My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt
by Sarah Bernhardt · English · Gutenberg #9100 · 1,003,016 chars · public domain (US)
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 28, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9100
Credits: 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: THE MEMOIRS OF SARAH BERNHARDT ***
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
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/9100