +curly locks of hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I appeared +to be stouter than all the others, because of the silver belt I was +wearing round my waist, as this drew up the hard folds of the mackintosh +round my hips. My thin face was nearly covered by my hair, which was +flattened down by my hood. My eyes could not be seen, and only my mouth +served to show that this barrel was a human being. Furious with myself +for my pretentious coquetry, and ashamed of my own weakness in having +been so content with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people who were +making fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment for my +stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers among us, who nudged +each other, pointing to me and laughing slyly at my absurd get-up, and +this was only what I deserved. + +We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice in order to get +underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there was most strange and +extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense cupola of ice hanging over in +space, attached only on one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands +of icicles of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons, +arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with six +fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and women’s long locks +of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination and by fixing the +gaze when looking with half-shut eyes, the illusion is complete, and in +less time than it takes to describe all this one can evoke all the +pictures of nature and of our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a +diseased mind, or the realities of a reflective brain. + +In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud and erect, +standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the wind which gnaws the +ice, looking like minarets ready for the muezzin. On the right a cascade +was rushing down as noisily as on the other side, but the sun had +commenced its descent towards the west, and everything was tinged with a +rosy hue. The water splashed over us, and we were suddenly covered with +small silvery waves which when shaken slightly stiffened against our +mackintoshes. It was a shoal of very small fish which had had the +misfortune to be driven into the current, and which had come to die in +the dazzling brilliancy of the setting sun. On the other side there was +a small block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the water. + +“I should love to mount on that!” I exclaimed. + +“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends. + +“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible,” I said. “There is only the +risk; the crevice to be covered is not a yard long.” + +“No, but it is deep,” remarked an artiste who was with us. + +“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog—and if I win I +am to choose my dog—that I go.” + +Abbey was fetched immediately, but he only arrived in time to see me on +the block. I came very near falling into the crevice, and when I was on +the back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up. It was as smooth and +transparent as artificial ice. I sat down on its back, holding on to the +little hump, and I declared that if no one came to fetch me I should +stay where I was, as I had not the courage to move a step on this +slippery back; and then, too, it seemed to me as though it moved +slightly. I began to lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had +won my dog. My excitement was over, and I was seized with fright. Every +one gazed at me in a bewildered way, and that increased my terror. My +sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard groaned in a +heartrending way, “Oh heavens, my dear Sarah, oh heavens!” An artist was +making sketches; fortunately the members of our company had gone up +again in order to go and see the Rapids. Abbey besought me to return; +poor Jarrett besought me. But I felt dizzy, and I could not and would +not cross again. Angelo then sprang across the crevice, and remaining +there, called for a plank of wood and a hatchet. + +“Bravo! bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my rhinoceros. + +The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece of wood, and I +glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into the tail of my +rhinoceros, and the plank was fixed firmly by Angelo on my side and held +by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude on the other side. I let myself slide over +the crupper of my rhinoceros, and I then started, not without terror, +along the rotten plank of wood, which was so narrow that I was obliged +to put one foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned +in a very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the +droll sketches he had taken. + +After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train, which had been +waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others had taken their seats some +time before. I was leaving without having seen the rapids in which my +poor Pittsburg friend met his death. + + + + + XXXVIII + THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE + + +Our great voyage was drawing towards its close. I say great voyage, for +it was my first one. It had lasted seven months. The voyages I have +since undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months. + +From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy, +Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an +admirable city, but one which at that time had a sadness about it that +affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited. + +After two admirable performances there and a supper at the Embassy, we +left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to +come to a close. In that city I gave a grand professional _matinée_ at +the general demand of the actors and actresses of New York. The piece +chosen was _La Princesse Georges_. + +Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was +applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind +of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and +sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair-comb was handed to me, on +which were engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From +Salvini I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at +that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal +bearing a forget-me-not in turquoises. In my dressing-room I counted one +hundred and thirty bouquets. + +That evening we gave our last performance with _La Dame aux Camélias_. I +had to return and bow to the public fourteen times. + +Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and +bravos I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths, which I did +not in the least understand. After each “call” I asked in the wings what +the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful +sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and +enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him, +abashed. “Yes, they want you to make a little speech.” + +“Ah no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on the stage to make a bow. “No.” +And in making my bow to the public I murmured, “I cannot speak. But I +can tell you: Thank you, with all my heart!” + +It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip, +hip, hurrah! _Vive la France!_” that I left the theatre. + +On Wednesday, May 4, I embarked on the same Trans-atlantic steamer, the +_America_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck. +But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was +Santelli. He was as little and fair-complexioned as his predecessor was +big and dark. But he was as charming, and a nice conversationist. + +Commander Jowclas blew his brains out after losing heavily at play. + +My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the wood-work had been +covered in sky-blue material. On boarding the steamer I turned towards +the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir!_” they +shouted back. + +I then went towards my cabin. Standing at the door, in an elegant iron- +grey suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and dog-skin +gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave a cry like that +of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile, and held out a jewel casket, +which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea through the +open port-hole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of +the casket, which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed, but I +had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out to the man, “Go +away! you knave! you brute! Go away! I hope you will die under atrocious +suffering! Go away!” + +I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about +the present. I would not hear anything about it. + +“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so +fine, give it to your daughter, and do not speak to me about it any +more.” And he did so. + +The evening before my departure from America I had received a long +cablegram, signed Grosos, president of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre, +asking me to give upon my arrival a performance, the proceeds of which +would be distributed among the families of the society of Life Savers. I +accepted with unspeakable joy. + +On regaining my native land, I should assist in drying tears. + +After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship moved slowly +off, and we left New York on Thursday the 5th of May. + +Detesting sea travelling as I usually do, I set out this time with a +light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort +caused by the voyage. + +We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the vessel stopped. I +sprang out of my berth, and was soon on deck, fearing some accident to +our _Phantom_, as we had nick-named the ship. In front of us a French +boat had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain, +who had given the replies to these signals, sent for me, and explained +to me the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not +remember anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat +was lowered from the ship opposite us, and two sailors and a young man +very poorly dressed and with a pale face embarked. Our captain had the +steps lowered, the small boat was hailed, and the young man, escorted by +two sailors, came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer +who was waiting at the top of the steps. He read it, and looking at the +young man he said quietly, “Follow me!” The small boat and the sailors +returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the whistle shrieked, and +after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The +unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away, after +asking the captain to tell me later on what was the meaning of it all, +unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret. + +The captain came himself and told me the little story. The young man was +a poor artist, a wood-engraver, who had managed to slip on to a steamer +bound for New York. He had not a sou of money for his passage, as he had +not even been able to pay for an emigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get +through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds. +He had, however, been taken ill, and it was this illness which had +betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish, he had talked aloud in +his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the +infirmary, and when there he had confessed everything. The captain +undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America. +The story soon spread, and other passengers made a collection, so that +the young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of +twelve hundred francs. Three days later he brought me a little wooden +box, manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now +nearly full of petals of flowers, for every year on May 7 I received a +small bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year +after year, “Gratitude and devotion.” I always put the petals of the +flowers into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not +received any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist +to discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea, +but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness, as +forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human +being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while +death is always present laying traps for us, watching all we do, and +jeering gaily when sleep closes our eyes, for we give it then the +illusion of what it knows will some day be a reality. + +Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the +voyage. I spent every night on deck gazing at the horizon, hoping to +draw towards me that land on which were my loved ones. I turned in +towards morning, and slept all day to kill the time. + +The steamers in those days did not perform the crossing with the same +speed as they do nowadays. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I +was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to +send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours sleep with +a strong dose of chloral, and I felt stronger and calmer for affronting +the shock of happiness. + +Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th. +I was ready, and had been walking up and down distractedly for an hour +when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with +the commander, who was waiting for me. + +With my sister I went up in haste, and soon understood from the +embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far +off to hope to make the harbour that night. + +I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the +sprite was going to triumph, and I wept those tears that were like a +brook that runs on and on without ceasing. + +The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind. +I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limp rags. + +I lay down on a deck-chair, and when dawn came was benumbed and sleepy. + +It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles from land. The +sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds, +light as snowflakes. The remembrance of my young beloved one gave me +courage again. I ran towards my cabin. I spent a long while over my +toilet in order to kill time. + +At seven o’clock I made inquiries of the captain. + +“We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.” + +“You swear to it?” + +“Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I +scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw it +without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear a cry from over +there, over there.... + +All at once I noticed masses of little white flags being waved on the +small steamer. I got my glasses—and then let them fall with a joyous cry +that left me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak: I +could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened the +people who were about me. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms +towards the distance. + +They wanted to make me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the +bulwarks, I smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow +friendly hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence the +vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy! my life! my +everything! dearer than everything! + +The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed +between the small and the large ship, a bridge formed of the beatings of +our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for +so many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears, +when the small boats, coming up to the large vessel, allow the impatient +ones to climb up the rope ladders and throw themselves into outstretched +arms. + +The _America_ is invaded. Every one is there, my dear and faithful +friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a +delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with +tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One +is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time +our ship is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared, carrying away the +mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats we meet; they are +decked with flags, ploughing the sea. There are a hundred of them. And +more are coming.... + +“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of +the _Figaro_, who with some friends had come to meet me. + +“Oh yes, Madame, a great _fête_ day to-day at Hâvre, for they are +expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago.” + +“Is it really in my honour that all these pretty boats have spread their +wings and be-flagged their masts? Ah, how happy I am!” We are now +alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there, who +cry out, “_Vive_ Sarah Bernhardt!” + +I was dumfounded. I did not expect any triumphant return. I was well +aware that the performance to be given for the Life Saving Society had +won the hearts of the people of Hâvre, but now I learnt that trains had +come from Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return.... + +I feel my pulse. It is me. I am not dreaming. + +The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent, and an invisible orchestra +strikes up an air from _Le Châlet_, “_Arrêtons-nous ici_.” + +I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off and walk through +the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors, who offer me +flowers. + +Within the tent all the life-savers are waiting for me, wearing on their +broad chests the medals they have so well deserved. + +M. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address: + + “MADAME,—As President, I have the honour to present to you a + delegation from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, come to welcome you + and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded + in your transatlantic despatch. + + “We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you + have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous + journey. You have now achieved in two worlds an incontestable + popularity and artistic celebrity; and your marvellous talent, added + to your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the + land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty. + + “A distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep and + sad memory, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your heart is + as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish and burning + successes on the stage you have never forgotten to unite your + patriotism to your artistic triumphs. + + “Our life-savers have charged me with expressing to you their + admiration for the charming benefactress whose generous hand has + spontaneously stretched itself out towards their poor but noble + society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil + of the mother-country, on the land of France, where you will find them + everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept + them with favour, for they are presented to you by the bravest and + most loyal of our life-savers.” + +It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that +that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a +state of over-excitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food, +had no sleep. My heart had not ceased to beat a moving and joyous +refrain. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been +piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant +reception, which I was far from expecting after what had happened just +before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris +Press, after the incidents of my journey, which had been always badly +interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such +different proportions that they seemed hardly credible. + +The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life-savers. As for +me, I played _La Dame aux Camélias_ for the first time in France. + +I was really inspired. I affirm that those who were present at that +performance experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can +give. + +I spent the night at my place at Ste. Adresse. The day following I left +for Paris. + +A most flattering ovation was waiting for me on my arrival. Then, three +days afterwards, installed in my little mansion in the Avenue de +Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou, in order to hear him read his +magnificent piece, _Fédora_. + +What a great artiste! What an admirable actor! What a marvellous author! + +He read that play to me right off, playing every _rôle_, giving me in +one second the vision of what I should do. + +“Ah!” I exclaimed, after the reading was over. “Ah, dear Master! Thanks +for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given +me.” + +That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the +darkness of the small star in which I had faith. + +I saw it as dawn was breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era +that it was going to light up. + + * * * * * + +My artistic journey had lasted seven months. I had visited fifty cities, +and given 156 performances, as follows: + + La Dame aux Camélias 65 performances + Adrienne Lecouvreur 17 „ + Froufrou 41 „ + La Princesse Georges 3 „ + Hernani 14 „ + L’Etrangère 3 „ + Phèdre 6 „ + Le Sphinx 7 „ + + Total receipts 2,667,600 francs + Average receipts 17,100 „ + +[Illustration: + + BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU + BY SARAH BERNHARDT +] + +I conclude the first volume of my souvenirs here, for this is really the +first halting-place of my life, the real starting-point of my physical +and moral being. + +I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from +my family, and from my friends. + +I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space, +and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the +feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my +shoulders. + +The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my +wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity. + +In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will +was softened. + +My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely +to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight +whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies. + +I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great artiste that I longed to +be. + +And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life. + +[Illustration: + + [_Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s handwriting._] +] + + + + + INDEX + + + Abbema, Louisa, 317 + + Abbey, Henry, American impresario— + The American tour, 335, 368; + in New York, 370, 373, 374; + visit to Edison, 376; + travelling arrangements, 380; + in Montreal, 388; + letter of, to the Bishop of Chicago, 401–2; + the American receipts, 402; + the attempted train robbery, 405–8; + the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16; + journey to Chicago, 421–22; + the visit to Niagara, 427–32 + + _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, 335, 339, 342, 343, 373, 393, 440 + + Agar, Mme.— + Description, 131–32; + interest in Coppée, 132–34; + commanded to the Tuileries in _Le Passant_, 135–39 + + Aicard, Jean, _Othello_, 291 + + Albany, 433 + + Albemarle Hotel, New York, 364, 374, 376 + + Alicante, Sarah Bernhardt’s visit to, 113–15 + + Allou, Maître, advocate of the Comédie Française, 334, 336 + + Ambre, Emilie, 416 + + Ambigu Theatre, the, 120, 236 + + American Falls, the, 428 + + Amiens, 195 + + _Amphytrion_, first visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 57–58 + + Anderson, Mary, 433 + + _Andromaque_, 249, 337 + + Angelo, artiste, 393, 415, 432 + + Annette, Aunt, 157 + + Antoine, M., comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 330 + + _Aricie_, 62 + + Arville, Renée d’, 28 + + _Athalie_, 126 + + Atlanta, 420 + + Auber, M., director of the Conservatoire, 59–60, 68–69 + + Audierne in Brittany, 260 + + Augier, Emile— + _La Fille de Roland_, the discussion regarding, 267–68; + _Gabrielle_, 269; + _L’Aventurière_, 331–34 + + Auteuil, 6–11, 127 + + _Aventurière, L’_, by E. Augier, 331–34 + + Avenue des Acacias, 304 + + + Baden-Baden, 183 + + Baie des Trépassés, Brittany, 260 + + Baltimore, 433; + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 399 + + Barbédienne, clock-maker, 72 + + Barboux, Maître, advocate, 334, 336 + + Baretta, Blanche, 96 + + —— Rose, 96, 102, 104, 141–42 + + Baron, Messrs., dresses from, for the American tour, 335 + + Barrett, tragedian, 419 + + Bartet, comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 329 + + Batifoulé, Father, of Audierne, 260, 264 + + Bazaine, treachery of, 154 + + Beauvallet, M.— + Conservatoire examination, at the, 68–69; + his style of teaching, 80; + remark to Sarah Bernhardt, 93; + as a comrade, 126 + + Benedict, Sir Julius, 294 + + Berendt, Aunt Rosine— + Visits to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20; + at the family council, 48–55; + decides to take Sarah Bernhardt to the Théâtre Français, 55–56; + saying of, repeated to M. Doucet by Régina, 76–77; + proposes the fencing-lessons, 79; + lends dress to Sarah Bernhardt, 91; + and carriage, 92; + dinner given by, 93; + present of the ponies, 127–28; + gambling propensities, 183; + return to Paris, 216; + _otherwise mentioned_, 3–6, 11–12, 35–36, 44 + + Bernhardt, Jeanne— + Characteristics, 48, 89; + reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116; + her mother’s love for her, 118–19; + faces the crowd in New York, 376; + visit to Edison, 376; + in Boston, 383; + in Montreal, 391–92; + visit to the Iroquois, 393; + escapade on the St. Lawrence, 396–97; + the crossing to New Orleans, 415–16; + journey to Chicago, 421–22; + at Niagara, 432; + the return from America, 437; + _otherwise mentioned_, 35, 37, 50, 72, 338 + + —— Mme.— + Visits to Sarah Bernhardt in childhood, 1–5; + takes her to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 16–20; + announces death of her father to Sarah Bernhardt, 35–36; + at Cauterets, 38; + friendship of Mme. Croizette for, 40; + the family council, 47–55; + takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Française, 55–58; + sends her to the Conservatoire with Mme. Guérard, 59–60; + receives her on her return, 71–72; + favours suit of M. Bed——, 74; + moved by the recital of “L’Ame du Purgatoire,” 93; + attends the Comédie Française, 98; + anger of, at Sarcey’s article, 100; + the arrangements for Sarah Bernhardt’s engagement at the Gymnase, + 107–8; + illness of, 115–17; + her love for Jeanne, 118–19; + visit to the Odéon, 128; + visit to the Rue Auber flat, 140–41; + note to Sarah Bernhardt during the siege, 172; + return to Paris, 216; + her fainting fit at the Odéon, 247–48; + _otherwise mentioned_, 6, 15, 44 + + —— Mme., grandmother, 49, 74, 116 + + —— M., 11, 12; + takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20; + death of, 35, 49 + + —— Régina— + Personality as a child, 35, 71–72; + visit to M. Doucet, 76–77; + the trouble with Mme. Nathalie, 101; + reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116; + takes up her abode in the Rue Duphot, 118–19; + return to Paris, 216; + bust of, 257; + death of, 257–58 + + —— Sarah— + Childhood, 1–5; + at boarding school, 6–11; + at the Convent of Grand-Champs, 16–26; + her _début_ in _Tobit recovering his Eyesight_, 27–34; + baptism and confirmation, 34–37; + visit to Cauterets, 38–39; + return to the convent and incident of the shako, 40–45; + the family council, 47–55; + her first visit to the Française, 55–58; + literary tastes, 59; + interview with M. Auber of the Conservatoire, 59–60; + first lesson in elocution from Mlle. de Brabender, 61–63; + first examination at the Conservatoire, 64–72; + a marriage proposal, 73–75; + Conservatoire successes, 75; + life at the Conservatoire: + deportment class, 78–79; + fencing class, 79; + second prize for comedy, 80–86; + progress under Samson, 80; + incident of the hairdressing, 80–82; + aim of, to define the author’s idea, 86–87; + _début_ at the Comédie in _rôle_ of Iphigénie, 90–101; + her motto of “Quand-même,” 99, 309, 310; + incident which caused her first departure from the Française, 101–6; + revenge of Mme. Nathalie, 105; + the expedition to Spain, 110–15; + return and resolve to live independently, 116–17; + the flat in the Rue Duphot, 118–19; + engagement at the Odéon, 122–24; + introduces Coppée’s _Le Passant_ to Duquesnel, 132–34; + its success, 135–40; + fire in the Rue Auber, 140–45; + subsequent benefit at the Odéon, 145–46; + visit to Eaux-Bonnes, 153–55; + return to Paris, 155; + removal of her family before the siege, 157–59; + organisation of the Odéon ambulance, 160–61; + working of, and incidents, 172–87; + collecting the dead from the Châtillon Plateau, 183; + preparations for leaving Paris, 187–88; + the journey through the German lines to Homburg, 189–215; + adventure at Cologne, 212–13; + return to Paris and establishment in the Rue Rome, 216–18; + friends of, 218–21; + removal to St. Germain-en-Laye, 221–24; + return to Paris and reopening of the Odéon, 224–25; + letter from M. Perrin, 235–36; + interview with Duquesnel and De Chilly, 235–37; + engagement with the Comédie, 238–39; + the supper at the Odéon, 239–43; + treatment of M. Perrin, 250–53; + passion for sculpture, 257; + incident of the coffin, 257–58; + visit to Brittany, 259–64; + painting, 260–61; + descent of the Enfer du Plogoff, 261–64; + return to Paris, 264; + Sociétaire of the Comédie, 269; + building of the new mansion, 269–71; + Perrin’s tricks on, in staging _L’Etrangère_, 272–74; + her anger with Dumas, 274–75; + lunch with Victor Hugo, 280; + quarrels with Perrin, 282–83, 288; + balloon trip in the “Dona Sol,” 284–88; + illness and visit to the South, 289; + sale of the group _After the Tempest_, 289–90; + strained relations with Perrin, 291; + appointed Sociétaire permanently, 293; + dispute with the committee of the Comédie, 294–95; + the Journey to London, 295–300; + reception at Folkestone, 297–98; + her hatred of reporters, 299–300, 324; + impressions of English society, 300–2; + impressions of London life, 303–4; + first appearance at the Gaiety Theatre, 305–8; + stage fright, 305–6; + illness after first appearance and immediate performance of + _L’Etrangère_, 309–13; + exhibition of sculpture and painting in Piccadilly, 313–15; + conversation with Mr. Gladstone, 314; + the visit to Cross’s Zoo and purchase of the animals, 315–18; + Press attacks and trouble with the Française, 320–25; + open letter to Albert Wolff, 321–22; + return to Paris, and opening ceremony at the Française, 326–28; + comments on artistes, 328–30; + performance of _L’Aventurière_ and departure from the Française, + 331–34; + illness at Hâvre, 333–34; + contract for the American tour signed, 334–35; + second visit to London, 338–41; + tour in Denmark, 342–47; + decorated by the King of Denmark, 344; + the supper in Copenhagen, and toast of Baron Magnus, 345–47; + farewell reception in Paris, 347–48; + “The Twenty-eight Days of Sarah Bernhardt,” 348–49; + contract with M. Bertrand signed, 349–50; + experiences on board ship from Hâvre to New York, 352–60; + her _fête_ day on board, 359–60; + arrival in New York, 361–67; + the New York reporters, 367–68; + visit to Mr. Edison, 376–79; + arrival in Boston and story of the whale, 381–87; + reception in Montreal, 388–93; + visit to the Iroquois, 393–94; + escapade on the St. Lawrence, 396–97; + welcome to Chicago, 399–400; + visit to the stock-yards, 400–01; + visit to the grotto of St. Louis, 402–3; + the incident of the jewellery exhibition and attempted train robbery, + 403–8; + opinions concerning capital punishment, 408–13; + the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16; + difficulties of playing in Mobile, 418–420; + journey from Springfield to Chicago, blocked by the snow, 421–22; + a visit to the Falls of Niagara, 427–32; + the professional _matinée_ in New York, 433–34; + the return journey, 433–38; + the welcome at Hâvre, 438–40 + _American Tour_— + _Baltimore_, 399; + _Boston_, Hernani, 384; + _Chicago_, Phèdre, 401; + _Milwaukee_, Froufrou and La Dame aux Camélias, 422; + _Montreal_, Hernani, 395; + _New York_, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Froufrou, etc., 374; + _Philadelphia_, Phèdre, 399; + _Pittsburg_, La Princesse Georges, 426; + _Springfield_, La Dame aux Camélias, 398 + _Comédie Française_— + Andromaque, 249; + L’Aventurière, 331–34; + La Belle Paule, 254; + Britannicus, 248–49; + Dalila, 249; + L’Etrangère, 272–75; + La Fille de Roland, 266–68; + Gabrielle, 269; + Hernani, 282; + Iphigénie, 90–97; + Mlle. de Belle-Isle, 245–48; + Le Mariage de Figaro, 249; + Mithridate, 291; + Phèdre, 249, 264–66; + Rome Vaincue, 279; + Ruy Blas, 291; + Le Sphinx, 251–54; + Zaïre, 254–56 + _Denmark, Tour in_— + _Brussels_, Adrienne Lecouvreur and Froufrou, 342; + _Copenhagen_, Adrienne Lecouvreur and Froufrou, 343–44 + _London, the Gaiety Theatre_— + Adrienne Lecouvreur, 339; + L’Etrangère, 310–13, 320; + Froufrou, 339–40; + Phèdre, 305–8; + Zaïre, 315 + _Odéon Theatre_— + L’Affranchi, 150; + Athalie, 126; + L’Autre, 150; + Le Bâtard, 150; + La biche au bois, 119–22; + François le Champi, 128; + Jean-Marie, 150, 224–225; + Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard, 125; + Kean, 130–31; + La loterie du mariage, 131; + Le Marquis de Villemer, 128; + Ruy Blas, 226–30; + Le testament de César, 130 + _Painting_— + “Palm Sunday,” 292; + “The Young Girl and Death,” 282–83 + _Sculpture_— + _Busts_: Alphonse de Rothschild, 257; + Miss Multon, 257; + Mlle. Hocquigny, 257; + Régina Bernhardt, 257–58; + _Group_, “After the Storm,” 251, 275–78, 315 + + “Bernhardtists,” the, at the Comédie, 252–254 + + Berton, Pierre, 131, 329, 338 + + Bertrand, M. Eugène, director of the Variétés, 349–50 + + Bismarck, Prince, 186, 346 + + Bloas, Désiré, 185 + + Bocher, Emmanuel, 191–92 + + Bois de Boulogne, 304 + + Booth, actor, 354 + + Booth’s Theatre, New York, 369, 373 + + Bornier, Henri de, 266–68, 351 + + Boston— + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 380–381; + the women of, 381, 385; + story of the whale, 381–87 + + Bouilhet, M., 129; + _Dolorès_, 104; + _Mlle. Aïssé_, 325 + + Boulevard Medicis, ambulance of, 174 + + Bourbaki, M., defence of Paris, 165 + + Bourg de Batz, 259 + + Boyer, Georges, 179, 438 + + Brabender, Mlle. de— + Governess to Sarah Bernhardt, 45; + at the family council, 48–55; + accompanies her mistress to the Comédie Française, 56–58, 98; + first lessons in elocution, 61–63; + accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Conservatoire, 65–72, 79, 82–84, + 88; + the embroidered handkerchief, 91; + death of, 124–25 + + Bradford, 427 + + Bressant, M.— + At the Comédie, 102; + in _Mlle. de Belle-Isle_, 245–48, 337; + in _Hernani_, 281; + benefit performance for, 291 + + _Britannicus_, 57, 248–49 + + Brittany, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 259–64 + + Brohan, Augustine, 68–69 + + —— Madeleine, 245; + her advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 318–19 + + —— Marie, 245 + + Brooklyn Bridge, 372 + + Brussels, 211; + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 342 + + Buffalo, 422, 426, 427 + + Buguet, Louise, 28–31 + + —— Marie, 28 + + Busigny, 211 + + Busnach, William, wit of, 233–34 + + Butin, 269 + + + Campbell, Beatrice Patrick, 330 + + Canadian Falls, the, 431 + + Canrobert, Marshal, at Saint-Privat, 154; + his friendship for Sarah Bernhardt, 227, 233–34, 300, 347 + + Cap Martin, 289 + + Capital, punishment, opinions of Sarah Bernhardt concerning, 408–13 + + Cardaños, Dolores, 21 + + —— Pepa, 21 + + Caroline, maid, journey to Spain, 110–15, 119 + + Carthusians, the, 14 + + Cateau, 205, 211 + + Catherine, servant, 143 + + Caughnanwaga, 394 + + Cauterets, the visit to, 37–39 + + Caux, Marquis de, 145 + + —— Marquise de; _see_ Patti, Adelina + + Célimène played by Marie Lloyd, 86 + + Cerise, Baron, 12 + + César, the convent dog, 29–33, 43 + + Chanzy, defence of Paris, 165 + + Charing Cross Station, first arrival of Sarah Bernhardt, 298 + + Charmel, Eugénie, 28–32 + + Châtelain, pupil at the Conservatoire, 79, 88 + + Châtillon Plateau, collecting the dead from, 183 + + Chatterton, M., secretary, 406 + + Chesneau, Commandant Monfils, 188 + + Chester Square, 298–300 + + Cheval-Blanc, Hôtel du, Amiens, 195 + + _Chez l’Avocat_, 249, 337 + + Chicago— + Arrival of Sarah Bernhardt, 399–400; + the stock-yards, 400–401 + + Chilly, M. de— + Treatment of Sarah Bernhardt, 120–21, 124, 125–26; + his change of attitude, 126–27, 139, 145; + manager of the Odéon, 130, 133, 134, 135; + the law-suit against Sarah Bernhardt, 236–37, 239; + the supper at the Odéon, 239; + his death, 241–43 + + Chrysagère, the tortoise, 145 + + Cincinnati, 414, 420 + + Cladel, Léon, 280 + + Clairin, Georges— + Interest in career of Sarah Bernhardt, 269, 276, 282; + the trip in the “Dona Sol,” 284–87; + sketch of the animals, 318; + at the farewell reception in Paris, 347 + + Clamart, 176, 413 + + Claretie, Jules, 278 + + Clarisse, Mlle., 47–48 + + Claude, serving-man, 154, 259–61, 297, 415–16, 421 + + Cleveland, 422 + + Coblentz, Mlle., 98 + + Colas, Mlle. Stella, 9 + + Cologne, Sarah Bernhardt’s adventure at, 212–13 + + Colt gun factory, 398 + + Columbus, 420 + + Comédie Française, the— + First visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 55–58; + her first engagement as Iphigénie, 90–97; + her _début_, 98–101; + Molière’s anniversary ceremony, 101; + the Sociétaires, 101, 102, 269; + resignations of Sarah Bernhardt, 101–6, 331–34; + social spirit of the, 127; + letter from M. Perrin to Sarah Bernhardt, 235–36; + her engagement signed with M. Perrin, 238–39; + the “Croizettists” and “Bernhardtists,” 252–54; + Sarah Bernhardt becomes a Sociétaire, 269; + transference of the company to London, 293; + their request to Mr. Johnson, 312; + Sarah Bernhardt’s trouble with, 320–25; + their return to Paris and the opening ceremony, 326–28; + the law-suit against Sarah Bernhardt, 334, 336–38; + receipts from the Gaiety performances, 336–38 + + Commune, the Paris, 174, 221–24, 304 + + Compagnie Transatlantique, 352 + + “Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs,” _quoted_, 270 + + Connaught, Duke of, 298 + + Conservatoire, the— + Advice of the Duc de Morny, 52–55; + Sarah Bernhardt’s first examination, 64–72; + her second examination and prize for comedy, 80–86 + + Copenhagen, Sarah Bernhardt’s week in, 342–47 + + Coppée, François, 351; + success of _Le Passant_, 132–39 + + Coquelin, M.— + Style of, 80; + meeting with Sarah Bernhardt at the Théâtre Français, 92; + in _Chez l’Avocat_, 249; + in _Gabrielle_, 269; + in _L’Etrangère_, 273, 275, 311, 312; + his mission to Marie Lloyd, 320; + advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322–23; + comments of Sarah Bernhardt on, 329; + his return to London, 340 + + Creil, 192 + + Croizette, Mme., 40 + + —— Pauline, 39 + + —— Sophie— + Friendship with Sarah Bernhardt, 39, 245, 247–48, 322; + in _Mlle. de Belle-Isle_, 248; + in _Dalila_, 249; + in _Le Mariage de Figaro_, 249; + her method with M. Perrin, 250; + in _Le Sphinx_, the quarrel over the “moon,” 251–54; + in _L’Etrangère_, 272–75, 311–13; + appointed Sociétaire permanently, 293 + + “Croizettists,” the, at the Comédie, 252–54 + + Cross, Mr., his Zoo in Liverpool, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 315–17 + + Custom-House, the New York, 369–373 + + + _Daily Telegraph_, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307 + + _Dalila_, by Octave Feuillet, 249 + + Damien, Hortense, 300–301 + + _Davenant_, 337 + + Davennes, M., of the Comédie, 94–95, 104 + + Dayton, 420 + + Debay, Mlle., in _La biche au bois_, 119–22 + + Delaunay, M.— + In _Le Sphinx_, 252, 253; + in _Hernani_, 281; + drawing-room entertainments in London, 294–95; + his advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322–23 + + Delavigne, Casimir— + _L’Ecole des Viellards_, 80; + _La Fille du Cid_, 80; + _L’Ame du Purgatoire_, 93 + + Delorme, René, 278 + + Delpit, Albert, 157 + + Denayrouse, Louis, _La Belle Paule_, 254 + + Denmark— + King and Queen of, present at the performances of Sarah Bernhardt, + 343–44; + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions of, 343 + + Depaul, Virginie, 28 + + Deschamp, Georges, visit to Sarah Bernhardt, 317–18 + + Deshayes, Paul, 129–30 + + Deslandes, Raymond, _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, 109, 349 + + Desmoulins, M. de la Tour, 89 + + Despagne, Dr., 44 + + Detroit, 422 + + Devoyod, Mme., 94, 338 + + _Diamond_, the vessel, 438 + + Dieudonnée, Mme., 113, 338 + + “Dona Sol,” the balloon, 284 + + Doré, Gustave, lunch with Victor Hugo, 280–81; + visit to Sarah Bernhardt, 317 + + Doucet, M. Camille, Sarah Bernhardt’s interview with, 76–77; + his kindnesses to her, 83, 90–93, 122–23, 126 + + Doutre, Mr. Jos., 389 + + Drouet, Mme., 233, 280–81 + + Dubourg, Léonie, 160 + + Duchesne, Dr., surgeon at the Odéon ambulance, 167–68, 170, 178 + + Dudlay, Mlle., 339 + + Dudley, Lady, 294 + + —— Lord, 300 + + Duez, 269 + + Dumas, Alexandre— + _Kean_ at the Odéon, 130–31; + _L’Etrangère_, 272–75, 309–13; + Sarah Bernhardt’s anger with, 274–75 + + Dupuis, the Communard, 280 + + Duquesnel, Mme., 134 + + —— Félix— + Manager Of the Odéon, 122–24, 126–27, 130–31; + production of _Athalie_, 126; + accepts Coppée’s _Le Passant_, 132–34; + benefit performance for Sarah Bernhardt, 145–46; + arrangements for the Odéon ambulance, 160; + production of _Ruy Blas_, 226–30; + Sarah Bernhardt’s treatment of, 235–37, 239; + at the Odéon supper, 240–43; + at Sarah Bernhardt’s farewell reception, 347–48; + arranges the “Twenty-eight Days of Sarah Bernhardt,” 348–49 + + Durieux, Mme., 182–83 + + —— Victor, “Toto,” the errand boy, 180–83 + + Duse, Eleonora, comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 329–30 + + + Eaux-Bonnes, Sarah Bernhardt ordered to, 153–55 + + Ecole Chrétienne brothers, collecting the dead from the Châtillon + Plateau, 183 + + —— Polytechnique, 254 + + Edison, Thomas, receives Sarah Bernhardt at Menlo Park, 375–79 + + —— Mrs., 377 + + Elie, M., deportment class of, 78–79 + + Elsinore, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 343–34 + + Emerainville, 287 + + Emmanuel, Victor, 115 + + Enfer du Plogoff, Sarah Bernhardt’s descent into, 261–264 + + English hospitality, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 303–4 + + Erie, 427 + + Escalier, Félix, 269 + + Essler, Jane, 226 + + Estebenet, M., 88 + + Eugénie, Empress, 289; + sketch of, 135, 136–39 + + + Faille, M., 120–22 + + Fallesen, Baron, 343–45 + + Faure, Mme., 12–15, 17, 35, 44, 99 + + —— Félix, uncle, 11, 12–15, 147; + at the family council, 50–55 + + —— Félix, afterwards President, 157 + + Favart, Mlle., 95, 100, 104–5 + + Favre, Jules, 186 + + Febvre, Frédéric, 247; + as Don Salluste, 291; + advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 323 + + _Fédora_, by Victorien Sardou, 440 + + Félicie, the maid, 155, 262, 359, 363–65, 371, 372, 415–16 + + Ferrier, Paul, _Chez l’Avocat_ by, 249 + + Ferrières, the wood of, 285 + + Feuillet, Octave, _Dalila_, 249; + _Le Sphinx_, 251–54 + + _Figaro_ criticisms _quoted_, 312, 332, 338, 343 + + Finistère, 259 + + Flaubert, Gustave, 225; + death of, 399 + + Fleury, the artist, 7 + + —— General, 136, 139 + + Flourens, M., 220 + + Folkestone, reception of Sarah Bernhardt in, 297–98 + + Fortin, soldier, 171, 177 + + Fould, Henri, 164 + + Fournier, Marc, 119, 120 + + _François le Champi_, 128 + + Franco-Prussian War, outbreak and incidents, 151–59 + + Fréchette, Louis, his “A Sarah Bernhardt” _quoted_, 389–91; + his service to Jeanne Bernhardt, 391–92 + + Fressard, Mme., her boarding school, 7–11 + + Fressard, Mlle. Caroline, 10–11 + + Frossard, General, 153 + + _Froufrou_, 335, 339–40, 342–44, 374, 393, 422, 426, 440 + + + _Gabrielle_, by E. Augier, 269 + + Gaiety Theatre, London— + Agreement with the Comédie Française, 293; + Sarah Bernhardt’s first appearance in _Phèdre_, 305–8; + receipts from the Comédie performances, 336–338 + + Gaîté Theatre, the, 236 + + Gallec, Marie Le, 168 + + Gambard of Nice buys the group, _After the Tempest_, 289–90 + + Gambetta, M., defence of Paris, 165; + sketch of, 218–19 + + Gare St. Lazare, 216 + + _Gaulois_, the, criticisms, 307, 333 + + Gautier, Théophile, 240 + + Geffroy, M., 226, 229; + as Don Salluste, 231, 291 + + Gérard, Mlle. Laurence, 120–21 + + Gerbois, M., 108 + + German demands on Paris, 186; + insolence after the siege, 199, 201–2; + fomentation of the revolutionary spirit in Paris, 218 + + Gérôme, portrait of Rachel, 105 + + Gerson, M., 190, 194, 195 + + Gibert, Dr., 333 + + Giffard, M., balloon of, 283–87 + + Girardin, Emile de— + Arrangements for the Odéon ambulance, 160; + his friendship for Sarah Bernhardt, 231, 233, 266, 347, 351 + + Gladstone, Mr., 314 + + Godard, Louis, balloon ascent of, 284–87 + + Gonesse, 190 + + Gordon, Mr. Max, of Boston, 383 + + Got, M., of the Comédie Française, 272, 293, 306, 318, 320, 323, 340 + + Grand Rapids, 422 + + Grand-Champs Convent— + Sarah Bernhardt taken to, 15–26; + loyalty of, 23–24; + visit of Monseigneur Sibour, 27–34; + return of Sarah Bernhardt to, 39 + + Greece, the Queen of, 344 + + Grévy, Presidency of, 304 + + Griffon, René, 189–90 + + _Gringoire_, 337 + + Grosos, M., cable message from, 435; + reads address to Sarah Bernhardt at Hâvre, 439 + + Guadacelli, chocolate maker, 142 + + Guérard, Ernest, 37 + + —— Mme.— + At Cauterets, 37, 38; + at the family council, 50–55; + attends the interview with M. Auber, 59–60; + notes, &c. kept by, 61; + accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Conservatoire, 62–72, 82–84, 88; + visit to M. Doucet, 76; + notes of, to Sarah Bernhardt, 90, 116; + visit to M. Thierry, 92–93; + accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Comédie Française, 98; + aids the preparations for the Spanish trip, 110–12; + telegram sent to Spain by, 115; + visit to the Rue Duphot, 118–19; + accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Odéon, 124; + to the Tuileries, 135–39; + return from Eaux-Bonnes, 155; + remains in Paris for the siege, 158; + visit to the Prefect of Police, 161–63; + nurse at the Odéon ambulance, 167, 168, 173, 176–77, 182, 186, 187; + as secretary, 235; + goes for news of Mme. Bernhardt, 248; + illness of, 259; + lunch in the new mansion, 271; + portrait of, by Sarah Bernhardt, 282; + her terror of the animals, 317; + at Hâvre, 333, 335; + journey to America, 353, 359, 360; + in New York, 364, 365, 373; + in Boston, 382, 383; + the crossing to New Orleans, 415–416; + at Niagara, 432; + _otherwise mentioned_, 74, 91–92, 104, 107, 149, 232 + + —— M., 89, 111, 188; + “The Life of St. Louis,” 51 + + Guillaume, attendant, 168 + + Guitry, M., 329 + + Gymnase, Théâtre du, 127, 236; + engagement of Sarah Bernhardt, 107–9 + + + Haarlem, 12 + + Haas, Charles, 141–44 + + Hague, The, 172 + + Hamlet’s tomb, Elsinore, 344 + + Haraucourt, 351 + + Hartford, 386 + + Hâvre— + Frascati Hotel at, 158, 333; + Sarah Bernhardt’s benefit performance for the Life Saving Society, + 435; + her welcome home at, 438–40 + + Hayné, Captain, 420 + + Henry V. of France, 23–24 + + Herisson, M., mayor of Paris, 173 + + _Hernani_, by Victor Hugo, 219, 280–82, 335, 337, 374, 384, 393, 395, + 440 + + Herz, Henri, 28 + + Her Majesty’s Theatre, 294 + + Hocquigny, Mlle.— + Help sent to the Odéon ambulance by, 166, 171, 173; + lunch at Sarah Bernhardt’s, 234; + bust of, by Sarah Bernhardt, 257 + + Holland, Queen of, present at Sarah Bernhardt’s performance of _Le + Passant_, 138–39 + + Hollingshead, John, of the Gaiety, London, 293, 309–10, 336, 340 + + Holmes, Augusta, 347 + + Homburg, 18, 214–15 + + Hôtel d’Angleterre, Buffalo, 427 + + —— du Nord, Cologne, 212–13 + + —— de la Puerta del Sol, Madrid, 115 + + —— Vendome, Boston, 382 + + —— Windsor, Montreal, 391 + + Hudson river, the, 361 + + Hugo, Victor— + Clamour for his return, 130–131; + the reading of _Ruy Blas_, 226–30; + sketch of, 228–29; + Sarah Bernhardt’s estimation of, 231–33, 240, 351; + the Odéon supper given by, 239–43; + _Hernani_, 280–82; + note and present to Sarah Bernhardt, 282 + + Hyde Park, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 341 + + + Ibé, hairdresser, 418 + + “Ignotus,” paragraph in the _Figaro_ _quoted_, 131 + + _Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte ou fermée_, 337 + + _Il ne faut jurer de rien_, 337 + + Imperial, the Prince, baptism, 24; + present during rehearsal of _Le Passant_, 137; + al Saarbruck, 153 + + Indianapolis, 420 + + _Iphigénie_, 94–101 + + Iroquois, visit of Sarah Bernhardt to the, 393–94 + + Irving, Henry, 299, 329 + + Ivry, 185 + + + Jadin, M., 269 + + Jarrett, Mr.— + Arranges with Sarah Bernhardt for the drawing-room entertainments, + 292–94; + his way with reporters, 299–300, 364, 367, 381, 426–27; + contract for first American tour, 334–35; + in New York, 362, 368, 370, 373, 375, 434; + personality, 365–66; + visit to Edison, 376; + action regarding Henry Smith, 385–87; + in Montreal, 388, 392–93, 396; + visit to the Iroquois, 393–94; + the American receipts, 402; + his arrangement with the St. Louis jeweller, 403–4; + the attempted train robbery, 405–8; + the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16; + visit to Niagara, 427–32; + journey to Chicago, 421–22; + the return from America, 434; + his influence over Sarah Bernhardt, 441 + + _Jean-Marie_, by André Theuriet, 150, 224–25 + + Johnson, T., London correspondent of the _Figaro_, 312 + + Josephine, maid, 146 + + Josse, of the Porte St. Martin Théâtre, 119–20 + + Jouassain, M., 245 + + Jouclas, Captain, 354, 357, 434 + + Joussian, Théodore, 190–91, 194–96 + + Jullien, Mary, 338 + + + Kalb, M., 338 + + Kalil Bey, 144 + + Kapenist, Count, 347 + + _Kean_, by A. Dumas, 130 + + Kératry, Comte de, 93; + aid given to Sarah Bernhardt with the Odéon ambulance, 160–65, 172 + + Knoedler, M., 367 + + Kremlin, the, 176 + + Kronborg, castle of, 344 + + + _L’Amérique_, the boat, 352–60, 434 + + _L’Autre_, 150 + + _La Belle Paule_, 254 + + _La Bénédiction_, 337 + + _La bergère d’Ivry_, by Thiboust, 120 + + _La biche au bois_, 119 + + _La Dame aux Camélias_, 335, 374, 375, 393, 398, 419–20, 422, 433, 440 + + _L’Ecole des femmes_, 63 + + _L’Ecole des Viellards_, by Delavigne, 80 + + _L’Etincelle_, 337 + + _La fausse Agnès_, 75 + + _La Fille de Roland_, 266–68 + + _La Fille du Cid_, by Delavigne, 80 + + La Foncière fire insurance company, 140; + claim against Sarah Bernhardt, 145, 146 + + La Hêve, 333 + + _La loterie du mariage_, 130 + + _La maison sans enfants_, 109 + + _La Princesse Georges_, 335, 426, 433–34, 440 + + “La Quenelle,” his invention, 295–97 + + Lacour, Marie de, 28 + + Lacroix, Eulalie, 28 + + Laferrière, Count de, 135–36 + + —— Messrs., dresses from, 335 + + Lafontaine, M., in _Ruy Blas_, 229, 291; + at the Odéon supper, 241 + + —— Victoria, 109 + + Lambquin, Mme.— + Nurse at the Odéon ambulance, 167, 169, 173, 185; + at the Odéon supper, 240, 242; + death of, 243 + + Lapommeraye, criticisms of, 338, 339 + + Larcher, Père, gardener at the Grand-Champs Convent, 19–21, 24, 30, 41, + 42 + + Laroche, M., 245, 255 + + Laroque, Mme., 157 + + Larrey, Baron, 2–3, 37, 44; + visits to the Odéon ambulance, 167, 169, 180–81 + + _L’Absent_, by Eugène Manuel, 249 + + _L’Affranchi_, 150 + + _L’Ami Fritz_, 337 + + _L’Assommoir_, 332 + + _L’Avare_, 337 + + _Le Barbier de Seville_, 337 + + _Le Bâtard_, 150 + + _Le Demi-Monde_, 337 + + _Le demon du jeu_, 109 + + _Le Dépit amoureux_, 337 + + _L’Eté de la St. Martin_, 337 + + _L’Etourdi_, 337 + + _L’Etrangère_, by A. Dumas, 272–75, 309–13, 335–37, 340, 374 + + _Le fils naturel_, 336 + + _Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard_, 125, 337 + + _Le Juif errant_, 120 + + _Le Luthier de Crémône_, 337 + + _Le Mariage de Figaro_, 249 + + _Le Mariage de Victorine_, 337 + + _Le Marquis de Villemer_, 128, 337 + + _Le Médecin malgré lui_, 337 + + _Le Menteur_, 337 + + _Le Misanthrope_, 336, 337 + + _Le Passant_, 132–39 + + _Le Post-scriptum_, 337 + + _Le Sphinx_, by Octave Feuillet, 251–54, 335, 337, 374, 440 + + _Le testament de César_, by Girodot, 130 + + Léautaud of the Conservatoire, 66, 67, 82 + + Leavenworth, 421 + + Lecouvreur, Adrienne, bust in the Française, 94 + + Legouvé, M., 393, 395 + + Leighton, Frederic, 314 + + Lemaître, Jules, 351 + + Leopold, Prince, 314 + + Lepaul, _costumier_, story of the _Phèdre_ costume, 335–36 + + _Les Caprices de Marianne_, 337 + + _Les Femmes Savantes_, 100, 337 + + _Les Fourberies de Scapin_, 337 + + _Les Fourchambault_, 337 + + _Les Plaideurs_, 337 + + _Les Précieuses Ridicules_, 337 + + Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 256 + + Lethurgi, the Abbé, 34 + + Leudet, Dr., 153, 155 + + Lincoln, President, 354 + + Lind, Jenny, 366 + + “Little Incline,” 405 + + Liverpool, Cross’s Zoo, 315–17 + + Lloyd, Marie— + First prize for comedy at the Conservatoire, 85; + friendship with Sarah Bernhardt, 82, 88–89, 96, 245; + refusal to play in _L’Etrangère_, 320 + + Loire, the Army of the, 165 + + London, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 303–4, 340–41; + capital punishment in, 410 + + Lorne, Marquis of, Governor of Canada, 395 + + Louisville, 420 + + Lucas, Père, lighthouse keeper, 261, 262 + + Luxembourg Gardens, the, 180 + + + MacMahon, Marshal, 154, 304 + + _Mademoiselle Aïssé_, 325 + + _Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle_, 245–48, 337 + + _Mademoiselle de la Seiglière_, 337 + + Madrid, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 115; + garrotting in, 410 + + Magnus, Baron, his toast of “To France,” 345–47 + + Manuel, Eugène, _L’Absent_, 249 + + Marguerite, servant, 38, 47, 48, 49, 50, 64, 67, 71, 91, 101, 107, 112, + 115, 234 + + Marie, maid at Neuilly, 14–16 + + —— Sister, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 22, 23 + + Marienlyst, castle of, Elsinore, 344 + + Mariquita, dancing of, 119 + + Marivaux, _Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard_, 125 + + Marquis, chocolate maker, 8 + + Marseilles, 113 + + Martel, M., in _Phèdre_, 266; + poses to Sarah Bernhardt, 277–78 + + Massin, Léontine, 96–97 + + Massin, M., 96–97 + + Masson, Cécile, 40 + + —— M., antiquary, 40 + + Mathilde, Princess, 135 + + Maubant, M., 94, 236; + the man and the actor, 328–29 + + Maunoir, M., 155 + + Mauvoy, Nathalie, 67 + + Mayer, Frantz, German soldier at the Odéon ambulance, 177–78, 180, 186 + + —— Mr., of the Gaiety, 293, 309–10, 320, 336, 340 + + Mélingue, M., 231 + + Memphis, 420 + + Mendès, Catulle, 351 + + Menesson, Captain, 170 + + Menier, M., 165 + + Menlo Park, New York, 375–79 + + Mentone, 289 + + _Mercadet_, 337 + + Mercier, M., 362 + + Merlou, M. Pierre, 9 + + —— Mme. Pierre, 9–10 + + Meunier, Dr., of Tergnier, 205 + + Meurice, Paul— + Friend of Victor Hugo, 226, 229, 280; + meeting with Sarah Bernhardt in the Odéon arcade, 237–38; + at the Odéon supper, 243 + + Meusnier, Mathieu, 276 + + Meydieu, M.— + Godfather of Jeanne Bernhardt, 35; + at the family council, 50–55; + notes given to Sarah Bernhardt, 61–63; + his present to her, 72; + subsequent kindness, 89, 109–10, 117 + + Meyer, Arthur, 142–44, 145, 349 + + —— Marcus, 420 + + Millais, 300 + + Milwaukee, 422 + + _Mithridate_, 291 + + Mobile, difficulties of playing in, 418–20 + + Mohère, anniversary ceremony at the Comédie, 101 + + Monbel, M. de, 234 + + Monod, Dr., 12, 44 + + Montalant, Céline, 109 + + Montbel, Raymond de, 347 + + Montigny, M., manager of the Gymnase Theatre, 108–109, 112–13 + + Montreal— + Reception of Sarah Bernhardt, 388–93; + the Bishop’s sermons against the French artistes, 393, 395–96; + admiration of the students, 394–95 + + Monval, M., 108, 113 + + _Morning Post_, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 308 + + Morny, Duc de, his advice concerning the Conservatoire, 48–52; + his interest in career of Sarah Bernhardt, 90, 93 + + Moscow, 176 + + Mounet-Sully, M.— + _Britannicus_, in, 248–49; + in _rôle_ of Orestes, 249; + in _Zaïre_, 255; + in _Phèdre_, 266; + in _Rome Vaincue_, 279; + in _Hernani_, 281–82; + in _Othello_, 291; + in _Ruy Blas_, 291; + supports Sarah Bernhardt on her first appearance at the Gaiety, + 307–8; + advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322, 323; + comments of Sarah Bernhardt on, 329 + + Multon, Miss, bust of, 257 + + Murray, John, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307 + + + Napoleon III., 24, 304; + commands Sarah Bernhardt to the Tuileries, 135–39, 144; + his defeat at Sedan, 154–55; + his treatment by Rochefort, 219 + + —— Prince Jerome, “Plon-Plon,” 129, 284 + + Narrey, Charles, 256 + + Nashville, 420 + + Nathalie, Mme., the incident with Sarah Bernhardt, 101–4; + her revenge, 105 + + _National_, the, 295 + + Neuilly, visits to, 3, 11–15 + + New Haven, 385 + + New Orleans, the crossing to, 414–16; + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 416–18 + + New York— + Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 361–367; + the reporters, 367–68; + the Custom-House, 369–73; + Brooklyn Bridge, 372; + the police, 375; + the professional _matinée_ at, and departure from, 433–434 + + Newark, 433 + + Niagara Falls, 426; + visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 427–32 + + Nittis the painter, 317 + + Noe, Mme. Lily, 386 + + Nordenskjold, M., 347 + + Novelli, 330 + + + O’Connor, Captain, 222–24, 347 + + Odéon, the— + Success of _Athalie_, 126–27; + sociability among the actors, 127, 244; + reception of Dumas _père_, 130–31; + success of _Le Passant_, 135–39; + enthusiasm of the students for Sarah Bernhardt, 139; + benefit for Sarah Bernhardt, 145–46; + welcome to Adelina Patti, 145–46; + the Sarah Bernhardt ambulance, 160–87; + patients of, transferred to the Val-de-Grâce, 186; + reopened after the Treaty of Paris, 224; + Sarah Bernhardt’s break with the, 234–36; + Victor Hugo’s supper to the artistes, 239–43 + + Ohio river, the, 423 + + _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_, 121, 337 + + Opéra, the, 163 + + Ophelia, the spring of, Elsinore, 344 + + Orange, Prince of, 138 + + _Othello_, 291 + + + Palais de l’Industrie, 166 + + Palmer House, Chicago, the, 400 + + Parc Monceau, 187 + + Paris— + Popular feeling on outbreak of Franco-Prussian War, 151–53; + siege proclaimed, 155–59; + organisation of the defence, 160; + the Odéon ambulance, 160–87; + bombarding of, 172–87; + effect of the sufferings on the _morale_ of the people, 185–86; + the armistice, 186; + sights after, 187; + the Commune, 217–24; + the peace signed, 224; + Presidents, 304; + capital punishment in, 410–13 + + Parodi, M., 351; + _Rome Vaincue_, 279 + + Parrot, M., artist, 269 + + ——, Dr., 309–10 + + “Part,” use of the term, 33 + + Patti, Adelina, 145–46 + + Pelissier, General, 190, 195 + + Père Lachaise Cemetery, 174 + + Perrin, M.— + Engagement of Sarah Bernhardt, 235–36, 238–39, 245; + staging of _Dalila_, 249; + fury of, 249–50; + incident of the “moon” in _Le Sphinx_, 251–53; + insists on Sarah Bernhardt playing Zaïre, 254–55; + strained relations with Sarah Bernhardt, 256, 282–83, 288, 291; + staging of _Phèdre_, 264–66; + discussion concerning _La Fille de Roland_, 267–68; + his tricks in _L’Etrangère_, 272–75; + anger at the balloon ascent, 284, 288; + the agreement with John Hollingshead, 293; + attitude regarding the drawing-room entertainments, 294–95; + letter to Sarah Bernhardt from Paris, 322; + his lecture on her return, 326–27; + production of _L’Aventurière_ and resignation of Sarah Bernhardt, + 331–34; + influences Coquelin to leave London, 340 + + Petit, Mlle. Dica, at the Conservatoire, 66, 67 + + ——, Mme., visit to M. Massin, 96–97 + + _Phèdre_, 249, 265–66, 305–8, 335, 337, 399, 401, 440 + + Philadelphia, 399, 433 + + _Philiberte_, 337 + + Picard, 269 + + Pierson, Blanche, 109 + + Pisa, 49 + + Pittsburg, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 422–23 + + Place de la Roquette, executions in, 410–13 + + Pluche, Amélie, 28 + + Poissy, prisoners of, 222 + + Polhes, General, 35 + + Pons, M., 79 + + Pont, l’Abbé, 259 + + Porel, M. Paul, 85, 150; + at the Odéon ambulance, 171; + in _Jean-Marie_, 224–225 + + Porte Saint Martin Theatre, 119–22 + + Potin, Félix, 165 + + Potter-Palmer, Mr., 400 + + Providence, 433 + + Provost, M.— + The Conservatoire examination, 68–69; + instruction of Sarah Bernhardt, 75; + his style of teaching, 80; + visit to the Comédie Française, 98–99 + + Prudhon, artiste, 319 + + Public buildings, Sarah Bernhardt’s opinion of seeing, 349 + + Puget, Louise, 28 + + + Quand-même, Sarah Bernhardt’s motto, 99 + + Quimperlé, 1 + + Quincy, 421 + + + Rachel, 53, 56, 266, 339, 347; + Gérôme’s portrait, 105 + + Racine, _Phèdre_, 265–66 + + Raz, Pointe du, ascent of, 259–60; + “Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair,” 264 + + Régis, M.— + Godfather of Sarah Bernhardt, 7, 35, 39, 45, 100; + the family council, 48–55; + interest in welfare of Sarah Bernhardt, 57–59, 61–63, 72, 89, 90, + 140; + arranges the marriage proposal, 73–74; + obtains the engagement at the Gymnase for Sarah Bernhardt, 107–8; + his relations with Mme. Bernhardt, 116–17 + + Régnier, M. Prof.— + Offers _Germaine_ to Sarah Bernhardt, 76–77; + his class at the Conservatoire, 79–80; + helps Sarah Bernhardt to work up _Phèdre_, 265–66 + + Réjane, Mme., 85, 329 + + Rémusat, Paul de, 187, 234; + sketch of, 219; + letter to Sarah Bernhardt _quoted_, 220 + + Renaissance Theatre, the, 411 + + Richepin, M., 351 + + Rigault, Raoul, 220–21 + + Robert Houdin Theatre, the, 55 + + Robertson, Forbes, 297 + + Rochester, 433 + + Rochefort, M., 219 + + Roger, Marie, 101, 102 + + _Rome Vaincue_, 279 + + Rossini, M., 11–12, 93 + + Rostand, Edmond, 351 + + Rothschild, Baron Alphonse— + Gifts to the Odéon ambulance, 165; + pays the German demand on Paris, 187; + Sarah Bernhardt attempts the bust of, 257 + + Rotten Row, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 300, 303–4, 341 + + Rousseil, Mlle. Roselia, 265 + + Rudcowitz, Mme., 115 + + Rue Auber flat, the fire at, 140–45 + + —— de la Chaussée d’Antin, 11 + + —— Duphot, the posters of, 98; + Sarah Bernhardt’s flat in, 118–19 + + —— Notre Dame de Champs, convent of the, 45, 124 + + —— St. Honoré, posters of, 98 + + —— Taitbout, patients from the Odéon established at, 186 + + _Ruth and Boaz_, 219 + + _Ruy Blas_, 226–30, 239–43, 291, 337 + + + Saarbruck, 153 + + St. Alexis, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 27, 32, 33 + + St. Appoline, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 20, 53 + + St. Cécile, Sister, 29 + + St. Cloud, 128 + + St. Denis, 216 + + St. Germain-en-Laye, 221–24 + + St. Jeanne, Sister, 29 + + St. Joseph, 420–21 + + St. Lawrence river, Sarah Bernhardt’s escapade, 396–97 + + St. Louis, Sarah Bernhardt’s visit to the grotto, 402–3; + the jewellery exhibition and the attempted train robbery, 403–8 + + St. Quentin, after the battle, 209–11 + + St. Sophie, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 17, 21, 23; + her influence over Sarah Bernhardt, 23–25, 36–37; + visit of Mgr. Sibour, 27, 30, 32, 33; + incident of the shako, 41–45 + + St. Sulpice, the priest of, 169, 171 + + St. Thérèse, Mother, _Tobit recovering his Eyesight_, 28–34 + + Saint-Privat, battle of, 153–54 + + Saints-Pères Bridge, 284 + + Salon of 1876, honourable mention for Sarah Bernhardt, 278 + + Salvini, M., 433 + + Samson, M., 68, 80, 99 + + Sand, Mme. George, 7; + description by Sarah Bernhardt, 128–29; + _L’Autre_, 150 + + Ste. Adresse, Hâvre, 440 + + Santelli, Captain, 434, 437 + + “Sara-dotards,” the, 220 + + “Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair” at the Pointe du Raz, 264 + + Sarcey, Francisque, articles on Sarah Bernhardt _quoted_, 100–101, 246, + 320, 338–40 + + Sardou, Victorien— + Relates the Montigny incident, 112–13; + engagement of Sarah Bernhardt for his play at the Vaudeville, 350; + reading of _Fédora_, 440 + + Sarony, Adèle, 53 + + Sassoon, Alfred, 282 + + Satory barracks, the, 16; + incident of the shako, 40–45 + + —— woods, the, 20 + + Scribe, M., _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, 393, 395 + + Sedan, battle of, 154–55 + + Séraphine, Sister, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 18, 27–28 + + Severin, Bassompierre, 144 + + Seylor, Suzanne, 235 + + Sibour, Monseigneur, visit to the Grand-Champs Convent, 27–34; + death of, 34 + + Smith, Henry, of Boston— + Story of the whale, 383–87; + in Chicago, 400; + present to Sarah Bernhardt, 434–35 + + Snowstorm at sea, Sarah Bernhardt’s description, 354–55 + + Sociétaires of the Comédie Française, 101 + + Sohège, M., 143–44 + + Sologne, 277 + + Soubise, Mlle., 188; + the journey through the German lines, 191–216 + + Spa, 183 + + Spain, visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 110–15 + + Springfield, Illinois, 421 + + —— Massachusetts, 398–99 + + Stage fright, 305–6 + + _Standard_, the, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307 + + Stevens, Alfred, 282 + + Syracuse, 433 + + + Talbot, M., 338 + + Talien, M., in _Ruy Blas_, 228–30; + at the Odéon supper, 241–42 + + _Tartufe_, 320, 337 + + Tergnier, 202, 204–5 + + Théâtre de la Monnaie, Brussels, 342 + + Theatre Royal, Copenhagen, 342–47 + + Thénard, Mlle., 306 + + Theuriet, André, _Jean-Marie_, 150, 224–25 + + Thiboust, Lambert, 120–21 + + Thierry, M., director of the Française, 91, 94; + attitude concerning affair of Mme. Nathalie, 103–5 + + Thiers, M.— + Grants passport to Sarah Bernhardt, 187; + politics of, 219; + Presidency of, 304 + + _Times_, the, paragraph from, _quoted_, 294 + + Tissandier, M., 283–84 + + Titine, child friend, 4 + + Toronto, 427 + + Train, 338 + + Triel, 222 + + Trochu, M., defence of Paris, 165 + + Troy, 433 + + Tuileries, Sarah Bernhardt commanded to the, 135–39; + her second visit, 161 + + Turquet, M., 288 + + + Ulgade, Mme., in _La biche au bois_, 119–20 + + _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, 109, 349 + + Utica, 433 + + + Vachère, descent of the “Dona Sol” at, 286 + + Vacquerie, Auguste, 226, 229 + + Vaillant, execution of, 411–13 + + Val-de-Grâce military hospital, 167, 169, 170, 176; + the Odéon patients transferred to, 186 + + Vallès, Jules, 351 + + Variétés, the, 349 + + Vaudeville, the, 76–77, 236, 349 + + Verger, murderer, 34 + + Versailles, 16, 36, 40, 223 + + Victor, Paul de St., at the Odéon supper, 240–41; + adverse criticism of Sarah Bernhardt, 266 + + Villa Montmorency at Auteuil, 127 + + Villaret, M., 190, 193, 195 + + Vintras, Dr., 309–10 + + Vitu, Auguste, _Figaro_ articles of, _quoted_, 332, 338–39 + + + Wagner, Sarah Bernhardt’s opinion of, 213 + + Wales, Prince of, visit to the Piccadilly exhibition, 313–14 + + —— Princess of, at the Theatre Royal, Copenhagen, 343–44 + + Walewski, M. de, 93 + + Walt, Robert, 345 + + Washington, 433 + + Weiss, J. J., 351 + + Wilde, Oscar, 298 + + Winterhalter, 138 + + Wirbyn, Albert, 408 + + Wolff, Albert, of the _Figaro_, Sarah Bernhardt’s letter to, 321–22 + + Worcester, 433 + + Worms, M.— + Charles Quint in _Hernani_, 282; + campaign against Sarah Bernhardt, 320; + advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 323; + Sarah Bernhardt’s comment on, 329 + + + Yvon, the artist, 10 + + + Zaïre, 75, 254–56, 315, 337 + + Zelern, Baron van, 157 + + Zerbinette, the tortoise, 145 + + Zola, M., 332, 333, 351 + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED + Tavistock Street, London + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in + spelling. + 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. + 3. 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