Memories of my life - Being my Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and Artist

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Title: Memories of my life - Being my Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and Artist
Author: Bernhardt, Sarah
Language: English
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MEMORIES OF MY LIFE

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AS _GISMONDA_, FROM A PAINTING BY
CHARTRAN.]

MEMORIES OF MY LIFE
_Being my Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and
Artist_

_By_
SARAH BERNHARDT

[Illustration]

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK MCMVII

_Published October, 1907_

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
MY AUNTS
PAGE

My mother and her sisters—The “mask of butter”—The beauty of my
mother—Away with my nurse—Life in a _concierge’s_ lodge—My
aunt comes for me—An accident—I must go to school—Off for
Auteuil—Mme. Fressard and her boarding school—I am left
alone—Life at the _pension_—My schoolmates—Back to Aunt
Rosine—My father and Rossini—My disagreeable Aunt Faure—My
delightful Uncle Faure 1–16

CHAPTER II
I BEGIN MY CONVENT LIFE
Grandchamps Convent—My terror of the cloister—The lovely Mother
Superior—The dormitory—The garden—Farewell to my father—My
new schoolmates—Compulsory soup—The despised and the beloved
Sister—Pets and playthings—I rescue a playmate—Preparations
for the archbishop’s visit—The play in which I was not given
a part—My failure as a costumer—How I got a
part—Monseigneur’s arrival—The performance—The tragedy of
Monseigneur Sibour—My father dies—I am baptized and confirmed 17–38

CHAPTER III
A PRANK AND ITS RESULTS
In the Pyrénées—Goat-herding and vacation joys—Back to the
convent—The Croizettes—A soldier in the convent—How I shocked
the nuns—“The Angel Raphael” and César—A night of horror—I
leave the convent forever—My ambition 39–47

CHAPTER IV
IN FAMILY COUNCIL ASSEMBLED
A fateful day—Day-dreams and music lessons—The woes of making
my toilet—The assembling of the family—The obnoxious
notary—The council—My religious aspirations—My hopes are
quenched—The Duc de Morny’s advice—My memory of Rachel—My
fate is decided—The views of the family—I am introduced to
the theater—My first play and its strange effect upon me 48–60

CHAPTER V
I RECITE “THE TWO PIGEONS”
Plans for my career—The director of the _Conservatoire_—I study
for the examination—The rules of M. Meydieu—Learning
_Aricie_—The examination day—Dressing for the ordeal—I recite
a fable—The result—How I announced it—The family rejoices 61–74

CHAPTER VI
I DECLINE MATRIMONY AND WED ART
The awakening of a will—An offer of marriage—I am forced to
condemn a gentleman to death—I win a prize—I go for an
engagement—The embarrassment of having a naughty small
sister—I lose the engagement—I find encouragement in M.
Doucet—My lessons—Fencing and elocution—Tribulations with a
coiffeur—I enter a competition—The prize I did not win—My
rival—Legends that defy history—An humiliating homecoming—The
offer of another engagement—An interview at the Théâtre
Français and its happy outcome—My aunt has a celebration 75–97

CHAPTER VII
I MAKE MY DÉBUT AND EXIT
My first rôle—The first rehearsal—Troubles with the
costumer—The arraying of _Iphigénie_—The make-up shop—The
approach of the first night—I suffer the horrors of stage
fright—“_Quand-même_”—The début—New rôles—The disastrous
results of taking my sister to a ceremony—The arrogance of a
manager—I am cheated of a part and cancel my engagement 98–110

CHAPTER VIII
CASTLES IN SPAIN
Broken plans—I receive a new offer—I interview the manager of
the Gymnase—I make a new engagement—An idiotic rôle in an
imbecile play—I determine to kill myself—The allurement of
Spain distracts me—I follow my star—Sardou and my letter of
resignation—Marseilles and the sea—At Alicante—The night
intruder—Gala days at Madrid—Back to Paris—My mother’s
illness—I settle down by myself 111–123

CHAPTER IX
I RETURN TO THE STAGE
Fate drives me back to the theater—New fields at the Porte
Saint Martin—The disadvantages of being thin—New prospects—An
appointment and a contract—A death and another début—Success
at the Odéon—I appear as the chorus—Happy days—George
Sand—The disciples of Victor Hugo disapprove of Dumas’s
“Kean”—I succeed in spite of a hideous costume—François
Coppée and “Le Passant”—The triumph of “Le Passant”—Our
summons to the Tuileries—A rehearsal before imperial
spectators—Empress Eugénie’s feet—Fêted by an Emperor and a
Queen 124–145

CHAPTER X
IN FIRE AND WAR
My student adorers—I meet with some curious criticism—Gloomy
presentiments—My apartments are burned—Saving my
grandmother—Ruin and devastation—My benefit—Patti sings for
me—My new home—Discomfort and worry—The delayed insuring—Kind
words from friends—An insulting proposition—Evil days—Rumors
of war—The nineteenth of July—I am taken from Paris—War
news—Success of the German arms—I return to Paris under
difficulties—I come across a relative—Into the siege 146–164

CHAPTER XI
I ESTABLISH MY WAR HOSPITAL
Paris in war times—My _ambulance_ at the Odéon—The changes
brought by war—Getting supplies—The Prefect’s coat—The lady
of the Palais de l’Industrie—Provisions for my hospital—My
hospital staff—Heroines of the siege—Cowards and
heroes—Christmas 165–177

CHAPTER XII
MORE HOSPITAL DAYS
Sufferings from cold and hunger—Struggles for food and fuel—The
bombardment of the city—The ravages of fighting—The
wounded—The _ambulance_ is fired upon—The bargaining of the
children—Toto—The inventor of balloons—The burial of the
_maigrotte_—I receive news from my family—The horrors of
night-time—My fowls—The end of the siege 178–194

CHAPTER XIII
A WARTIME JOURNEY
I find a companion for my flight from Paris—We start on our
journey—Trouble at the city gates—Unwelcome acquaintances—The
young cripple—A tedious railway trip—A German inn—Crowded out
of a hotel—We find shelter—Some wounded admirers and a dead
adorer—The cry of the woman—We start on again 195–206

CHAPTER XIV
HOMBOURG AND RETURN
At the station—German insolence—The crowd in the railway
carriage—The surgeon major who was bound to smoke—We are
wrecked—A dismal prospect—A dreary search for shelter—The
wheelwright’s colt—Expensive hospitality—I turn cook—Crossing
a battlefield by night—The robbers of the dead—The capture of
a thief—Rest at Cateau—Confusion at Cologne—German
kindness—How I make myself sleep—We arrive at Hombourg and
start back again for Paris—Home again 207–226

CHAPTER XV
THE COMMUNE AND VICTOR HUGO
Paris after the war—Gambetta, Rochefort, and Paul de
Rémusat—One man’s delicacy of mind—A cowardly Prefect of
Police and his revenge—The Commune—Captain O’Connor—Paris in
ruins—Back to the theater—“Jean-Marie”—My success grows—My
mistaken opinion of Victor Hugo—The queen and her
valet—Victor Hugo improvises—Victor Hugo’s
kindness—Rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”—A Parisian first night and
what it meant to me—Victor Hugo’s homage 227–240

CHAPTER XVI
I LEAVE THE ODÉON
The night of the triumph—A talk with the “Master”—A forgotten
luncheon—How I feel when I receive a letter—Overtures from
the Comédie Française—Managerial interference—Perrin of the
Comédie—I sign a new contract—I lose a lawsuit—Victor Hugo’s
supper—The death of M. Chilly—Mamma Lambquin’s premonitions 241–253

CHAPTER XVII
I RETURN TO THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
My happy memories of the Odéon—I return to an old
battle-ground—A _Marquise_ who was too stout—M. Sarcey’s
account of my début—The reason I was frightened—What happened
to my mother—A strange distribution of rôles—My growing
popularity and my delight in playing jokes—Sophie Croizette
as a rival—I turn my energies to sculpture—The clash of the
“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists”—A fight for the
moon—Success in “Le Sphinx”—A childish freak of
temperament—_Zaïre_ triumphs—I learn something useful about
my acting 254–267

CHAPTER XVIII
A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES
A period of sculpturing—My success in making busts—My coffin—A
superfluous hearse—A holiday in Bretagne—The delights of the
shore—Painting in the country—“L’Enfer du Plogoff”—Into the
abyss—“The eyes of the shipwrecked ones”—“Sarah Bernhardt’s
chair”—The fête of Racine—I play the rôle of _Phedre_—A
tangle of authors and an actress—Unforeseen success—My new
hôtel 268–282

CHAPTER XIX
BUSY DAYS
Alexandre Dumas, _fils_—A quarrel and a reconciliation—The
partisans stir up more trouble—“L’Etrangère”—The grandmother
of the sea—More sculpturing—A long search for a model—The
missing hands and feet—Criticism of my group—Appeasing the
god of the _bourgeois_—Luncheon with Victor
Hugo—“Hernani”—The tear of Victor Hugo 283–293

CHAPTER XX
A BALLOON ASCENSION
“The Young Girl and Death”—How my energetic versatility aroused
indignation—I accept an invitation to go ballooning—A trip
through the clouds—Dinner among the stars—The
descent—Vachère—The journey back to Paris—A storm of
criticism—I send in my resignation and then withdraw it—A
trip to the south—A sale in the open—A ridiculous Othello—Mr.
Jarrett, _impresario_—I agree to do independent acting in
London—More trouble with the Committee—The _Times_ makes an
announcement—The end of disputes 294–307

CHAPTER XXI
MY LONDON DÉBUT
Our ridiculous preparations for departure—“La Quenelle,” who
adored me, and his life-preserver—A carpet of flowers—We find
the Prince of Wales has departed—My welcome and the
journalists—Visitors—Hortense Damian and her “_Chic_
commandments”—My shortcomings as a recipient of
kindnesses—London hospitality—Rotten Row and the Avenue des
Acacias—My first experience as a _traqueuse_—Trying my
voice—My fright—My début—What the critics thought of me 308–321

CHAPTER XXII
MY STAY IN ENGLAND
I overtax my strength—Outwitting the doctor—The effect of a
dose of opium—A lapse of memory and the talk it
caused—Dumas’s judgment of his own plays—I exhibit my
statues—Mr. Gladstone and “Phedre”—The success of my
exhibition—A jaunt to Liverpool—I hunt for lions—My new
pets—My homecoming creates a sensation—A Bedlam in Chester
Square—How I suffered from the press—The tranquil lady—The
company opens a campaign against me—My letter to M. Wolff—I
hesitate on the brink of leaving the Comédie 322–337

CHAPTER XXIII
I AGAIN LEAVE THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
The cruelties of publicity—My first interview with a reporter—A
victim of caricaturists—Perrin tells me my faults—An
anonymous threat—My reappearance in Paris—An intoxicating
triumph—The discourtesy of actors—Coquelin, Mounet-Sully,
Bartet, Réjane, and Duse—Trying times—“L’Aventurière”—An
unjust attack—I send in my resignation—Cruel slanders—Mr.
Jarrett offers a new proposition—I prepare for an American
tour—The sad story of my costume for “Phedre”—The Comédie
brings suit against me—The financial record of my London
performances—Another visit to London—I overcome the critics 338–354

CHAPTER XXIV
PREPARATIONS FOR AMERICA
Coquelin deserts me—The charm of London—Brussels and
Copenhagen—A Danish triumph—A visit to Elsinore—I am
decorated by the King—An international supper with
international complications—The fickleness of Fame—My
farewell reception at Paris—Duquesnel proves himself my
friend—A triumphant tour of France—I sign a contract with the
“Vaudeville”—I leave Paris 355–367

CHAPTER XXV
MY ARRIVAL IN AMERICA
The gnome-haunted ship—I embark on
_L’Amérique_—Homesickness—The widow of President Lincoln—A
snowstorm in mid-ocean—The steerage passengers—A child is
born in the steerage—What if the emigrants should
mutiny?—Precautions in case of shipwreck—The Promised Land of
the emigrants—My fête day—The harbor of the New World—How I
was welcomed—A fatiguing reception—Rest under compulsion—The
kind of man Mr. Jarrett was—Another reception—The silly
questions of the reporters—Press agents and slander 368–385

CHAPTER XXVI
NEW YORK AND BOSTON
I go to Booth’s Theater for the first rehearsal—The crowd at
the stage door—The customs officers come to examine my
trunks—The treatment of my costumes—The Brooklyn Bridge—I
settle with the Board of Customs—I make my first appearance
in “Adrienne Lecouvreur”—I am serenaded—“La Dame aux
Camélias”—My sister impersonates me—The journey to Menlo
Park—I am entertained in fairyland by Mr. Edison—Mr. Edison
and Napoleon I.—We start for Boston—Boston women—An
extraordinary personage—My apartments—A curious experience
with a whale 386–401

CHAPTER XXVII
I VISIT MONTREAL
“Hernani” in Boston—Feminine intellectuality—The whale follows
me to New Haven—Attentions from the showman—I start for
Canada—My entry into Montreal—A cordial welcome—A greeting
from a poet—I cause a sensation by fainting—My rescuer and
his tragedy—The Bishop of Montreal condemns me—Ottawa and the
Iroquois—The Montreal students—An adventure on the ice 402–414

CHAPTER XXVIII
MY TOUR OF THE WESTERN STATES
Springfield and Springfield audiences—I inspect Colt
guns—Baltimore—Philadelphia and Chicago—A pleasant sojourn—A
visit to the slaughtering house—Another bishop condemns
me—St. Louis—The fish without eyes—My jewels are exhibited—It
nearly results in a tragedy—The attempted robbery—The man who
would have robbed me 415–427

CHAPTER XXIX
FROM THE GULF TO CANADA AGAIN
Cincinnati and then South—Crossing the Mississippi in
flood-time—A brave engineer—The charm of New Orleans—The
horrors of the flood—The hairdresser and the serpents—A
strange reception at Mobile—“La Dame aux Camélias” under
scenic difficulties—A round of smaller towns—Blocked by the
snow—A snow ball fight—Pittsburg and a former friend—A long
ride—A mistaken reporter 428–440

CHAPTER XXX
END OF MY AMERICAN TOUR
An outing at Niagara Falls—An icy excursion—I am presented with
a miniature of the Falls—Vanity brings me to ridicule—A
foolhardy escapade—A memorable performance at New York—I
embark for home—The last of the whale man—A stowaway—The trip
home—A glorious reception at Hâvre—A performance for the life
savers—A turning-point 441–456

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

Sarah Bernhardt as _Gismonda_, from a Painting by
Chartran _Frontispiece_

Rear View of Grandchamps Convent, Versailles 20

Sarah Bernhardt and Her Mother 36

Le Conservatoire National de Musique et de Déclamation,
Paris 80

Sarah Bernhardt in the Hands of her Coiffeur 86

Sarah Bernhardt when She Left the Conservatory 94

Sarah Bernhardt at the Time of Her Début in “Les Femmes
Savantes” 104

Sarah Bernhardt in “François le Champi” 134

An Early Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt 170

Sarah Bernhardt in Riding Habit 232

Skull in Madame Bernhardt’s Library, with Autograph
Verses by Victor Hugo 248

“Ophelia”—Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt 258

Sarah Bernhardt in Her Coffin 270

Sarah Bernhardt Painting, 1878–9 280

Sarah Bernhardt at Work on Her “Mêdée” 288

Sarah Bernhardt, Portrait by Parrott, 1875—in the
Comédie Française, Paris 296

Sarah Bernhardt, Portrait by Clairin 304

Sarah Bernhardt, from an Oil Painting by Mlle. Louise
Abbéma 332

Sarah Bernhardt as the _Duc de Richelieu_ 338

Sarah Bernhardt, 1879 346

The Celebrated Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt, Painted by
Jules Bastien-Lepage 352

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and Members of Her Company Out
Shooting 362

Bust of Victorien Sardou by Sarah Bernhardt 366

Sarah Bernhardt in Travelling Costume, 1880 378

Sarah Bernhardt at Home, by Walter Spindler 390

Sarah Bernhardt as _Doña Sol_ in “Hernani” 402

Corner in Sarah Bernhardt’s Paris Home, Showing Painting
by Chartran 410

Library in Madame Bernhardt’s House, Paris 420

Corner in Sarah Bernhardt’s Library, Showing Madame
Bernhardt’s Writing Table on the Left 426

Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt, Paris 436

_Foyer_ in Madame Bernhardt’s Theater, Paris 442

Sarah Bernhardt in “L’Aiglon”—Painting by G. Clairin 450

MEMORIES OF MY LIFE

CHAPTER I
MY AUNTS

My mother was fond of traveling: she would go from Spain to England,
from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to
Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for
Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for
herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: “Look
after little Sarah; I shall return in a month’s time.” A month later she
would write to another of her sisters: “Go and see the child at her
nurse’s; I shall be back in a couple of weeks.”

My mother’s age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts
were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and
the eldest was twenty-eight, but the latter lived at Martinique, and was
the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather
dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no
idea why he had gone there.

My youthful aunts were always promising to come to see me, but rarely
kept their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany and lived near Quimperle
in a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild
gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a
child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and
sad-looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun.

Brittany is a long way off, even in our present epoch of velocity of
travel. In those days it was the end of the world. Fortunately, my nurse
was, it appears, a good, kind woman, and as her own child had died, she
had only me to love. But she loved after the manner of poor people—when
she had time.

One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather
in potatoes. The over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time
to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his
Breton bed suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman had
placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the wooden
peg which supported the narrow tray for my toys. She threw a fagot in
the grate, and said to me in Breton language: (until the age of four I
only understood Breton) “Be a good girl, Milk Blossom.” That was my only
name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the wooden peg
which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally, I
succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the
ground, but poor little me, I fell into the fire which was burning
joyfully.

The screams of my foster father, who could not move, brought in some
neighbors. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk.
My aunts were informed of what had happened; they communicated the news
to my mother, and, for the next four days, that quiet part of the
country was plowed by stagecoaches that arrived in rapid succession. My
aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest
alarm, hastened from Brussels with Baron Larrey, one of her friends, who
was a young doctor just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house
surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since
that nothing was more painful to witness and yet so charming, as my
mother’s despair. The doctor approved of the “mask of butter,” which was
changed every two hours.

Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we
shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such
charming fashion how those kind folk loved Milk Blossom. And he could
never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was
butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards,
on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the
neighbors used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.

Mother, admirably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair
and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on
her cheeks when she lowered her eyes. She distributed money on all
sides. She would have given her golden hair, her slender white fingers,
her tiny feet, her life itself, in order to save her child. And she was
as sincere in her despair and her love as in her unconscious
forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt
Rosine, and the surgeon with me. Forty-two days later, mother took the
nurse, the foster father, and me back in triumph to Paris, and installed
us in a little house at Neuilly, on the banks of the Seine. I had not
even a scar, it appears. My skin was rather too bright a pink, but that
was all. My mother, happy and trustful once more, began to travel again,
leaving me in care of my aunts.

Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of
horrible dahlias growing close together and colored like wooden balls.
My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bonbons, and
toys. The foster father died and my nurse married a _concierge_, who
used to open the door at 65, rue de Provence.

Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my
nurse, without telling any of my friends, took me with her to her new
abode.

The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I
remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse’s abode was just over
the doorway of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and
monumental door. From outside, I thought it was beautiful, and I began
to clap my hands on reaching the house. It was toward five o’clock in
the evening, in the month of November, when everything looks gray. I was
put to bed and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.

The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no
window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and
escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could
go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an
immense “bull’s eye” above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow
against the glass and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no
boxwood, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing, but stone, cold, gray,
ugly stone, and panes of glass opposite me.

“I want to go away,” I screamed. “I don’t want to stay here! It is all
black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the ceiling of the street!” and
I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up in her arms and, folding me
in a rug, took me down into the courtyard.

“Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See, there is the ceiling of
the street!”

It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly
place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale
and became anæmic, and I should certainly have died of consumption if it
had not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I
was playing in the courtyard with a little girl named Titine, who lived
on the second floor and whose face or real name I cannot recall, when I
saw my nurse’s husband walking across the courtyard with two ladies, one
of whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their backs, but
the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my heart to stop
beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous excitement.

“Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?” she asked.

“Yes, madame, those four,” he replied, pointing to four open ones on the
first floor.

The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.

“Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!” I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the
pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing,
laughing, and tearing her wide, lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight.
She took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the
_concierge_ she stammered out to her friend:

“I can’t understand what it all means! This is little Sarah! My sister
Youle’s child!”

The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their
windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the _concierge’s_ lodge, in
order to come to an explanation. My poor nurse told her about all that
had taken place, her husband’s death, and her second marriage. I do not
remember what she said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was
deliciously perfumed, and I would not let her go. She promised to come
the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any longer in
that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse. My aunt stroked
my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did not
understand. She tried, in vain, to explain something to me, I do not
know what it was, but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at
once. In a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real
affection, she said all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her
gloved hands, patted my frock, which was turned up, and made any amount
of charming, frivolous little gestures, but all without any real
feeling. She then went away, at her friend’s entreaty, after emptying
her purse in my nurse’s hands. I rushed toward the door, but the husband
of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it again. My nurse
was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she opened the window, saying to
me: “Don’t cry, Milk Blossom, look at your pretty aunt; she will come
back again, and then you can go away with her.” Great tears rolled down
her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the dark, black
hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit of despair,
I rushed out to my aunt who was just getting into a carriage. After that
I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark; there was a noise in the
distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had managed to escape
from my poor nurse, and had fallen down on the pavement in front of my
aunt. I had broken my arm in two places, and injured my left kneecap. I
only came to myself again a few hours later, to find that I was in a
beautiful, wide bed which smelled very nice. It stood in the middle of a
large room, with two lovely windows, which made me very joyful, for I
could see the ceiling of the street through them.

My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me,
and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little
brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so
fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by
one single person. As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I
was two years recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time
was nearly always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my
life, which have left me only a vague memory of being petted, and of a
chronic state of torpor.

One day my mother took me on her knees, and said to me: “You are a big
girl now, and you must learn to read and write.” I was then seven years
old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years
with the old nurse, and two years ill. “You must go to school,”
continued my mother, playing with my curly hair, “like a big girl.”

I did not know what all this meant, and I asked what a school was.

“It’s a place where there are many little girls,” replied my mother.

“Are they ill?” I asked.

“Oh, no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they play together,
and are very gay and happy.”

I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing
tears in my mother’s eyes, I flung myself in her arms.

“But what about you, mamma?” I asked. “You will be all alone, and you
won’t have any little girl.”

She bent down to me and said:

“God has told me that he will send me some flowers, and a little baby.”

My delight was more and more boisterous.

“Then I shall have a little brother?” I exclaimed, “or else a little
sister? Oh, no, I don’t want that, I don’t like little sisters!”

Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember,
in a blue, corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus
in all my splendor, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine’s carriage,
which was to take us to Auteuil.

It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an
hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys
being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by
the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When
my aunt’s magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in,
slowly and calmly. I got in slowly, too, giving myself airs, because the
_concierge_ and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt then
sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders in
English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a
paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours,
in which three men were seated: Régie L——, a friend of my father’s,
General de P—— and an artist named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of
horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then.

I heard on the way that these gentlemen were going to arrange about a
little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in
being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet
them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt
said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either
English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was
greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window,
and my eyes wide open, I gazed out eagerly at the gray, muddy road, with
its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all
very beautiful, because it kept changing.

The carriage stopped at 18, Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a
long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma
said: “You will be able to read that soon, I hope.” My aunt whispered to
me, “Boarding School, Madame Fressard,” and, very promptly, I said to
mamma: “It says ‘Boarding School, Madame Fressard.’”

Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my
assurance, and we entered the house. Mme. Fressard came forward to meet
us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather stout,
with a small waist, and her hair turning gray, _en Sévigné_. She had
beautiful, large eyes, rather like George Sand’s, very white teeth which
showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked
healthy, spoke kindly, her hands were plump and her fingers long. She
took my hand gently in hers and half-kneeling so that her face was level
with mine, she said in a musical voice: “You won’t be afraid of me, will
you, little girl?” I did not answer, but my face flushed as red as a
coxcomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply. They
all gathered round me—“Speak, child—come, Sarah, be a good girl—oh, the
naughty little child!”

It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was
then made, to the bedrooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the
usual exaggerated compliments were paid. “How beautifully it is all
kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!” and a hundred stupidities of
this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother
went aside with Mme. Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she
could not walk. “This is the doctor’s prescription,” she said, and then
followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.

Mme. Fressard smiled rather ironically.

“You know, madame,” she said to my mother, “we shall not be able to curl
her hair like that.”

“And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it,” replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. “It’s a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could
not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too
much. What do you give the children at four o’clock?” she asked,
changing the subject.

“Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them.”

“There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam,” said my mother, “but
she must have jam one day and chocolate another, as she has not a good
appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of
chocolate.” Mme. Fressard smiled in a good-natured, but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate, and looked at the mark.

“Ah! from Marquis! What a spoiled little girl it is!” She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then, as her eyes fell on a large jar,
she looked surprised.

“That’s cold cream,” said my mother. “I make it myself, and I should
like my little girl’s face and hands to be rubbed with it every night
when she goes to bed.”

“But——” began Mme. Fressard.

“Oh, I’ll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets,” interrupted my
mother, impatiently. Ah, my poor mother, I remember quite well that my
sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils!

The farewell moment came at last, and everyone gathered round mamma, and
finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing, and with all
kinds of consoling words: “It will be so good for her—it is just what
she needs—you’ll find her quite changed when you see her again, etc.”

The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and
tossed me in the air.

“You little chit,” he said; “they are putting you to the barracks, and
you’ll have to mind your pace!”

I pulled his long mustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Mme. Fressard, who had a slight mustache: “You mustn’t do
that to a lady, you know!”

My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and
the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and
farewells, while I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.

I spent two years at the _pension_. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learned a hundred new games. I learned to sing
rondeaus and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was relatively
happy there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and Sundays,
and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in the street
seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large garden
belonging to the _pension_. Besides, there were little festivities at
Mme. Fressard’s which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella Colas,
who had just made her début at the Théâtre Français, came sometimes on
Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a wink the night
before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair carefully and get
ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in order to listen to
something I did not understand at all, but which, nevertheless, left me
spellbound. Then, too, there was quite a legend attached to this pretty
girl. She had flung herself almost under the horses’ feet as the Emperor
was driving along, in order to attract his attention and obtain the
pardon of her brother who had conspired against his sovereign.

Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Mme. Fressard’s, and this sister,
Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlon, Under-Secretary of State
in the Treasury Department. Stella was slight and fair, with blue eyes
that were rather hard, but expressive. She had a deep voice and when
this pale, fragile girl began to recite “Athalie’s Dream” it thrilled me
through and through. How many times, seated on my child’s bed, did I
practice saying in a low voice: “_Tremble, fille digne de moi._” I used
to twist my head in my shoulders, swell out my cheeks and commence:

“_Tremble—trem-ble—trem-em-em—ble——_”

But it always ended badly and I would begin again very quietly in a
stifled voice and then unconsciously speak louder, and my companions,
roused by the noise, were amused at my attempts and roared with
laughter. I would then rush about to the right and left, giving them
kicks and blows which they returned with interest.

Mme. Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline—whom I chanced to meet
a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon—would then
appear on the scene, angry and implacable, and would give us all kinds
of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get locked up
for three days. That was followed by my being detained on the first day
we were allowed out. And, in addition, I would receive five strokes with
a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler blows of Mlle. Caroline’s! I
reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five years later.
She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and hold our
hands out straight near to her and then, bang came her wide, ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, dry blow which made the tears
spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was
beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a
very white complexion and very black hair which she wore in waved
bandeaux. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives
brought her to my house and said: “I am sure you will not recognize this
lady and yet you know her very well.”

I was leaning against the large mantelpiece in the hall and I saw this
tall woman, still beautiful, but rather provincial-looking, coming
through the first drawing-room. As she descended the three steps into
the hall, the light fell on her protruding forehead, framed on each side
with the hard, waved bandeaux.

“Mlle. Caroline!” I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish movement, I
hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw her again, for the grudge I
had owed her from my childhood must have been apparent under my
politeness as hostess.

As I said before, I was not unhappy at Mme. Fressard’s, and it seemed
quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite grown up.
My uncle, Felix Faure, who at present has entered the Carthusian
monastery, had stipulated that his wife, my mother’s sister, should
often take me out. He had a very fine country place at Neuilly with a
stream running through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours
together, with my two cousins, a boy and girl.

These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any other events
than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole _pension_ and
always left me in the sick-room for two or three days. These outbursts
of temper were like attacks of madness.

One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly, to take me away altogether. My
father had written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and
these orders were imperative. My mother was traveling, so she had sent
word to my aunt, who had hurried off at once, between two dances, to
carry out the instructions she had received.

The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard to my own
wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled
about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out
all kinds of reproaches, blaming my mother, my aunts, and Mme. Fressard
for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two
hours, and, while I was being dressed, I escaped twice into the garden
and attempted to climb the trees, and to throw myself into the pond, in
which there was more mud than water.

Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off,
sobbing, in my aunt’s carriage.

I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that my life was
said to be in danger.

My father used to come to the house of my Aunt Rosine, who was then
living at 6 Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He was on friendly terms with
Rossini, who lived at No. 4 in the same street. He often brought him in,
and Rossini made me laugh with his clever stories and comic grimaces. My
father was as “handsome as a god,” and I used to look at him with pride.
I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him for his
seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded a certain
respect and I noticed that even my exuberant aunt calmed down in his
presence.

I recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that I could now
be moved without any fear of ill effects. We had been waiting for my
mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My aunt offered to accompany us if
my father would take me to the convent, but he refused, and I can hear
him now with his gentle voice, saying:

“No, her mother will take her to the convent. I have written to the
Faures and the child is to stay there a fortnight.”

My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied: “It’s quieter
there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity more than
anything else.”

I went that very evening to my Aunt Faure’s. I did not care much for
her, as she was cold and affected, but I adored my uncle. He was so
gentle and so calm, and there was an infinite charm in his smile. His
son was as turbulent as I was myself, adventurous and rather
hare-brained, so that we always liked being together. His sister, an
adorable Greuze-like girl, was reserved and always afraid of soiling her
frocks, and even her pinafores. The poor child married Baron Cerise and
died during her confinement, in the very flower of youth and beauty,
because her timidity, her reserve and narrow education had made her
refuse to see a doctor when the intervention of a medical man was
absolutely necessary. I was very fond of her, and her death was a great
grief to me. At present, I never see the faintest ray of moonlight
without its evoking a pale vision of her.

I stayed three weeks at my uncle’s, roaming about with my cousin and
spending hours lying down flat, fishing for crayfish in the little
stream that ran through the park. This park was immense and surrounded
by a wide ditch. How many times I used to have bets with my cousins that
I would jump that ditch! The bet was sometimes three sheets of paper, or
five pins, or perhaps my two pancakes, for we used to have pancakes
every Tuesday. And after the bet I jumped, more often than not falling
into the ditch and splashing about in the green water, screaming because
I was afraid of the frogs, and yelling with terror when my cousins
pretended to rush away.

When I returned to the house my aunt was always watching anxiously at
the top of the stone steps for our arrival. What a lecture I had and
what a cold look!

“Go upstairs and change your clothes, mademoiselle,” she would say, “and
thou stay in your room. Your dinner will be sent to you there without
any dessert.”

As I passed the big glass in the hall I would catch sight of myself,
looking like a rotten tree stump, and see my cousin making signs that he
would bring me some dessert, by putting his hand to his mouth.

His sister used to go to his mother who fondled her and seemed to say:
“Thank Heaven you are not like that little Bohemian!” This was my aunt’s
stinging epithet for me in moments of anger. I used to go up to my room
with a heavy heart, thoroughly ashamed and vexed, vowing to myself that
I would never again jump the ditch, but on reaching my room I would find
the gardener’s daughter there—a big, awkward, merry girl who used to
wait on me.

“Oh, how comic mademoiselle looks like that!” she would say, laughing so
heartily that I was proud of looking comic and decided that when I
jumped the ditch again I would get weeds and mud all over me. When I had
undressed and washed I used to put on a flannel gown and wait in my room
until my dinner came. Soup was sent up and then meat, bread, and water.
I detested meat then, just as I do now, and threw it out of the window,
after cutting off the fat, which I put on the rim of my plate, as my
aunt used to come up unexpectedly.

“Have you eaten your dinner, mademoiselle?” she would ask.

“Yes, aunt,” I replied.

“Are you still hungry?”

“No, aunt.”

“Write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times, you little
heathen.” This was because I had not been baptized. A quarter of an hour
later my uncle would come upstairs.

“Have you had enough dinner?” he would ask.

“Yes, uncle,” I replied.

“Did you eat your meat?”

“No, I threw it out of the window. I don’t like meat.”

“You told your aunt an untruth, then.”

“No, she asked me if I had eaten my dinner and I answered that I had,
but I did not say that I had eaten my meat.”

“What punishment has she given you?”

“I am to write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times before going
to bed.”

“Do you know them by heart?”

“No, not very well. I make mistakes always.”

And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our Father” and the
“Creed” and I would copy it in the most devout way, as he used to
dictate with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious
indeed, this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a
Carthusian monk. At the present moment, ill and aged as he is, and bent
with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of
the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, his
little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all
that is best in me! I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect
for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have
thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my
aunt quarreled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of
me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally,
too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very
straightforward and full of intelligence and common sense. Recently I
went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge. A friend of
mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words he had
dictated to be repeated to me.

To return to my story: after my uncle’s visit, Marie, the gardener’s
daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent but with her
pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had
sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all
the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts and I
would eat them when I had finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She
sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under
the table, in case my aunt returned. But my aunt seldom came again, as
she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano while my
uncle taught his son mathematics.

Finally my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great
excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk was packed in
readiness. The Grandchamps Convent, which I was about to enter, had a
prescribed uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my
things with the initials S. B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver
spoon, fork, and goblet and these were all marked 32, which was the
number under which I was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woolen
muffler in different shades of violet, which she had been knitting for
me in secret the last few days. My aunt put round my neck a little
scapulary which had been blessed, and when my mother and father arrived
everything was ready. A farewell dinner was given to which two of my
mother’s friends, Aunt Rosine, and four other members of the family were
invited.

I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had just this
feeling of importance which was quite enough for me. Everyone at table
talked about me. My uncle kept stroking my hair and my cousin from her
end of the table threw me kisses. Suddenly my father’s musical voice
made me turn toward him.

“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said; “if you are very good at the convent I
will come in four years and fetch you away, and you shall travel with me
and see some beautiful countries.”

“Oh, I will be good!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be as good as Aunt Henriette!”

This was my Aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.

After dinner, the weather being very fine, we all went out to stroll in
the park. My father took me with him and talked to me very seriously. He
told me things that were sad which I had never heard before. I
understood, although I was so young, and my eyes filled with tears. He
was sitting on an old bench and I was on his knee with my head resting
on his shoulder. I listened to all he said and cried silently, my
childish mind disturbed by his words. Poor father! I was never, never to
see him again.

CHAPTER II
I BEGIN MY CONVENT LIFE

I did not sleep well that night and the following morning, at eight
o’clock, we started by diligence for Versailles. I can see Marie now, in
tears, great big girl as she was. All the members of the family were
assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my little trunk and
then a wooden case of games which my mother had brought, and a kite that
my cousin had made, which he gave me at the last moment just as the
carriage was starting. I can still see the large white house, which
seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther we drove away from it. I
stood up, with my father holding me and waved his blue silk muffler
which I had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage
and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the heavy-looking
door of the Grandchamps Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect
my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked at
everything around me. The paving stones of the street were round and
small, with grass growing everywhere. There was a wall and then a great
gateway surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing whatever
to be seen. To the left there was a house and to the right the Sartory
barracks. Not a sound to be heard, not a footfall, not even an echo.

“Oh, mamma!” I exclaimed, “is it inside there I am to go? Oh, no, I
would rather go back to Mme. Fressard’s.”

My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus
explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him,
and while ringing the bell, he took me by the hand. The door opened, and
he led me gently in, followed by my mother and Aunt Rosine.

The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to
be seen, and windows from which children’s faces were gazing curiously
at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she
took us into the parlor. This was large, with a polished floor, and was
divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the
room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall and a few
chairs and armchairs near the grating. On the walls were the portraits
of Pius IX., a full-length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My
teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some
book the description of a prison and that it was just like this. I
looked at my father and at my mother and began to distrust them. I had
so often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to
rule me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My Aunt Faure
had so often repeated: “That child will come to a bad end, she has such
mad ideas, etc., etc.”

“Papa, papa,” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror, “I won’t go to
prison. This is a prison I am sure. I am frightened; oh, I am so
frightened!”

On the other side of the grating a door had just opened, and I stopped
to see who was coming. A little round, short woman made her appearance
and came up to the grating. Her black veil was lowered as far as her
mouth, so that I could see scarcely anything of her face. She recognized
my father, whom she had probably seen before when matters were being
arranged. She opened the door in the grating and we all went through to
the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified eyes full
of tears, she gently took my hand in hers, and turning her back to my
father raised her veil. I then saw the sweetest and merriest face
imaginable, with large, childlike blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing
mouth with full lips and beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so
kind, so energetic, and so gay that I flung myself at once into her
arms. It was Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior of the Grandchamps
Convent.

“Ah, we are friends now, you see!” she said to my father, lowering her
veil again. What secret instinct could have told this woman, who was not
coquettish, who had no looking-glass and never troubled about beauty,
that her face was fascinating and that her bright smile could enliven
the gloom of the convent?

“We will now go and visit the house,” she said.

We at once started, she and my father each holding one of my hands. Two
other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was the mother-prefect, a tall,
cold woman with thin lips, and Sister Séraphine, who was as white and
supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We started by entering the
building and came first to the large class-room in which all the pupils
met on Thursdays at the lectures, which were nearly always given by
Mother Ste. Sophie. Most of them did needle-work all day long, tapestry,
embroidery, etc., and others decalcomania.

The room was very large and on St. Catherine’s Day and other holidays we
used to dance there. It was in this room, too, that once a year the
Mother Superior gave to each of the Sisters the sou which represented
her annual income. The walls were adorned with religious engravings and
with a few oil paintings done by the pupils. The place of honor, though,
belonged to St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving depicted the
conversion of this saint, and, oh, how often I have looked at that
engraving! St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much emotion and
greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired the cleanliness of
the refectory. She asked to see which would be my seat at table, and
when this was shown to her she objected strongly to my having that
place.

“No,” she said, “the child has not a strong chest and she would always
be in a draught. I will not let her sit there.”

My father agreed with my mother and insisted on a change being made. It
was therefore decided that I should sit at the end of the room, and the
promise given was faithfully kept.

When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories she was
aghast. It was very, very wide and the steps were low and easy to mount,
but there were so many of them before one reached the first floor. For a
few seconds mamma hesitated and stood there gazing at them, her arms
hanging down in despair.

“Stay down here, Youle,” said my aunt, “and I will go up.”

“No, no,” replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. “I must see where the
child is to sleep; she is so delicate.”

My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up, and we then went
into one of the immense dormitories. It was very much like the dormitory
at Mme. Fressard’s, but a great deal larger and there was a tiled floor
without any carpet.

“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma, “the child cannot sleep
here; it is too cold; it would kill her.”

The Mother Superior, Ste. Sophie, gave my mother a chair and tried to
soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already very much affected.

“We will put your little girl in this dormitory, madame,” she said,
opening a door that led into a room with eight beds. The floor was of
polished wood and this room, adjoining the infirmary, was the one in
which delicate or convalescent children slept. Mamma was reassured on
seeing this, and we then went down and inspected the grounds. There were
three woods, the Little Wood, the Middle Wood, and the Big Wood, and
then there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye could
see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children lived.
They were taught gratis by the nuns, and every week they helped with the
laundry for the convent.

The sight of these immense woods with swings, hammocks, and a gymnasium
delighted me, for I thought I should be able to roam about at pleasure
there. Mother Ste. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood was
reserved for the older pupils and the Middle Wood for the little ones,
while the Big Wood was for the whole convent on holidays. Then after
telling us about the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering of
the acacia, Mother Ste. Sophie informed us that every child could have a
small garden and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger one
between them.

[Illustration: REAR VIEW OF GRANDCHAMPS CONVENT, VERSAILLES.]

“Oh, can I have a garden of my own!” I exclaimed, “a garden all to
myself?”

“Yes,” replied my mother, “one of your own.”

The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man,
with the exception of the almoner, who was on the convent staff.

“Père Larcher,” said the kind woman, “here is a little girl who wants a
beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it.”

“Very good, Reverend Mother,” answered the honest fellow, and I saw my
father slip a coin into his hand, for which the man thanked him in an
embarrassed way.

It was getting late and we had to separate. I remember quite well that I
did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of nothing but my garden. The
convent no longer seemed to me like a prison but like Paradise. I kissed
my mother and my aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment in a
close embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full of
tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a hearty
kiss and whispered: “I am going to be very, very good and work well, so
that I can go with you at the end of four years.” I then went toward my
mother, who was giving Mother Ste. Sophie the same instructions she had
given to Mme. Fressard about “cold cream, chocolate, jam, etc.” Mother
Ste. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only fair to
say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously.

When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the Mother Superior
took me by the hand, and leading me to the Second Wood, showed me where
my garden would be. That was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for
we found Père Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner
of the wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The corner
was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which bounded the railway
line of the left bank of the river which cuts the Sartory Woods in two.
The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent
were part of the beautiful Sartory Forest.

They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had
altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père
Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled and sent for the
Mother Treasurer and Mother Ste. Appoline. I had to hand all my money
over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me,
saying: “When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from
me.”

Mère Ste. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of
flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why I wanted every sort that
grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson, by explaining
that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the
Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher,
telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some
seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was
delighted, and I then went with Mother Ste. Sophie to the refectory to
have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second,
amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there,
standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother
Superior appeared, everyone bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were
turned on me. Mother Ste. Sophie took me to the seat which had been
chosen for me at the end of the room and then returned to the middle of
the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an
audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room, everyone
bowed again and I then found myself alone, quite alone in this cage of
little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten
to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins
from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardanos. They had
been in the convent only two months and appeared to be as timid as I
was. The dinner was composed of soup, made of everything, and of veal
with haricot beans. I detested soup and I have always had a horror of
veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun
who waited on us turned it up again and poured the hot soup in,
regardless of scalding me.

“You must drink your soup,” whispered my right-hand neighbor, whose name
was Pepa.

“I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud. The
inspectress was passing by just at that moment.

“You must drink your soup, mademoiselle,” she said.

“No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered.

She smiled and said in a gentle voice:

“We must like everything. I shall be coming round again soon. Be a good
girl and take your soup.”

I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and drank
the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed her
satisfaction. I was furious and put my tongue out, and this made all the
table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end of the
table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the eldest,
said to her in a low voice:

“It’s the new girl making grimaces.”

The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my
portion found its way to the plate of my neighbor, Dolores. I wanted to
keep the haricot beans though, and we almost came to a quarrel over
them. She gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few
beans which I tried to keep on my plate.

An hour later we had evening prayers and afterwards all went up to bed.
My bed was placed against the wall, in which there was a niche for the
statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was always kept burning in this niche,
and the oil for it was provided by the children who had been ill and
were grateful for their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at
the foot of the little statue. The pots were of terra cotta and the
flowers of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided
that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell asleep to
dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of distant
countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an impression on my mind.

The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up so early.
Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque windowpanes. I grumbled
as I dressed, for we were allowed only a quarter of an hour and it
always took me a good half hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing
that I was not ready, came toward me, and before I knew what she was
going to do, snatched the comb violently out of my hand.

“Come, come,” she said, “you must not dawdle like this.” She then
planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a handful of it. Pain
and anger at seeing myself treated in this way threw me immediately into
one of my fits of rage which always terrified those who witnessed them.
I flung myself upon the unfortunate Sister and with feet, teeth, hands,
elbows, head and, indeed, all my poor little body I hit, thumped, and at
the same time yelled. All the pupils, all the Sisters, and indeed
everyone came running to see what was the matter. The Sisters made the
sign of the cross but did not venture to approach me. The Mother Prefect
threw some holy water over me to exorcise the evil spirit. Finally the
Mother Superior arrived on the scene. My father had told her of my fits
of wild fury, which were my only serious fault, and my state of health
was quite as much responsible for them as the violence of my
disposition. She approached me. I was still clutching Sister Marie, but
was exhausted by this struggle with the poor woman, who although tall
and strong, only tried to ward off my blows without retaliating,
endeavoring to hold first my feet, and then my hands.

I looked up on hearing Mother Ste. Sophie’s voice. My eyes were bathed
in tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet
face that without altogether letting go I ceased fighting for a second,
and trembling and ashamed, said very quickly:

“She commenced it, she snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked
woman, and tore out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked,
wicked woman.” I then burst into sobs and my hands loosed their hold.
The next thing I knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed
with Mother Ste. Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice
lecturing me gently. All the others had gone and I was quite alone with
her and the Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother Ste.
Sophie had an immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her,
and Sister Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the
whole convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little
stool I listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to
the instructive story she told me.

Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and how I love to recall her to my
memory! I adored her as a little child adores the being who has entirely
won its heart, without knowing, without reasoning, without even being
aware that it was so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite
fascination. Since then, though, I have understood and admired her,
realizing how unique and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the
thick-set exterior and happy face of that holy woman, I have loved her
for all that she awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the
letters which she wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over
again. I love her, also, because imperfect as I am, it seems to me that
I should have been one hundred times more so, had I not known and loved
that pure creature. Once only did I see her severe and feel that she was
suddenly angry. In the little room used as a parlor, leading into her
cell, there was a portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was
stamped with a certain nobility.

“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her.

“No,” she answered, turning quickly toward me, “it is the King, it is
Henri V.”

It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All
the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognized sovereign.
They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day
when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of
bonbons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded to
all the colleges, boarding schools, and convents. Politics were a dead
letter to me and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother Ste.
Sophie.

Then, too, I was a favorite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did my
compositions for me. I did not care for any studies except geography and
drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and I
thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid and quite lost my head
when questioned unexpectedly.

I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me
in small cardboard boxes, or cages that I manufactured myself, adders,
with which the woods were full, crickets, that I found on the leaves of
the tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails
broken, as in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid
of the box a little. On seeing this the lizards rushed to the opening. I
would shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such assurance,
when, crack! in a twinkling, either at the right or left, there was
nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and while
one of the Sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the blackboard,
the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard’s tail in my hand,
how I could fasten it on again. I had some death-watches in a little
box, and five spiders in a cage that Père Larcher had made for me with
some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give flies to my spiders and
they, fat and well-fed, would spin their webs. Very often during
recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little girls, would stand
round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and watch the wonderful
work of these little creatures. If one of my schoolfellows cut herself I
used to go quickly to her, feeling very proud and important: “Come at
once,” I would say, “I have some fresh spider-web and I will wrap your
finger in it.” Provided with a little thin stick I would take the web
and wrap it round the wounded finger. “And now, my lady spiders,” I
would say, “you must begin your work again,” and, active and minute,
mesdames, the spiders, began their spinning once more.

I was looked upon as a little authority and was made umpire in questions
that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for fashionable
trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy thing for me
in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets and muff, and
this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I charged for my
trousseaux, according to their importance, two pencils, five
_tête-de-mort_ nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In short, I
became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride. I did not
learn anything and I received no distinctions. My name was only once on
the honor list, and that was not as a studious pupil but for a
courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool. She had
fallen in while trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the large orchard
on the poor children’s side of the grounds. As a punishment for some
misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent away for two days
among the poor children. This was supposed to be a punishment and I
delighted in it. In the first place I was looked upon by them as a
“young lady.” Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous to bring me,
on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard some
heartrending shrieks and, rushing to the pool from whence they came, I
saw a little girl immersed in it. I jumped into the water without
reflecting. There was so much mud that we both sank in it. The little
girl was only four years old and so small that she kept disappearing. I
was over ten at that time. I do not know how I managed to rescue her,
but I dragged her out of the water with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes
all filled with mud. I was told afterwards that it was a long time
before she was restored to consciousness. As for me, I was carried away
with my teeth chattering, nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish
afterwards and Mother Ste. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard
her words to the doctor:

“This child,” she said, “is one of the best we have here. She will be
perfect when once she has received the Holy Chrism.”

This speech made such an impression on me that, from that day forth,
mysticism had a great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was
extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me,
heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the
Mother of the Seven Sorrows, my ideal.

An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of
our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I
wanted to remain forever.

The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of
visits to some of the communities and ours was among the chosen ones.
The news was told us by Mother Ste. Alexis, the senior, who was so tall,
so thin, and so old that I never looked upon her as a human being, or as
a living being. It always seemed to me as though she were stuffed and as
though she moved by machinery. She frightened me and I never consented
to go near to her until after her death.

We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays.
Mother Ste. Alexis, supported by two lay Sisters, stood on the little
platform and, in a voice that sounded far, far off, announced to us the
approaching visit of monseigneur. He was to come on Ste. Catherine’s
Day, just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother.

Our peaceful convent was thenceforth like a beehive in which a hornet
had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might have time
to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall armchair of carved
wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and polished. We
made lamp shades covered with crystalline. The grass was pulled up in
the courtyard ... and I cannot tell what was not done in honor of this
visitor.

Two days after the announcement made by Mother Ste. Alexis the programme
of the _fête_ was read to us by Mother Ste. Sophie. The youngest of the
nuns was to read a few words of welcome to monseigneur. This was the
delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a
pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by
Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled, “Toby Recovering His Eyesight.” It had been written by Mother
Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with age
and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of the
phrases.

The little play was read to us by Mother Ste. Thérèse one Thursday, in
the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother
Ste. Thérèse was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid
committing, if only for a second, the sin of pride.

Scene I. _Toby’s_ farewell to his blind father. He vows to bring back to
him the ten talents lent to _Gabelus_, one of his relatives. Scene II.
_Toby_, asleep on the banks of the Tiber, is being watched over by the
_Angel Raphael_. Struggle with a monster fish which had attacked _Toby_
while he slept. When the fish is killed the angel advises _Toby_ to take
its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to preserve these religiously.
Scene III. _Toby’s_ return to his blind father. The angel tells him to
rub the old man’s eyes with the entrails of the fish. The father’s
eyesight is restored, and when _Toby_ begs the _Angel Raphael_ to accept
some reward the latter makes himself known, and in a song to the glory
of God, vanishes to heaven.

I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy,
for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no
doubt but that some rôle would be distributed to me. The very thought of
it made me tremble beforehand, and I kept saying to myself: “Oh, no, I
could never say anything aloud!” I began to get quite nervous, my hands
became quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I
did not approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother
Ste. Thérèse said in her calm voice:

“Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen for your names for the
different parts:

Old Toby Eugénie Charmel
Young Toby Amelie Pluche
Gabelus Renée d’Arville
The Angel Raphael Louise Buguet
Toby’s mother Eulalie Lacroix
Toby’s sister Virginie Depaul”

I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied,
amazed, and furious. Mother Ste. Thérèse then added: “Here are your
manuscripts, young ladies,” and a manuscript of the little play was
handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it.

Louise Buguet was my favorite playmate, and I went up to her and asked
her to let me see her manuscript, which I read again enthusiastically.

“You’ll hear me rehearse, when I have learned it, won’t you?” she asked,
and I answered:

“Yes, certainly.”

“Oh, how frightened I shall be!” she said.

She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale
and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we
used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow
limpid and pearl-like from her gray, questioning eyes.

She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd’s dog
going from one to another among the chosen ones. I had really nothing to
do with it, but I wanted to be “in it.” The Mother Superior passed by,
and as we all courtesied to her she patted my cheek.

“We thought of you, little girl,” she said, “but you are so timid when
you are asked anything.”

“Oh, that’s when it is history or arithmetic!” I said. “This is not the
same thing, and I should not have been afraid.”

She smiled distrustfully and moved on.

There were rehearsals during the next week. I asked to be allowed to
take the part of the monster, as I wanted to have some rôle in the play,
at any cost. It was decided, though, that César, the convent dog, should
be the fish monster.

A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless
amount of trouble, cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted,
and sewing them together afterward. I made some enormous gills, which
were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed
over for that of a stupid, big girl, whose name I cannot remember. She
had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but
there were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat. I
nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume, and worked
at it with two of the lay Sisters, Sister Ste. Cécile and Sister Ste.
Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.

At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael.
She stood there stupefied, on the little platform, tears dimming her
beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept
appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and getting up,
rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was
beginning to be “in it” myself, at last.

Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress
rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but immediately on entering, he sank
down on a bench sobbing out in an imploring voice:

“Oh, no, I shall never be able to do it, never!”

“Quite true, she never will be able to,” sighed Mother Ste. Sophie.

Forgetting for the moment my little friend’s grief, and wild with joy,
pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the
form on which the _Angel Raphael_ had sunk down weeping.

“Oh, Mother, I know her part, shall I take her place for the rehearsal?”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed voices from all sides.

“Oh, yes, you know it so well,” said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to
put her band on my head.

“No, let me rehearse as I am, first,” I answered.

They began the second scene again and I came in carrying a long branch
of willow.

“Fear nothing, Toby,” I commenced. “I will be your guide. I will remove
from your path all thorns and stones.... You are overwhelmed with
fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I will watch over you.”

Thereupon _Toby_, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue
muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about,
represented the Tiber.

I then continued by a prayer to God while _Toby_ fell asleep. César next
appeared as the monster fish and the audience trembled with fear. César
had been well taught by the gardener, Père Larcher, and he advanced
slowly from under the blue muslin. He was wearing his mask, representing
the head of a fish. Two enormous nutshells for his eyes had been painted
white, and a hole pierced through them, so that the dog could see. The
mask was fastened with wire to his collar, which also supported two
gills as large as palm leaves. César, sniffing the ground, snorted and
growled and then leaped wildly on to _Toby_, who with his cudgel, slew
the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back with his four paws in
the air, and then rolled over on his side, pretending to be dead.

There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped and
stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and shouted: “Good
César! Clever César! Oh, good dog, good dog!” The Sisters, touched by
the efforts of the guardian of the convent, shook their heads with
emotion. As for me, I quite forgot that I was the _Angel Raphael_, and I
stooped down and stroked César affectionately. “Ah, how well he has
acted his part!” I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the
other in my hand, while the dog, motionless, continued to be dead.

The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again, and
accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise, a duet to the
glory of God, who had just saved _Toby_ from the fearful monster.

After this the little green serge curtain was drawn and I was
surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother Ste. Sophie came up onto the
platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise Buguet, she was now
joyful again and her angelic face beamed.

“Oh, how well you knew the part!” she said. “And then, too, everyone can
hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!” She kissed me and I hugged
her with all my might—at last I was in it!

The third scene began. The action took place in _Father Toby’s_ house.
_Gabelus_, the _Angel_, and young _Toby_ were holding the entrails of
the fish in their hands and looking at them. The _Angel_ explained how
they must be used for rubbing the blind father’s eyes. I felt rather
sick, for I was holding in my hand a skate’s liver, and the heart and
gizzard of a fowl. I had never touched such things before and every now
and then the sick feeling made me heave, and the tears came into my
eyes.

Finally, the blind father came in, led by _Toby’s_ sister. _Gabelus_
knelt down before the old man and gave him the ten silver talents,
telling him in a long recital, of _Toby’s_ exploits in Media. After this
_Toby_ advanced, embraced his father and then rubbed his eyes with the
skate’s liver.

Eugénie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes she exclaimed:

“I can see, I can see. O God of goodness, God of mercy, I can see, I can
see!”

She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in an ecstatic
attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded and loving,
wept.

All the actors except old _Toby_ and the _Angel_ sank on their knees and
gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving the public,
moved by religious sentiment and discipline, repeated, Amen!

_Toby’s_ mother then approached the _Angel_ and said:

“Oh, noble stranger, take up your abode from henceforth with us; you
shall be our guest, our son, our brother!”

I then advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines, made
known that I was the messenger of God, that I was the _Angel Raphael_. I
then gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan, which was being
concealed for a final effect, and veiled myself in cloudy tissue which
was intended to simulate my flight heavenward. The little green serge
curtain was then closed on this apotheosis.

Finally the solemn day arrived. I was so feverish with expectation that
I could not sleep the last three nights. The dressing bell was rung for
us earlier than usual, but I was already up and trying to smooth my
rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet brush by way of making it
behave better.

Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o’clock in the morning. We therefore
lunched at ten and were then drawn up in the principal courtyard. Only
Mother Ste. Alexis, the eldest of the nuns, was in the front and Mother
Ste. Sophie just behind her. The almoner was a little distance away from
the two Superiors. Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls,
and then all the little children. The lay Sisters and the servants were
also there. We were all dressed in white with the respective colors of
our various classes.

The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first
courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened and
Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps, which the footman lowered
for him. Mother Ste. Alexis advanced, and bending down, kissed the
episcopal ring. Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior, who was younger, knelt
down to kiss the ring. The signal was then given to us and we all knelt
to receive the benediction of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the
big gate was closed and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the
Mother Superior. Mother Ste. Alexis was exhausted, and went back to her
cell.

In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees. We then
went to the chapel where a short mass was celebrated, after which we had
an hour’s recreation. The concert was to commence at half past one. The
recreation hour was devoted to preparing the large room and to getting
ready to appear before Monseigneur. I wore the _Angel’s_ long robe with
a blue sash round my waist, and two paper wings fastened on with narrow
blue straps, that crossed over each other in front. Round my head was a
band of gold braid, fastening behind. I kept mumbling my “part” (for in
those days we did not know the word “rôle”). We are more used to the
theater at present, but at the convent we always said “part,” and years
afterwards I was surprised, the first time I played in England, to hear
a young English girl say: “Oh, what a fine part you had in ‘Hernani.’”

The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were festoons of
green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere. Then there
were little lusters hung about with gold cord. A wide piece of red
velvet carpet was laid down from the door to Monseigneur’s armchair,
upon which were two cushions of red velvet with gold fringe.

I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!

The concert began and it seemed to me that everything went very well.
Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the sight of César, and
it was he who led the applause when the dog died. It was César, in fact,
who had the greatest success, but we were nevertheless sent for to
appear before Monseigneur Sibour. He was certainly the kindest and most
charming of prelates and on this occasion he gave to each of us a
consecrated medal.

When my turn came he took my hand in his and said:

“It is you, my child, who are not baptized, is it not?”

“Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur,” I replied in confusion.

“She is to be baptized this spring,” said the Mother Superior. “Her
father is coming back specially from a very distant country.”

She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in a very low
voice.

“Very well, if I can, I will come again for the ceremony,” said the
archbishop aloud.

I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the old man’s ring
and then ran away to the dormitory, and cried for a long time. I was
found there, later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.

From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and less
violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of Monseigneur
Sibour’s name, and reminded of his promise to come for my baptism.

Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning in January,
when we were all assembled in the chapel for mass, I was surprised, and
had a foreboding of coming evil, when I saw the Abbé Lethurgi go up into
the pulpit before commencing the mass. He was very pale, and I turned
instinctively to look at the Mother Superior. She was seated in her
regular place. The almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion,
to tell us of the murder of Monseigneur Sibour.

Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us and a hundred stifled
cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant the priest’s voice.
Murdered! The word seemed to sting me personally even more than the
others. Had I not been, for one instant, the favorite of the kind old
man! It was as though the murderer, Verger, had struck at me, too, in my
grateful love for the prelate, in my little fame of which he had now
robbed me. I burst into sobs, and the organ accompanying the prayer for
the dead increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted. It
was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love for mysticism.
It was fortified by the religious exercises, the dramatic effort of our
worship and the gentle encouragement, both fervent and sincere, of those
who were educating me. They were very fond of me and I adored them so
that even now the very memory of them, fascinating and restful as it is,
thrills me with affection.

The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew more and more
excitable. My nervous attacks were more and more frequent, fits of tears
for no reason at all, and fits of terror without any cause. Everything
seemed to take strange proportions, as far as I was concerned. One day
one of my little friends dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I
played with dolls until I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all
over, as I adored that doll, which had been given to me by my father.

“You have broken my doll’s head, you naughty girl!” I exclaimed. “You
have hurt my father!”

I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a
great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing:

“Papa is dead! Papa is dead!”

Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlor, and
making me stand in front of her, she said:

“My poor little girl, I have something to tell you that will cause you
great sorrow. Papa is dead.”

“I know,” I said, “I know,” and the expression in my eyes, my mother
frequently told me afterwards, was such that she trembled a long time
for my reason.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER.]

I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything except
the catechism and Scripture, and I wanted to be a nun.

My mother begged to have my two sisters baptized with me; Jeanne, who
was then six years old, and Régina, who was not three, but who had been
taken as a boarder at the convent, with the idea that her presence might
cheer me a little.

I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week afterwards,
as I was to be confirmed the week after my baptism.

My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt, and Aunt Henriette Faure, my godfather,
Regis Lavallée, M. Lesprin, Jeanne’s godfather, and General Polès,
Régina’s godfather, the godmothers of my two sisters, and my various
cousins all came and revolutionized the convent. My mother and my aunts
were in fashionable mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray of
lilac in her bonnet “to enliven her mourning,” as she said. It was a
strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by other
people besides her.

I had never before felt so far away from all these people who had come
there on my account. I adored my mother, but with a touching and fervent
desire to leave her, never to see her again, to sacrifice her to God. As
to the others I did not see them. I was very grave and rather moody. A
short time previously a nun had taken the veil at the convent and I
could think of nothing else.

This baptismal ceremony was the prelude to my dream. I could see myself
like the novice who had just been admitted as a nun. I pictured myself
lying down on the ground, covered over with a heavy, black cloth, with
its white cross, and four massive candlesticks placed at the four
corners of the cloth. And I planned to die under this cloth. How I was
to do this I did not know. I did not think of killing myself, as I knew
that would be a crime. But I made up my mind to die like this, and my
ideas galloped along so that I saw in my imagination the horror of the
Sisters and heard the cries of the pupils and was delighted at the
emotion which I had caused.

After the baptismal ceremony my mother wished to take me away with her.
She had rented a small house with a garden in the Boulevard de la Reine,
at Versailles, for my holidays, and she had decorated it with flowers
for this fête day, as she wanted to celebrate the baptism of her three
children. She was very gently told that, as I was to be confirmed in a
week’s time, I was not to be isolated until then. My mother cried, and I
can remember now, to my sorrow, that it did not make me sad to see her
tears, but quite the contrary.

When everyone had gone and I went into the little cell, in which I had
been living for the last week and was to live for another week, I fell
on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered up to God my mother’s
sorrow.

“You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried and that it did not affect me.”
Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild exaggeration of everything
that what was expected from me was the renunciation of all affection,
devotion, and pity.

The following day, Mother Ste. Sophie lectured me gently about my wrong
comprehension of religious duties, and she told me that when once I was
confirmed she should give me a fortnight’s holiday, to go and make my
mother forget her sorrow and disappointment.

My confirmation took place with the same pompous ceremonial. All the
pupils, dressed in white, carried wax tapers. For the whole week I had
refused to eat. I was pale and had grown thinner and my eyes looked
larger from my perpetual transports, for I went to extremes in
everything.

Baron Larrey, who came with my mother to my confirmation, begged for me
to have a month’s holiday to recruit, and this was accorded.

Accordingly we started, my mother, Mme. Guérard, her son Ernest, my
sister Jeanne and I, for Cauterets in the Pyrénées.

The movement, the packing of the trunks, parcels, and packages, the
railway, the diligence, the scenery, the crowds, and the general
disturbance cured me and my nerves and my mysticism. I clapped my hands,
laughed aloud, flung myself on mamma and nearly stifled her with kisses.
I sang hymns at the top of my voice, I was hungry and thirsty, so I ate,
drank, and in a word, lived.

CHAPTER III
A PRANK AND ITS RESULTS

Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It was an abominable but
charming little hole of a place with plenty of verdure, very few houses,
and a great many huts belonging to the mountain people. There were
plenty of donkeys to be hired that took us up the mountains by
extraordinary paths. I adore the sea and the plain, but I care neither
for mountains nor for forests. Mountains seem to crush me, and forests
to stifle me. I must, at any cost, have the horizon stretching out as
far as the eye can see, and skies to dream about.

I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose their crushing
effect. And consequently we went up always higher and higher. Mamma used
to stay at home with her sweet friend Mme. Guérard. She used to read
novels while Mme. Guérard embroidered. They would sit there together
without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it fade away and
beginning it over again. The old servant Marguerite was the only
domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used to accompany us, and
was always gay and daring. She always knew how to make the men laugh
with speeches, the sense and crudeness of which I did not understand
until much later. She was the life of the party always. As she had been
with us from the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes
objectionably so. I would not let her have her own way with me, though,
and I used to answer her back in the most cutting manner. She would take
her revenge in the evening by giving us a dish of sweets for dinner that
I did not like.

I began to look better for the change, and although still very
religious, my mysticism was growing calmer. As I could not exist,
however, without a passion of some kind I began to get very fond of the
goats, and I asked mamma quite seriously whether I might become a
goat-herd.

“I would rather you were that than a nun,” she replied, and then she
added: “We will talk about it later on.”

Every day I brought down with me from the mountain another little kid,
and we already had seven when my mother interfered and put a stop to my
zeal.

Finally it was time to return to the convent. My holiday was over and I
was quite well again. I was to go back to work once more. I accepted the
situation willingly to the great surprise of mamma, who loved traveling,
but detested the actual moving from one place to another.

I was delighted at the idea of the repacking of the parcels and trunks,
of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing again all the
villages, towns, people, and trees that changed all the time. I wanted
to take my goats with me but my mother very positively refused.

“You are mad,” she exclaimed, “seven goats in a train and in a carriage!
Where could you put them? No, a hundred times no!”

She finally consented to my taking two of them and a blackbird that one
of the mountaineers had given me.

And so we returned to the convent. I was received there with such
sincere joy that I felt very happy again immediately. I was allowed to
keep my two goats there and to have them out at playtime. We had great
fun with them; they used to bunt us and we used to bunt them, and we
laughed, frolicked, and were very foolish. And yet I was nearly fourteen
at this time, but very puny and childish.

I stayed at the convent another ten months without learning anything
more. The idea of becoming a nun always haunted me, but I was no longer
a mystic.

My godfather looked upon me as the greatest dunce. I worked, though,
during the holidays and I used to have lessons with Sophie Croizette who
lived near to our country house. This gave a slight impetus to me in my
studies, but it was only slight. Sophie was very gay, and what we liked
best was to go to the Museum where her sister Pauline, who was later on
to become Mme. Carolus Duran, was copying pictures by the great masters.

Pauline was as cold and calm as Sophie was charming, talkative, and
noisy. Pauline Croizette was beautiful, but I liked Sophie better; she
was more gracious and pretty. Mme. Croizette, their mother, always
seemed sad and resigned. She had given up her career very early. She had
been a dancer at the Opera in St. Petersburg and had been very much
adored and flattered and spoiled. I fancy it was the birth of Sophie
that had compelled her to leave the stage. Her money then had been
injudiciously invested and she had been ruined. She was very
distinguished-looking, her face had a kind expression, there was an
infinite melancholy about her and people were instinctively drawn toward
her. Mamma had made her acquaintance while listening to the music in the
park at Versailles, and for some time we saw a great deal of her.

Sophie and I had some fine games in that magnificent park. Our greatest
joy, though, was to go to Mme. Masson’s in the Rue de la Gare. Mme.
Masson had a curiosity shop. Her daughter Cécile was a perfect little
beauty. We three used to delight in changing the tickets on the vases,
snuffboxes, fans, and jewels, and then, when poor M. Masson came back
with a rich customer—for Masson, the antiquary, enjoyed a world-wide
reputation—Sophie and I used to hide so that we should see his fury.
Cécile, with an innocent air, would be helping her mother and glancing
slyly at us from time to time.

The whirl of life separated me brusquely from all these people whom I
loved, and an incident, trivial in itself, caused me to leave the
convent earlier than my mother wished.

It was a fête day and we had two hours for recreation. We were marching
in procession along the wall which skirts the railway on the left bank
of the Seine and as we were burying my pet lizard we were chanting the
“De Profundis.” About twenty of my little playfellows were following me,
when suddenly a soldier’s cap fell at my feet.

“What’s that?” called out one of the girls.

“A soldier’s cap.”

“Did it come from over the wall?”

“Yes, yes.... Listen, there’s a quarrel going on!”

We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.

“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic!”

“It’s the Grandchamps Convent!”

“How am I to get my cap back?”

These were the words we overheard and then, as a soldier suddenly
appeared astride our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified
children and angry exclamations from the nuns.

In a second we were all about twenty yards away from the wall, like a
group of frightened sparrows flying off to land a little farther away,
inquisitive and very much on the alert. “Have you seen my cap, young
ladies?” called out the unfortunate soldier in a beseeching tone.

“No, no!” I cried, hiding it behind my back.

“Oh, no!” echoed the other girls with peals of laughter, and in the most
tormenting, insolent, jeering way we continued shouting “No!” “No!”
running backward all the time in reply to the Sisters who, veiled and
hidden behind the trees, were in despair.

We were only a few yards from the huge gymnasium. I climbed up
breathless at full speed and reached the wide plank at the top. When
there, I unfastened the rope ladder, but as I could not get the wooden
ladder up to me by which I had mounted, I unfastened the rings and
banged it down so that it broke, making a great noise. I then stood up
wickedly triumphant on the plank, calling out: “Here it is—your cap, but
you won’t get it now!” I put it on my head and walked up and down, as no
one could get to me there. I suppose my first idea had just been to have
a little fun, but the girls had laughed and clapped, and my strength had
held out better than I had hoped, so that my head was turned, and
nothing could stop me then.

The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the wall and rushed
in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way. The Sisters, beside
themselves, ran to the house calling for help. The chaplain, the Mother
Superior, Père Larcher and everyone else came running out. I believe the
soldier swore like a trooper, and it was really quite excusable. Mother
Ste. Sophie, from below, besought me to come down and to give up the
cap. The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze, but on
seeing this I quickly drew up the knotted rope.

His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the Sisters had in
vain tried to send away. Finally the Sister who was doorkeeper sounded
the alarm bell, and five minutes later the soldiers from the Sartory
Barracks arrived, thinking that a fire had broken out. When the officer
in command was told what was the matter, he sent back his men and asked
to see the Mother Superior. He was brought to Mother Ste. Sophie, whom
he found at the foot of the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence.
He ordered the soldier to return immediately to the barracks. He obeyed
after clenching his fist at me, but on looking up he could not help
laughing. His cap came down to my eyes and was only kept back by my
ears, which were bent, to prevent it from covering my face.

I was furious and wildly excited with the turn my joke had taken.

“There it is—your cap!” I called out, and flung it violently over the
wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the boundary to the
cemetery.

“Oh, the young plague!” muttered the officer, and then, apologizing to
the nuns, he saluted them and went away accompanied by Père Larcher.

As for me I felt like a fox after having its tail cut. I refused to come
down immediately.

“I shall come down when everyone has gone away,” I announced. All the
girls received punishments and I was left alone. The sun set and the
silence then terrified me, looking as I did out on the cemetery. The
dark trees took mournful or threatening shapes. The moisture from the
wood fell like a mantle over my shoulders and seemed to get heavier
every moment. I felt abandoned by everyone and I began to cry. I was
angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother Ste. Sophie, with the
pupils who had excited me by their laughter, with the officer who had
humiliated me, and with the Sister who had sounded the alarm bell.

Then I began to think about getting down the rope ladder, which I had
pulled up on the plank. Very clumsily, trembling with fear at the least
sound, listening eagerly all the time, and with eyes looking to the
right and left, I was a long time unhooking it, being very much afraid.
Finally, I managed to unroll it, and I was just about to put my foot on
the first rung when the barking of César alarmed me. He was tearing
along from the wood. The sight of the dark figure on the gymnasium
appeared to the faithful dog to bode no good. He was furious and began
to scratch the thick wooden uprights.

“Why, César, don’t you know your friend?” I said very gently. He growled
in reply and in a louder voice I said:

“Fie, César, bad César, you ought to be ashamed! Fancy barking at your
friend!” He now began to howl and I was seized with terror. I pulled the
ladder up again and sat down at the top. César lay down at the bottom of
the gymnasium, his tail straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat
bristling, growling in a sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to
help me. I prayed fervently, vowed to say three _Aves_, three _Credos_,
and three _Paters_ as well every day.

When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice: “César! my
dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am the _Angel Raphael_!”

Ah, much César cared for him! He considered my presence, quite alone, at
so late an hour, in the garden and on the gymnasium, quite
incomprehensible. Why was I not in the refectory?

Poor César, he went on growling, and I was getting very hungry and began
to think things were most unjust. It was true that I had been to blame
for taking the soldier’s cap, but after all he had begun it all. Why had
he thrown his cap over the wall? My imagination now came to my aid, and
in the end I began to look upon myself as a martyr. I had been left to
the dog, and he would eat me. I was terrified at the dead people behind
me, and everyone knew I was very nervous. My chest, too, was delicate,
and there I was exposed to the biting cold with no protection whatever.
I began to think about Mother Ste. Sophie, who evidently no longer cared
for me, as she was deserting me so cruelly. I lay with my face downward
on the plank, and gave myself up to the wildest despair, calling my
mother, my father, and Mother Ste. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die
there and then; between my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by a
gentle voice. I got up, and peering through the gloom, caught a glimpse
of my beloved Mother Ste. Sophie. She was there, the dear saint, and had
never left her rebellious child. Concealed behind the statue of St.
Augustine, she had been praying while awaiting the end of this crisis,
which in her simplicity she had believed might prove fatal to my reason
and perhaps to my salvation. She had sent everyone away and remained
there alone and she, too, had not dined. I came down and threw myself
repentant and wretched into her motherly arms. She did not say a word to
me about the horrible incident, but took me quickly back to the convent.
I was all damp, with the icy evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and
my hands and feet frozen.

I had an attack of pleurisy after this and was twenty-three days between
life and death. Mother Ste. Sophie never left me an instant. The sweet
Mother blamed herself for my illness, declaring as she beat her breast
that she had left me outside too long.

“It’s my fault! It’s my fault!” she kept exclaiming.

My Aunt Faure came to see me nearly every day. My mother was in Scotland
and came back by short stages. My Aunt Rosine was at Baden-Baden and was
ruining the whole family. “I am coming back,” she kept writing from time
to time, when she wrote to ask how I was. Dr. D’Espagne and Dr. Monod,
who had been called in for a consultation, did not think there was any
hope. Baron Larrey, who was very fond of me, came often. He had a
certain influence over me and I willingly obeyed him. My mother arrived
a short time before my convalescence and did not leave me again. As soon
as I could be moved she took me to Paris, promising to send me back to
the convent as soon as I was quite well.

It was forever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but it was not
forever that I left Mother Ste. Sophie. I seemed to take something of
her away with me. For a long time she made part of my life and even
to-day, when she has been dead for years, the recollection of her brings
back to me the simple thoughts of former days and makes the flowers of
youth to bloom again.

Life for me now began in earnest. Cloister existence is one of unbroken
sameness for all. There may be a hundred or a thousand individuals
there, but everyone lives a life which is the same and the only one for
all. The rumor of the outside world dies away at the heavy cloister
gate. The sole ambition is to sing more loudly than the others at
Vespers, to take a little more of the form, to be at the end of the
table, to be on the list of honor. When I was told that I was not to go
back to the convent, it was to me as though I was to be thrown into the
sea when I could not swim.

I besought my godfather to let me go back. The dowry left to me by my
father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I wanted to take the
veil.

“Very well,” replied my godfather, “you can take the veil in two years’
time, but not before. In the mean time learn all that you do not yet
know, and that means everything, from the governess your mother has
chosen for you.”

That very day an elderly, unmarried lady with soft, gray, gentle eyes
came and took possession of my life, my mind, and my conscience for
eight hours every day. Her name was Mlle. De Brabender and she had
educated a grand duchess in Russia. She had a sweet voice, an enormous
sandy mustache, a grotesque nose, but a way of walking, of expressing
herself, and of bowing which simply commanded all deference. She lived
at the convent in Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and this was why in spite
of my mother’s entreaties she refused to come and live with us.

She soon won my affection and I learned quite easily with her everything
that she wanted me to learn. I worked eagerly, for my dream was to
return to the convent, not as a pupil but as a teaching Sister.

CHAPTER IV
IN FAMILY COUNCIL ASSEMBLED

I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with some remote joy. It
was eight o’clock. I pressed my forehead against the windowpanes and
gazed out, looking at I know not what. I had been roused with a start in
the midst of some fine dream, and I had rushed toward the light in the
hope of finding in the infinite space of the gray sky the luminous point
that would explain my anxious and blissful expectation. Expectation of
what? I could not have answered that question then, any more than I can
now, after much reflection. I was on the eve of my fifteenth birthday
and I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That
particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new era. I was
not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was settled for me.

Hypnotized by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my
forehead pressed against the windowpane, gazing, through the halo of
vapor formed by my breath, at houses, palaces, carriages, jewels, and
pearls passing along in front of me. Oh, what a number of pearls there
were! There were princes and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings!
Oh, how fast one’s imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always
allows it to roam on alone! In my fancy, I proudly rejected the princes,
I rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared
that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite gray sky I had caught
a glimpse of the convent of Grandchamps, of my white bedroom, and of the
small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin all decorated
with flowers. The king offered me a throne, but I preferred the throne
of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague ambition to occupy it
some far-off day in the distant future; the king was heartbroken, and
dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu_! I preferred to the pearls that were
offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I was telling with my
fingers, and no costume could compete in my mind with the black _barège_
veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy white cambric that
encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of Grandchamps.

I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I heard my mother’s
voice asking our old servant, Marguerite, if I were awake. With one
bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the sheet. Mamma
half opened the door very gently and I pretended to wake up.

“How lazy you are to-day!” she said.

I kissed her and answered in a coaxing tone:

“It is Thursday and I have no music lesson.”

“And are you glad?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” I replied promptly.

My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano. She was so
fond of music, that although she was then about thirty, she took lessons
herself in order to encourage me to practice. What horrible torture it
was! I used, very wickedly, to do my utmost to set my mother and my
music mistress at variance. They were both of them as shortsighted as
possible. When my mother had practiced a new piece three or four days
she knew it by heart, and played it fairly well, to the astonishment of
Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held the music in her
hand and read every note with her nose nearly touching the page. One day
I heard with joy a quarrel beginning between mamma and this disagreeable
Mlle. Clarisse.

“There, that’s a quaver!”

“No, there’s no quaver!”

“This is a flat!”

“No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are, mademoiselle,” added my
mother, perfectly furious.

A few minutes later my mother went to her room and Mlle. Clarisse
departed, muttering as she left.

As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bedroom, for one of my
cousins, who was a good musician, had helped me to add sharps, flats,
and quavers, and we had done it with such care that even a trained eye
would have had difficulty in discerning the fraud immediately. As Mile.
Clarisse had been sent off, I had no lesson that day. Mamma gazed at me
a long time with her mysterious eyes, the most beautiful eyes I have
ever seen in my life, and then she said, speaking very slowly:

“After luncheon there is to be a family council.”

I felt myself turning pale.

“All right,” I answered, “what frock am I to put on, mamma?” I said this
merely for the sake of saying something, and to keep myself from crying.

“Put your blue silk on, you look more staid in that.”

Just at this moment, my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously and
with a burst of laughter jumped on my bed and slipping under the sheets
called out: “I’m there!”

Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and scolding. The
child had escaped from her just as she was about to bathe her and had
announced that she was going into my bed. Jeanne’s mirth at this moment,
which I felt was a very serious one for me, made me burst out crying and
sobbing. My mother, not understanding the reason of this grief, shrugged
her shoulders, told Marguerite to fetch Jeanne’s slippers, and taking
the little bare feet in her hands, kissed them tenderly.

I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that mamma loved
my sister more than me, and this preference, which did not trouble me
ordinarily, hurt me sorely now.

Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. I fell asleep, in order
to forget, and was roused by Marguerite who helped me to dress, as
otherwise I should have been late for luncheon. The guests that day were
Aunt Rosine, Mlle. De Brabender, my governess, a charming creature whom
I have always regretted, my godfather, and the Duc de Morny, a great
friend of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was a mournful
meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the family council.
Mlle. De Brabender, in her gentle way, and with her affectionate words,
insisted on my eating. My sister burst out laughing when she looked at
me.

“Your eyes are as little as that,” she said, putting her small thumb on
the tip of her forefinger, “and it serves you right, because you’ve been
crying, and mamma doesn’t like anyone to cry—do you, mamma?”

“What have you been crying about?” asked the Duc de Morny.

I did not answer in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. De Brabender gave
me with her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He
was gentle and kind but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he
occupied a high place at court, and that my family considered his
friendship a great honor.

“Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a family council
on her behalf,” said my mother, speaking slowly. “At times it seems to
me that she is quite idiotic. She quite disheartens me.”

“Come, come!” exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in
English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his fine
mustache. Mlle. De Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her
scoldings were like words from heaven. When at last luncheon was over,
mamma told me, as she passed, to pour the coffee. Marguerite helped me
to arrange the cups and I went into the drawing-room. Maître G——, the
notary from Hâvre, whom I detested, was already there. He represented
the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a way which had never
been explained, but which seemed mysterious. My childish hatred was
instinctive and I learned later on that this man had been my father’s
bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly, this notary; his whole face seemed
to have moved up higher. It was as though he had been hanging by his
hair for a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, and his nose
had got into the habit of trying to reach the back of his head. He ought
to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his features turned up,
but instead of this his face was smooth and sinister-looking. He had red
hair planted on his head like couch grass and on his nose he wore a pair
of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the horrible man! What a torturing
nightmare the very memory of him is, for he was the evil genius of my
father, and his hatred now pursued me. My poor grandmother, since the
death of my father, never went out, but spent her time mourning the loss
of her beloved son who had died so young. She had absolute faith in this
man, who, besides, was the executor of my father’s will. He had the
control of the money that my dear father had left me. I was not to touch
it until the day of my marriage, but my mother was to use the interest
for my education.

My uncle Félix Faure was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried
in an armchair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He
was an old friend of the family, and he always called me “_ma fille_,”
which annoyed me greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me
stupid, and when I handed him his coffee, he said in a jeering tone:

“And is it for you, _ma fille_, that so many honest people have been
hindered in their work? We have plenty of other things to attend to, I
can assure you, than to discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah,
if it had been her sister, there would have been no difficulty!” and
with his benumbed fingers he patted Jeanne’s head as she remained on the
floor plaiting the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated.

When the coffee was taken, the cups carried away, and my sister also,
there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but
my mother begged him to stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she
urged, and the duke took his seat again near my aunt with whom it seemed
to me he was carrying on a slight flirtation.

Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of
her, and her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing to advantage against
the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was
about to be discussed. The hideous notary was standing up by the
chimney-piece, and my uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis
seemed to be the exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had
the same _bourgeois_ mind and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They
were both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I
was thin enough for a scarecrow.

The door opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a most
poetical-looking and charming creature. It was Mme. Guérard, “the lady
of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always called her. My mother had
made friends with her in rather a patronizing way certainly, but Mme.
Guérard was devoted to me and endured the little slights to which she
was treated, very patiently, for my sake. She was tall and slender as a
lath, very compliant and demure. She had come down without a hat; she
was wearing an indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown
leaves.

M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable
notary made a very curt bow to Mme. Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very
gracious, for the newcomer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his
head, as Mme. Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her
from head to foot. Mlle. De Brabender shook hands cordially with her,
for Mme. Guérard was fond of me. My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a
chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in a kindly way
about her husband, a savant, with whom my uncle collaborated sometimes
for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”

Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for
Mme. Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.

“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my
godfather, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done with her.”

I began to tremble and drew closer to Mlle. De Brabender, and to “_ma
petite dame_,” as I had always called Mme. Guérard from my infancy. They
each took my hand by way of encouraging me.

“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh, “it appears you want to be a
nun.”

“Ah, indeed?” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.

“Sh....” she retorted with a laugh. Mamma sighed and held her wools up
close to her eyes to match them.

“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre
notary, “and you have not a sou.”

I leaned toward Mlle. De Brabender, and whispered: “I have the money
that papa left.”

The horrid man overheard.

“Your father left some money to get you married,” he said.

“Well, then, I’ll marry the _Bon Dieu_,” I answered, and my voice was
quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my
life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had
no more fear, as everyone had gone too far and provoked me too much. I
slipped away from my two kind friends, and advanced toward the other
group.

“I will be a nun, I will!” I exclaimed. “I know that papa left me some
money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the
Saviour. Mamma says she does not care; it is all the same to her, so
that it won’t be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the
convent than you do here!”

“My dear child,” said my uncle, drawing me toward him, “your religious
vocation appears to me to be more a wish to love.”

“And to be loved,” murmured Mme. Guérard, in a very low voice.

Everyone glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders slightly. It
seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful
one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her, and
throwing my arms round her neck said:

“You don’t mind my being a nun, do you? It won’t make you unhappy, will
it?”

Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.

“Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that after your
sister, I love you better than anyone else in the world.”

She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a
little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the
mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in
volume, with the thawed snow, until it sweeps along rocks and trees in
its course. This was the effect my mother’s clear, drawling voice had
upon me at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who
were all speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of
confidence. I went from one to the other, explaining my decision, and
giving reasons which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost
to get someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was
bored, and rose to go.

“Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he said. “You ought
to send her to the _Conservatoire_.” He then patted my cheek, kissed my
aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother’s
hand, I heard him say to her: “You would have made a bad diplomatist,
but take my advice, and send her to the _Conservatoire_.”

He then took his departure and I gazed at everyone in perfect anguish.

The _Conservatoire_! What was it? What did it mean?

I went up to my governess, Mlle. De Brabender. Her lips were firmly
pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when
my godfather told some story that she did not approve of, at table. My
uncle, Félix Faure, was looking at the floor in an absent-minded way;
the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in
a very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and
muttering: “Perhaps ... yes.... Who knows?... Hum ... hum...!” Mme.
Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite
tenderness.

What could be this _Conservatoire_? The word uttered so carelessly
seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each
one of them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but
none looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment
my godfather exclaimed brutally:

“She is too thin to make an actress.”

“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 Appoline told me that what she did was killing her, for
she was an actress, and so I won’t be an actress, I won’t.”

I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my voice
hard.

I remembered all that Sister Appoline had told me, and Mother Ste.
Sophie, too. I remembered, also, that when Rachel had gone out of the
garden, looking very pale, and holding a lady’s arm for support, a
little girl had put her tongue out at her. I did not want people to put
out their tongues at me when I was grown up.

_Conservatoire!_ That word alarmed me. The duke had wanted me to be an
actress and he had now gone away so that I could not talk things over
with him. He went away smiling and tranquil, after caressing me in the
usual friendly way. He had gone—caring little about the scraggy child
whose future had been discussed.

“Send her to the _Conservatoire_!”

That sentence uttered so carelessly had come like a bomb into my life.
I, the dreamy child, who that morning was ready to repulse princes and
kings; I, whose trembling fingers had that morning told over chaplets of
dreams, who only a few hours ago had felt my heart beating with emotion
hitherto unknown to me; I, who had got up expecting some great event to
take place, was to see everything disappear, thanks to that phrase as
heavy as lead and as deadly as a bullet: “Send her to the
_Conservatoire_!”

And I divined that this phrase was to be the signpost of my life. All
those people had gathered together at the turning of the crossroads.
“Send her to the _Conservatoire_!” I wanted to be a nun and this was
considered absurd, idiotic, unreasonable. “Send her to the
_Conservatoire_” had opened out a field for discussion, the horizon of
the future. My uncle, Félix Faure, and Mlle. Brabender were the only
ones against this idea. They tried in vain to make my mother understand
that with the hundred thousand francs that my father had left me I might
marry. But my mother had replied that I had declared I had a horror of
marriage, and that I should wait until I was of age to go into a
convent.

“Under these conditions,” she said, “Sarah will never have her father’s
money.”

“No, certainly not,” put in the notary.

“Then,” continued my mother, “she would enter the convent as a servant
and I will not have that! My money is an annuity, so that I cannot leave
anything to my children. I, therefore, want them to have a career of
their own.” My mother was now exhausted with so much talking and lay
back in an armchair. I got very much excited and my mother asked me to
go away.

Mlle. Brabender and Mme. Guérard were arguing in a low voice, and I
thought of the aristocratic man who had just left us. I was very angry
with him, for this idea of the _Conservatoire_ was his.

Mlle. Brabender tried to console me. Mme. Guérard said that this career
had its advantages. Mlle. Brabender considered that the convent would
have a great fascination for so dreamy a nature as mine. The latter was
very religious and a great churchgoer; “_ma petite dame_,” was a pagan
in the purest acceptation of that word, and yet the two women got on
very well together, thanks to their affectionate devotion to me.

Mme. Guérard adored the proud rebelliousness of my nature, my pretty
face, and the slenderness of my figure; Mlle. De Brabender was touched
by my delicate health. She endeavored to comfort me when I was jealous
for not being loved as much as my sister, but what she liked best about
me was my voice. She always declared that my voice was modulated for
prayers and my delight in the convent appeared to her quite natural. She
loved me with a gentle, pious affection, and Mme. Guérard loved me with
bursts of paganism. These two women, whose memory is still dear to me,
shared me between them and made the best of my good qualities and my
faults. I certainly owe to both of them this study of myself and the
vision I have of myself.

The day was destined to end in the strangest of fashions. Mme. Guérard
had gone back to her apartment upstairs and I was lying on a little
straw armchair which was the most ornamental piece of furniture in my
room. I felt very drowsy and was holding Mlle. De Brabender’s hand in
mine, when the door opened and my aunt entered, followed by my mother. I
can see them now, my aunt in her dress of puce silk trimmed with fur,
her brown velvet hat tied under her chin with long, wide strings, and
mamma, who had taken off her dress and put on a white woolen dressing
gown. She always detested keeping on her dress in the house, and I
understood by her change of costume that everyone else had gone, and
that my aunt was ready to leave. I got up from my armchair, but mamma
made me sit down again.

“Rest yourself thoroughly,” she said, “for we are going to take you to
the theater this evening, to the Français.” I felt sure that this was
just a bait and I would not show any sign of pleasure, although in my
heart I was delighted at the idea of going to the Français. The only
theater I knew anything of was the Robert Houdin, to which I was taken
sometimes with my sister, and I fancy that it was for her benefit we
went as I was really too old to care for that kind of performance.

“Will you come with us?” mamma said, turning to Mlle. De Brabender.

“Willingly, madame,” replied this dear creature. “I will go home and
change my dress.”

My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.

“Little fraud,” she said, as she went away, “you are hiding your
delight. Ah, well, you will see some actresses to-night!”

“Is Rachel going to act?” I asked.

“Oh, no, she is ill.”

My aunt kissed me and went away, saying she would see me again later on,
and my mother followed her out of the room. Mlle. De Brabender then
hurriedly prepared to leave me. She had to go home to dress and to tell
them that she would not be in until quite late, for, in her convent,
special permission had to be obtained when one wished to be out later
than ten at night. When I was alone I swung myself backward and forward
in my armchair which, by the way, was anything but a rocking-chair. I
began to think, and for the first time in my life my critical
comprehension came to my aid. And so all these serious people had been
inconvenienced, the notary fetched from Hâvre, my uncle dragged away
from working at his book, the old bachelor, M. Meydieu, disturbed in his
habits and customs, my godfather kept away from the Stock Exchange, and
that aristocratic and skeptical Duc de Morny cramped up for two hours in
the midst of our bourgeois surroundings, and all to end in this
decision: “_She shall be taken to the theater!_” I do not know what part
my uncle had taken in this burlesque plan, but I doubt whether it was to
his taste. All the same, I was glad to go to the theater; it made me
feel more important. That morning on waking up I was quite a child, and
now events had taken place which had transformed me into a young girl. I
had been discussed by everyone, and I had expressed my wishes, without
any result, certainly, but all the same I had expressed them, and now it
was deemed necessary to humor and indulge me in order to win me over.
They could not force me into agreeing to what they wanted me to do; my
consent was necessary, and I felt so joyful and so proud about it that I
was quite touched and almost ready to yield. However, I said to myself
that it would be better to hold my own and let them ask me again.

After dinner we all squeezed into a cab—mamma, my godfather, Mlle. De
Brabender, and I. My godfather made me a present of some white gloves.

On mounting the steps at the Théâtre Français I trod on a lady’s dress.
She turned round and called me a “stupid child.” I moved back hastily
and came into collision with a very stout old gentleman who gave me a
rough push forward.

When once we were all installed in a box facing the stage, mamma and I
in the first row with Mlle. De Brabender behind me, I felt more
reassured. I was close against the partition of the box, and I could
feel Mlle. De Brabender’s sharp knees through the velvet of my chair.
This gave me confidence, and I leaned against the back of the chair,
purposely to feel the support of those two knees.

When the curtain slowly rose, I thought I should have fainted. It was as
though the curtain of my future life were being raised. Those
columns—“Britannicus” was being played—were to be my palaces, the
friezes above were to be my skies, and those boards were to bend under
my frail weight. I heard nothing of “Britannicus,” for I was far, far
away, at Grandchamps in my dormitory there.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked my godfather, when the curtain
fell. I did not answer and he laid his hand on my head and turned my
face round toward him. I was crying, big tears rolling slowly down my
cheeks, those tears that come without any sobs and without any hope of
ever ceasing.

My godfather shrugged his shoulders, and getting up, left the box,
banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience with me,
proceeded to review the house through her opera glass, Mlle. De
Brabender passed me her handkerchief; my own had fallen down and I had
not the courage to pick it up.

* * * * *

The curtain had been raised for the second piece, “Amphytrion,” and I
made an effort to listen, for the sake of pleasing my governess, who was
so gentle and conciliating. I can only remember one thing, and that is
that _Alcinène_ seemed to me to be so unhappy that I burst into loud
sobs, and that the whole house, very much amused, looked at our box. My
mother, deeply annoyed, took me out, and Mlle. De Brabender went with
us. My godfather was furious, and muttered: “She ought to be shut up in
a convent and left there! Good Heavens, what a little idiot the child
is!”

This was the début of my artistic life!

CHAPTER V
I RECITE “THE TWO PIGEONS”

I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to
me from everywhere: Racine, Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne.... I
opened them, but as I did not understand them at all, I quickly closed
them again, and read my little La Fontaine, which I loved passionately.
I knew all his fables, and one of my delights was to make a bet with my
godfather or with M. Meydieu, our learned and tiresome friend. I used to
bet that they would not recognize all the fables, if I began with the
last verse and went backward to the first one, and I often won the bet.

A line from my aunt arrived one day, telling my mother that M. Auber,
who was then Director of the _Conservatoire_, was expecting us the next
day at nine in the morning. I was about to put my foot in the stirrup.
My mother sent me with Mme. Guérard. M. Auber received us very affably,
as the Duc de Morny had spoken to him of me. I was very much impressed
by him, with his refined face and white hair, his ivory complexion and
magnificent black eyes, his fragile and distinguished look, his
melodious voice and the celebrity of his name. I scarcely dared answer
his questions. He spoke to me very gently, and told me to sit down.

“You are very fond of the stage?” he began.

“Oh, no, monsieur!” I answered.

This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Mme. Guérard from under
his heavy eyelids, and she at once said:

“No, she does not care for the stage, but she does not want to marry,
and consequently she will have no money, as her father left her a
hundred thousand francs, which she can only have on her wedding-day. Her
mother, therefore, wants her to have some profession, for Mme. Bernhardt
only has an annuity, a fairly good one, but it is only an annuity, and
so she will not be able to leave her daughters anything. On that account
she wants Sarah to become independent. Sarah would like to enter a
convent.”

“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said M. Auber,
slowly. “How old is she?” he asked.

“Fourteen and a half,” replied Mme. Guérard.

“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.”

The kind old man smiled.

“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less about the
exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long
enough, he rose.

“It appears,” he said to Mme. Guérard, “that this little girl’s mother
is very beautiful?”

“Oh, very beautiful!” she replied.

“You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and
my thanks for having so thoughtfully sent you.” He thereupon kissed Mme.
Guérard’s hand, and she colored slightly.

This conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of
it, every movement and every gesture of M. Auber’s, for this little man,
so charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking
hand. He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said:

“Come, courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some
day for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad; life is well worth
beginning, seriously, but gayly.”

I stammered out a few words of thanks, and, just as I was making my
exit, a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She was heavy and
extremely bustling, though, and M. Auber bent his head toward me and
said quietly:

“Above all things don’t let yourself get stout like this singer.
Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an _artiste_.”

The manservant was now holding the door open for us, and, as M. Auber
returned to his visitor, I heard him say:

“Well, ... most ideal of women....”

I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in the carriage.
Mme. Guérard told my mother about our interview, but the latter did not
even let her finish, and only said: “Good, good; thank you.”

The examination was to take place a month after this visit. The
difficulty was to choose a piece for the examination. My mother did not
know any theatrical people. My godfather advised me to learn “Phèdre,”
but Mlle. De Brabender objected, as she thought it a little offensive,
and refused to help me if I chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend,
wanted me to work at _Chimène_, in “Le Cid,” but first he declared that
I clenched my teeth too much for it. It was quite true that I did not
make the O open enough, and did not roll the R sufficiently, either. He
wrote a little notebook for me, which I am copying exactly, as my poor,
dear Guérard kept religiously everything concerning me, and she gave me,
later on, a quantity of papers which are very useful now.

The following are my old friend’s instructions:

“Every morning instead of do ... re ... mi ... practice te ... de ...
de ... in order to learn to vibrate....

“Before breakfast repeat forty times over:
Un-très-gros-rat-dans-un-très-gros-trou—in order to vibrate the R.

“Before dinner repeat forty times: Combien ces six saucisses-ci? C’est
six sous, ces six saucisses-ci. Six sous ces six saucisses-ci? Six
sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-là; six sous ces six
saucisses-ci!—in order to learn not to whizz the S.

“At night when going to bed repeat twenty times: Didon, dina dit-on du
dos d’un dodu dindon.... And twenty times: Le plus petit papa petit
pipi petit popo petit pupu.... Open the mouth square for the D, and
pout for the P....”

He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. De Brabender, who
quite seriously wanted me to practice it. My governess was charming, and
I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when,
after making me go through the “te ... de ... de” exercise, which went
fairly well, and then the “très-gros-rat,” etc., she started on the
_saucisses_ (sausages). Ah, no, that was a cacophony of hisses in her
toothless mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl! And when she
began with the “Didon” ... accompanied by the “plus petit papa,” I
thought my dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her
eyes, her face was red, her mustache bristled up, she put on a
sententious, hurried manner, her mouth widened out and looked like the
slit in a money box, or else it was creased up into a little ring, and
she purred and hissed and chirped without ceasing. I flung myself
exhausted into my wicker-work chair, choking with laughter, and great
tears poured from my eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out
right and left until they were useless, and rocked myself backward and
forward, screaming with laughter.

My mother, attracted by the noise I was making, half opened the door.
Mlle. De Brabender explained to her very gravely that she was showing me
M. Meydieu’s method. My mother expostulated with me, but I would not
listen to anything, as I was nearly beside myself with laughter. She
then took Mlle. De Brabender away and left me alone, for she feared that
I would finish with hysterics. When once I was by myself, I began to
calm down. I closed my eyes and thought of my convent again. The “te ...
de ... de” got mixed up in my enervated brain with the “Our Father,”
which I used to have to repeat some days fifteen or twenty times as a
punishment. Finally, I came to myself again, got up, and, after bathing
my face in cold water, went to my mother, whom I found playing whist
with my governess and godfather. I kissed Mlle. De Brabender, and she
returned my kiss with such indulgent kindness that I felt quite
embarrassed by it.

Ten days passed by and I did none of M. Meydieu’s exercises, except the
“te ... de ... de” at the piano. My mother came and woke me every
morning for this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn
“Aricie,” but I understood nothing of what he told me about the verses.
He considered, and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an
intonation, and that the value must only be put on the rhyme. His
theories were boring to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I
could not understand _Aricie’s_ character, for it did not seem to me
that she loved _Hippolyte_ at all, and she appeared to me to be a
scheming flirt. My godfather explained to me that in olden times this
was the way people loved each other, and when I remarked that _Phèdre_
appeared to love in a better way than that, he took me by the chin, and
said:

“Just look at this naughty child. She is pretending not to understand,
and would like us to explain to her....”

This was simply idiotic. I did not understand, and had not asked
anything, but this man had a _bourgeois_ mind, and was sly and lewd. He
did not like me because I was thin, but he was interested in me because
I was going to be an actress. That word evoked for him the weak side of
our art. He did not see the beauty, the nobleness of it, nor yet its
beneficial power.

I could not fathom all this at that time, but I did not feel at ease
with this man, whom I had seen from my childhood, and who was almost
like a father to me. I did not want to continue learning “Aricie.” In
the first place, I could not talk about it with my governess, as she
would not discuss the piece at all.

I then learned the “Ecole des Femmes,” and Mlle. De Brabender explained
_Agnes_ to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole
story appeared to her of childlike simplicity, and when I said the
lines: “He has taken from me, he has taken from me the ribbon you gave
me,” she smiled in all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed
heartily.

Finally the examination day arrived. Everyone had given me advice, but
no one any really helpful counsel. It had not occurred to anyone that I
ought to have had a professional to prepare me for my examination. I got
up in the morning with a heavy heart and an anxious mind. My mother had
had a black silk dress made for me. It was slightly low-necked, and was
finished with a gathered bertha. The frock was rather short, and showed
my drawers. These were trimmed with embroidery, and came down to my
brown kid boots. A white guimpe emerged from my black bodice and was
fastened round my throat, which was too slender. My hair was parted on
my forehead, and then fell as it liked, for it was not held by pins or
ribbons. I wore a large straw hat, although the season was rather
advanced. Everyone came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and
round twenty times at least. I had to make my courtesy for everyone to
see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. My _petite dame_
came downstairs, with her grave husband, and kissed me. She was deeply
affected. Our old Marguerite made me sit down, and put before me a cup
of cold beef tea, which she had simmered so carefully for a long time
that it was then a delicious jelly, and I swallowed it in a second. I
was in a great hurry to start. On rising from my chair I moved so
brusquely that my dress caught on an invisible splinter of wood, and was
torn. My mother turned to a visitor who had arrived about five minutes
before, and had remained in contemplative admiration ever since.

“There,” she said to him in a vexed tone, “that is a proof of what I
told you. All your silks tear with the slightest movement.”

“Oh, no,” replied our visitor quickly, “I told you that this one was not
well ‘dressed,’ and let you have it at a low price on that account.”

The man who spoke was the most extraordinary individual imaginable. I do
not mean as regards his appearance, as he was like a not too ugly young
Jew. He was shy and a Dutchman; never violent, but tenacious. I had
known him from my childhood. His father, who was a friend of my
grandfather’s on my mother’s side, was a rich tradesman, and the father
of a tribe of children. He gave each of his sons a small sum of money,
and sent them all out to make their fortune where they liked. Jacques,
the one of whom I am speaking, came to Paris. He had commenced by
selling Passover cakes, and, as a boy, had often brought me some of them
to the convent, together with the dainties that my mother sent me. Later
on, my surprise was great on seeing him offer my mother rolls of
oilcloth such as is used for tablecloths for early breakfast. I remember
one of those cloths, the border of which was formed of medallions
representing the French kings. It was from that oilcloth that I learned
my history best. For the last month he had owned quite an elegant
vehicle, and he sold “silks that were not well dressed.” At present he
is one of the leading jewelers of Paris.

The slit in my dress was soon mended and, knowing now that the silk was
not well dressed, I treated it with respect. Finally we started—Mlle. De
Brabender, Mme. Guérard, and I in a carriage that was only intended for
two persons, and I was glad that it was so small, for I was close to two
people who were fond of me, and my silk frock was spread carefully over
their knees.

When I entered the waiting room that leads into the recital hall of the
_Conservatoire_, there were about twenty young men and about thirty
girls there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father,
aunt, brother, or sister. There was an odor of pomade and vanilla that
made me feel sick.

When we were shown into this room, I felt that everyone was looking at
me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Mme. Guérard drew me gently
along, and I turned to take Mlle. De Brabender’s hand. She came shyly
forward, blushing more, and still more confused than I was. Everyone
looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her
direction. One of them suddenly got up and moved across to her mother.

“Oh, mercy, look at that old sight!” she said.

My poor governess felt most uncomfortable, and I was furious. I thought
she was a thousand times nicer than all those fat, dressed-up,
common-looking mothers. Certainly she was different from other people in
her appearance, for Mlle. De Brabender was wearing a salmon-colored
dress, an Indian shawl drawn tightly across her shoulders, and fastened
with a very large cameo brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches so
close together that it looked like a nun’s headgear. She certainly was
not at all like these dreadful people in whose society we found
ourselves, and among whom there were not more than ten exceptions to the
rule. The young men were standing in compact groups near the windows.
They were laughing and, I suspect, making remarks in doubtful taste.

The heavy, red baize door opened, and a girl with a red face and a young
man perfectly scarlet came back after acting their scene. They each went
to their respective friends and then chattered away, finding fault with
each other. A name was called out—Mlle. Dica Petit—and I saw a tall,
fair, distinguished-looking girl move forward without any embarrassment.
She stopped on her way to kiss a pretty woman, stout, with a
pink-and-white complexion, and very much dressed up.

“Don’t be afraid, mother dear,” she said, and then she added a few words
in Dutch before disappearing, followed by a young man and a very thin
girl who were to give her her cues.

This was explained to me by Leautaud, who called over the names of the
pupils and took down the names of those who were to act and those who
were to give the cues. I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was
to give me the cues for _Agnes_. He mentioned several young men, but I
interrupted him.

“Oh, no,” I said, “I will not ask anyone. I do not know any of them, and
I will not ask.”

“Well, then, what will you recite, mademoiselle?” asked Leautaud, with
the most _outré_ accent possible.

“I will recite a fable,” I replied.

He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the title, “Deux
Pigeons,” which I gave him. I heard him still laughing under his heavy
mustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the
_Conservatoire_, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so that
Mme. Guérard was anxious about me, as my health, unfortunately, was very
delicate. She made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of _eau de
Cologne_ behind my ears.

“There, that will teach you to wink like that!” were the words I
suddenly heard, and a girl with the prettiest face imaginable had her
ears boxed soundly. Nathalie Mauvoy’s mother was correcting her
daughter. I sprang up, trembling with fright and indignation, and was as
angry as a young turkey cock. I wanted to go and box the horrible
woman’s ears in return, and then to kiss the pretty girl who had been
insulted in this way, but I was held back firmly by my two guardians.

Dica Petit now returned, and this caused a diversion in the waiting
room. She was radiant and quite satisfied with herself. Oh, very well
satisfied, indeed! Her father held out a little flask to her in which
was some kind of cordial, and I should have liked some of it, too, for
my mouth was dry and burning. Her mother then put a little woolen square
over her chest before fastening her coat for her, and then all three of
them went away. Several other girls and young men were called before my
turn came.

Finally, the call of my name made me jump as a sardine does when pursued
by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake my hair back, and my _petite
dame_ stroked my “badly dressed” silk. Mlle. De Brabender reminded me
about the O and the A, the R, the P, and the T, and I then went alone
into the hall. I had never been alone an hour in my life. As a little
child I was always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the convent I
was always with one of my friends or one of the Sisters; at home either
with Mlle. De Brabender or Mme. Guérard, or if they were not there, in
the kitchen with Marguerite. And now, there I was alone in that
strange-looking room, with a platform at the end, a large table in the
middle, and, seated round this table, men who either grumbled, growled,
or jeered. There was only one woman present, and she had a loud voice.
She was holding an eyeglass, and, as I entered, she dropped it and
looked at me through her opera glass. I felt everyone’s gaze on my back
as I climbed up the few steps to the platform. Leautaud bent forward and
whispered:

“Make your bow and commence, and then stop when the chairman rings.”

I looked at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I had forgotten
that he was Director of the _Conservatoire_, just as I had forgotten
everything else. I at once made my bow, and began:

“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant....”

A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a ventriloquist muttered:

“It isn’t an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting
fables!”

It was Beauvallet, the thundering tragedian of the Comédie Française. I
stopped short, my heart beating wildly.

“Go on, my child,” said a man with silvery hair. This was Provost.

“Yes, it won’t be as long as a scene from a play,” exclaimed Augustine
Brohan, the one woman present.

I began again:

“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant au logis....”

“Louder, my child, louder,” said a little man with curly white hair, in
a kindly tone. This was Samson. I stopped again, confused and
frightened, seized suddenly with such a foolish fit of nervousness that
I could have shouted or howled. Samson saw this, and said to me: “Come,
come, we are not ogres!” He had just been talking in a low voice with
Auber.

“Come, now, begin again,” he said, “and speak up.”

“Ah, no,” put in Augustine Brohan, “if she is to begin again, it will be
longer than a scene!” This speech made all the table laugh, and that
gave me time to recover myself. I thought all these people unkind to
laugh like this at the expense of a poor, little, trembling creature who
had been delivered over to them, bound hand and foot.

I felt, without exactly defining it, a slight contempt for these
pitiless judges. Since then I have very often thought of that trial of
mine, and I have come to the conclusion that individuals who are kind,
intelligent, and compassionate become less estimable when they are
together. The feeling of personal irresponsibility encourages their evil
instincts, and the fear of ridicule chases away their good ones.

When I had recovered my will power I began my fable again, determined
not to mind what happened. My voice was more liquid on account of
emotion, and the desire to make myself heard caused it to be more
resonant. There was silence, and before I had finished my fable the
little bell rang. I bowed, and came down the few steps from the platform
thoroughly exhausted. M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.

“Well, little girl,” he said, “that was very good indeed. M. Provost and
M. Beauvallet both want you in their class.”

I recoiled slightly when he told me which was M. Beauvallet, for he was
the “ventriloquist” who had given me such a fright.

“Well, which of these two gentlemen should you prefer?” he asked.

I did not utter a word, but pointed to M. Provost.

“Ah, well, that’s all right! Get your handkerchief out, my poor
Beauvallet, and I shall intrust this child to you, my dear Provost.”

It was only at that moment that I comprehended, and, wild with joy, I
exclaimed:

“Then I have passed?”

“Yes, you have passed, and there is only one thing I regret, and that is
that such a pretty voice should not be for music.”

I did not hear anything else, for I was beside myself with joy. I did
not stay to thank anyone, but bounded to the door.

“_Ma petite dame!_ Mademoiselle! I have passed!” I exclaimed, and when
they shook hands and asked me no end of questions I could only reply:

“Oh, it’s quite true—I have passed, I have passed!”

I was surrounded and questioned.

“How do you know that you have passed? No one knows beforehand.”

“Yes, yes, I know, though. M. Auber told me. I am to go into M.
Provost’s class. M. Beauvallet wanted me, but his voice is too loud for
me!”

A disagreeable girl exclaimed: “Can’t you stop that? And so they all
want you!”

A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came nearer and
asked me gently what I had recited.

“The fable of the ‘Two Pigeons,’” I replied.

She was surprised, and so was everyone; while, as for me, I was wildly
delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on my head, shook my
frock out, and dragging my two friends along, ran away dancing. They
wanted to take me to the confectioner’s to have something, but I
refused. We got into a cab, and I should have liked to push that cab
along myself. I fancied I saw the words “I have passed” written up over
all the shops. When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab had to
stand, it seemed to me that the people stared at me, and I caught myself
tossing my head as though telling them all that it was quite true I had
passed my examination. I never thought any more about the convent, and
only experienced a feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first
venturesome enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had depended only
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265
Rue St. Honoré. I kept putting my head out of the window and saying:
“Faster, cabby; faster, please!” At last we reached the house, and I
sprang out of the cab and hurried along to tell the good news to my
mother. On the way I was stopped by the daughter of the hall porter. She
was a staymaker, and worked in a little room on the top floor of the
house, the window of which was opposite our dining-room where I used to
do my lessons with my governess, so that I could not help seeing her
ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never spoken to her, but I knew
who she was.

“Well, Mlle. Sarah, are you satisfied?” she called out.

“Oh, yes, I have passed,” I answered, and I could not resist stopping a
minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I
then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand,
anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petite
dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting
to my mother who was leaning out of the window: “Yes, yes, she has
passed!” I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with
rage, for I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with
the joyful surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on
arriving at the door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I
felt sure she would say: “Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are
so foolish!” and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and
said: “It isn’t true, it isn’t true; I have passed!” I had pictured to
myself her face brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather
laughing heartily, and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Mme.
Guérard sounding her trumpet and spoiling all my effects that I had
prepared so well.

I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived (that is
the greater part of my life) spoiling all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I told a good
story and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I started on a story with
a very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh,
roll her eyes, and murmur: “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” so that I always missed
the effect I was counting on. Still more often, when anything was being
guessed and I asked people for the answer, she would reply before anyone
else, as she was always in my confidence, and I had perhaps told her the
answer a second before. All this used to exasperate me to such a degree
that, before beginning a story or a game, I used to ask her to go out of
the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of the
blunder she would make if there.

Furious, then, on this occasion, and abusing Mme. Guérard, I went
upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open door. She kissed me
affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked if I was not
satisfied.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I am furious with Guérard. Be nice, mamma, and
pretend you don’t know. Shut the door, and I will ring.”

She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my
mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived,
and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, “I
have passed!” everyone shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had made
my effect anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me unawares.

My sister Régina, whom the Sisters would not have in the convent and so
had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learned this in the country
when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every occasion she danced
it, finishing always with this couplet:

My little dear, rejoice,
Everything is for you....

Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child with her serious air.
Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played over
her thin lips and over her mouth, which was too small. Nothing could be
more comic than to see her, looking grave and rough, dancing the jig.
She was funnier than ever that day, as she was excited by the general
joy. She was four years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was
both timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, but if
made to go in the dining-room she embarrassed people by her crude
remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers and her kicks and
blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair, dark complexion,
blue eyes too large for her face, and thick lashes which made a shadow
on her cheeks when she lowered the lids, and joined her eyebrows when
her eyes were open. She would be four or five hours sometimes without
uttering a word, without answering any question she was asked, and then
she would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as she
could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good temper, for she
kissed me affectionately and opened her thin lips to smile. My sister
Jeanne kissed me, and made me tell her about my examination. My
godfather gave me a hundred francs, and M. Meydieu, who had just arrived
to find out the result, promised to take me the next day to
Barbédienne’s to choose a clock for my room, as that was one of my
dreams.

CHAPTER VI
I DECLINE MATRIMONY AND WED ART

The great change began in me from that day. For rather a long time,
indeed, my soul remained childlike, but my mind discerned life more
distinctly. I felt the need of creating a personality for myself. That
was the first awakening of my will. I wanted to be some one. Mlle. De
Brabender declared to me that this was pride. It seemed to me that it
was not quite that, but I could not then define what the sentiment was
which imposed this wish on me. I did not understand until a few months
later why I wished to be some one.

A friend of my godfather’s made me an offer of marriage. This man was a
rich tanner, and very kind, but so dark and with such long hair and such
a beard that he disgusted me. I refused him, and my godfather then asked
to speak to me alone. He made me sit down in my mother’s boudoir, and
said to me:

“My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse M. B——. He has sixty thousand
francs a year and expectations.”

It was the first time I had heard this use of the word, and when the
meaning was explained to me I wondered if that was the right thing to
say on such an occasion.

“Why, yes,” replied my godfather, “you are idiotic with your romantic
ideas. Marriage is a business affair, and must be considered as such.
Your future father and mother-in-law will have to die, just as we shall,
and it is by no means disagreeable to know that they will leave two
million francs to their son, and consequently to you, if you marry him.”

“I shall not marry him, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not love him.”

“But you never love your husband before—” replied my practical adviser.
“You can love him after.”

“After what?”

“Ask your mother. But listen to me now, for it is not a question of
that. You must marry. Your mother has a small income which your father
left her, but this income comes from the profits of the manufactory
which belongs to your grandmother, and she cannot bear your mother, who
will therefore lose that income, and then have nothing and three
children on her hands. It is that accursed lawyer who is arranging all
this. The whys and wherefores would take too long to explain. Your
father managed his business affairs very badly. You must marry,
therefore, if not for your own sake, for the sake of your mother and
sisters. You can then give your mother the hundred thousand francs your
father left you, which no one else can touch. M. B—— will allow you
three hundred thousand francs. I have arranged everything, so that you
can give this to your mother if you like, and with four hundred thousand
francs she will be able to live very well.”

I cried and sobbed, and asked to have time to think it over. I found my
mother in the dining-room.

“Has your godfather told you?” she asked gently, in rather a timid way.

“Yes, mother; yes, he has told me. Let me think it over, will you?” I
said, sobbing, as I kissed her neck lingeringly.

I then locked myself in my bedroom, and, for the first time for many
days, I regretted the separation from my convent. All my childhood rose
up before me, and I cried more and more, and felt so unhappy that I
wished I could die. Gradually, however, I began to get calm again and
realized what had happened, and what my godfather’s words meant. Most
decidedly I did not want to marry this man. Since I had been at the
_Conservatoire_, I had learned a few things vaguely, very vaguely, for I
was never alone, but I understood enough to make me not want to marry
without being in love. I was, however, destined to be attacked in a
quarter from which I should not have expected it. Mme. Guérard asked me
to go up to her room to see the embroidery she was doing on a frame for
my mother’s birthday.

My astonishment was great to find M. B—— there. He begged me to change
my mind. He made me very wretched, for he pleaded with tears in his
eyes.

“Do you want a larger marriage settlement?” he asked. “I would make it
five hundred thousand francs.”

But it was not that at all, and I said in a very low voice:

“I do not love you, monsieur.”

“If you do not marry me, mademoiselle,” he said, “I shall die of grief.”

I looked at him and repeated to myself the words, “die of grief.” I was
embarrassed and desperate, but at the same time delighted, for he loved
me just as a man does in a play. Phrases that I had read or heard came
to my mind vaguely, and I repeated them without any real conviction, and
then left him without the slightest coquetry.

M. B—— did not die. He is still living, and has a very important
financial position. He is much nicer now than when he was so black, for
at present he is quite white.

I had just passed my first examination with remarkable success,
particularly in tragedy. M. Provost, my professor, had not wanted me to
compete in “Zaïre,” but I had insisted. I thought that scene with
_Zaïre_ and her brother _Nivestan_ very fine, and it suited me. But when
_Zaïre_, overwhelmed with her brother’s reproaches, falls on her knees
at his feet, Provost wanted me to say the words, “Strike, I tell you! I
love him!” with violence, and I wanted to say them gently, perfectly
resigned to a death that was almost certain. I argued about it for a
long time with my professor, and finally I appeared to give in to him
during the lesson. But on the day of the competition I fell on my knees
before _Nerestan_ with a sob so real, my arms outstretched, offering my
heart so full of love to the deadly blow that I expected, and I murmured
with such tenderness, “Strike, I tell you! I love him!” that the whole
house burst into applause and demanded it twice over.

The second prize for tragedy was awarded me, to the great
dissatisfaction of the public, as it was thought that I ought to have
had the first prize. And yet it was only just that I should have the
second, on account of my age and the short time I had been studying. I
had a first _accessit_ for comedy in “La Fausse Agnes,” and Sarcey wrote
an article about it.

I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse M. B——. My future lay
open before me, and consequently my mother would not be in want if she
should lose her present income. A few days later, M. Régnier, professor
at the _Conservatoire_ and secretary of the Comédie Française, came to
ask my mother whether she would allow me to play in a piece of his at
the Vaudeville. The piece was “Germaine,” and the managers would give me
twenty-five francs for each performance. I was amazed at the sum! Seven
hundred and fifty francs a month for my first appearance! I was wild
with joy. I besought my mother to accept the offer made by the
Vaudeville, and she told me to do as I liked in the matter.

I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Beaux-Arts, to allow me to
recite something to him, and, as my mother always refused to accompany
me, Mme. Guérard went with me. My little sister, Régina, begged me to
take her, and very unwisely I consented. We had not been in the
director’s office more than five minutes before my sister, who was only
six years old, began to climb on the furniture. She jumped on a stool,
and finally sat down on the floor, pulling the paper basket, which was
under the desk, toward her, and proceeded to spread all the torn papers
which it contained about the room. On seeing this, Camille Doucet mildly
observed that she was not a very good little girl. My sister, with her
head in the basket, answered in her husky voice:

“If you bother me, monsieur, I shall tell everyone that you are there to
give out holy water that is poison—my aunt says so.”

My face turned purple with shame, and I stammered out:

“Please do not believe that, M. Doucet, my little sister is telling an
untruth.”

Régina sprang to her feet and, clenching her fists, rushed at me like a
little fury:

“Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You are telling the
untruth ... why, she said it to M. De Morny, and he answered....”

I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de Morny
answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand over my sister’s
mouth and took her quickly away. She howled like a wildcat, and we
rushed like a hurricane through the waiting room which was full of
people. I then gave way to one of those violent fits of temper to which
I had been subject in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that
passed the door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such
fury that Mme. Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her own body,
receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms, and feet, for in my
anger, rage, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My rage
was all the more profound from the fact that I was very fond of Camille
Doucet. He was gentle and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had
refused my aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being
refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing to do
with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet would think. And
then, too, I had not asked him about the Vaudeville.

All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this little monster,
who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who had just shattered my
hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self-willed
face, and her thin lips compressed, she was gazing at me under her long
lashes with half-closed eyes. On reaching home I told my mother all that
had happened, and she declared that my little sister should have no
dessert for two days. Régina was greedy, but her pride was greater than
her greediness. She turned round on her little heels and, dancing her
jig, began to sing, “My little stomach isn’ at all glad,” until I wanted
to rush at her and shake her.

A few days later, during my lessons, I was told that the Ministry
refused to allow me to act at the Vaudeville.

M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in kindly tone:

“Oh, but, my dear child, the _Conservatoire_ thinks a lot of you!
Therefore you need not worry too much.”

“I am sure that Camille Doucet is at the bottom of it,” I said.

“No, he certainly is not,” answered M. Régnier, “Camille Doucet was our
warmest advocate, but the Ministry will not, upon any account, hear of
anything that might be detrimental to your début next year.”

I at once felt most grateful to Camille Doucet for his kindness in
bearing no ill-will after my little sister’s stupid behavior. I began to
work again with the greatest zeal, and did not miss a single lesson.
Every morning I went to the _Conservatoire_ with my governess. We
started early, as I preferred walking to taking the omnibus, and I kept
the franc which my mother gave me every morning, part of which was for
the omnibus and part for cakes. We were to walk home always, but every
other day we took a cab with the two francs I had saved for this
purpose. My mother never knew about this little scheme, but it was not
without remorse that my kind Brabender consented to be my accomplice.

As I said before, I did not miss a lesson, and I even went to the
deportment class, at which poor old M. Elie, duly curled, powdered, and
adorned with lace frills, presided. This was the most amusing lesson
imaginable. Very few of us attended this class, and M. Elie avenged
himself on us for the abstention of the others. At every lesson each one
of us was called forward. He addressed us by the familiar term of
_thou_, and considered us as his property. There were only five or six
of us, but we each had to mount the stage. He always stood up with his
little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he should have this
stick.

[Illustration: LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE ET DE DECLAMATION,
PARIS.]

“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up,
on tiptoes—that’s it—perfect. One, two, three, march.”

And we marched along on tiptoes with heads up and eyelids drawn over our
eyes as we tried to look down in order to see where we were walking. We
marched along like this with all the stateliness and solemnity of
camels! He then taught us to make our exit with indifference, dignity,
or fury, and it was amusing to see us going toward the doors either with
a lagging step or in an animated or hurried way, according to the mood
in which we were supposed to be. Then we heard: “Enough! _Go!_ Not a
word!” for M. Elie would not allow us to murmur a single word.
“Everything,” he used to say, “is in the look, the gesture, the
attitude!” Then there was what he called “_l’assiette_,” which meant the
way to sit down in a dignified manner, to let oneself fall into a seat
wearily, or the “_assiette_,” which meant: “I am listening, monsieur;
say what you wish.” Ah, that was distractingly complicated, that way of
sitting down! We had to put everything into it: the desire to know what
was going to be said to us, the fear of hearing it, the determination to
go away, the will to stay. Oh, the tears that this “_assiette_” cost me!
Poor old M. Elie! I do not bear him any ill-will, but I did my utmost
later on to forget everything he had taught me, for nothing could have
been more useless than those deportment lessons. Every human being moves
about according to his or her proportions. Women who are too tall take
long strides, those who stoop walk like the Eastern women; stout women
walk like ducks, short-legged ones trot; very small women skip along,
and the gawky ones walk like cranes. Nothing can be done for them, and
the deportment class has very wisely been abolished. The gesture must
depict the thought, and it is harmonious or stupid, according to whether
the _artiste_ is intelligent or null. For the theater one needs long
arms; it is better to have them too long than too short. An _artiste_
with short arms can never, never make a fine gesture. It was all in vain
that poor Elie told us this or that. We were always stupid and awkward,
while he was always comic; oh, so comic, poor old man!

I also took fencing lessons. Aunt Rosine put this idea into my mother’s
head. I had a lesson once a week from the famous Pons. Oh, what a
terrible man he was! Brutal, rude, and always teasing, he was an
incomparable fencing master, but he disliked giving lessons to “brats”
like us, as he called us. He was not rich, though, and I believe, but am
not sure of it, that this class had been organized for him by a
distinguished patron of his. He always kept his hat on, and this
horrified Mlle. De Brabender. He smoked his cigar, too, all the time,
and this made his pupils cough, as they were already out of breath from
the fencing exercise. What torture those lessons were! He brought with
him sometimes friends of his who delighted in our awkwardness. This gave
rise to a scandal, as one day one of these gay spectators made a most
violent remark about one of the pupils named Châtelain, and the latter
turned round quickly and gave him a blow in the face. A skirmish
immediately occurred, and Pons, on endeavoring to intervene, received a
blow or two himself. This made a great stir, and from that day forth
visitors were not allowed to be present at the lesson. I persuaded my
mother to let me discontinue attending this class, and this was a great
relief to me.

I very much preferred Régnier’s lessons to any others. He was gentle,
had nice manners, and taught us to be natural in what we recited, but I
certainly owe all that I know to the variety of instruction which I had,
and which I followed up in the most devoted way.

Provost taught a broad style, with diction somewhat pompous but
sustained. He especially emphasized freedom of gesture and inflection.
Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything that was good. He had
a deep, effective voice, but that he could not give to anyone. It was an
admirable instrument, but it did not give him any talent. He was awkward
in his gestures, his arms were too short, and his face common. I
detested him as a professor.

Samson was just the opposite. His voice was not strong, but piercing. He
had a certain acquired distinction, but was very correct. His method was
simplicity. Provost emphasized breadth; Samson exactitude, and he was
very particular about the finals. He would not allow us to drop the
voice at the end of the phrase. Coquelin, who is one of Régnier’s
pupils, I believe, has a great deal of Samson’s style, although he has
retained the essentials of his first master’s teaching. As for me, I
remember my three professors, Régnier, Provost, and Samson, as though I
had heard them only yesterday.

The year passed by without any great change in my life, but two months
before my second examination I had the misfortune to have to change my
professor. Provost was taken ill, and I went in to Samson’s class. He
counted very much on me, but he was authoritative and persistent. He
gave me two very bad parts in two very bad pieces: _Hortense_, in
“L’Ecole des Vieillards,” by Casimir Delavigne, for comedy, and “La
Fille du Cid,” for tragedy. This piece was also by Casimir Delavigne. I
did not feel at all in my element in these two rôles, both of which were
written in hard, emphatic language.

The examination day arrived, and I did not look at all nice. My mother
had insisted on my having my hair done up by her hairdresser, and I had
cried and sobbed on seeing this “Figaro” make partings all over my head
in order to separate my rebellious mane. Idiot that he was, he had
suggested this style to my mother, and my head was in his stupid hands
for more than an hour and a half, for he never before had to deal with a
mane like mine. He kept mopping his forehead every five minutes, and
muttering: “What hair! Good heavens! it is horrible—just like tow! It
might be the hair of a white negress!” Turning to my mother, he
suggested that my head should be entirely shaved, and the hair then
trained as it grew again. “I will think about it,” replied my mother in
an absent-minded way. I turned my head so abruptly to look at her when
she said this that the curling irons burned my forehead. The man was
using the irons to _uncurl_ my hair. He considered that it curled
naturally in such a disordered style that he must get the natural curl
out of it and then wave it, as this would be more becoming to the face.

“Mademoiselle’s hair is stopped in its growth by this extreme curliness.
All the Tangiers girls and negresses have hair like this. As
mademoiselle is going on the stage, she would look better if she had
hair like madame,” he said, bowing with respectful admiration to my
mother, who certainly had the most beautiful hair imaginable. It was
fair and so long that, when standing up, she could tread on it and not
bend her head. It is only fair to say, though, that my mother was very
short.

Finally, I was out of the hands of this wretched man, and was nearly
dead with fright after an hour and a half’s brushing, combing, curling,
hairpinning, with my head turned from left to right and from right to
left. I was completely disfigured at the end of it all, and did not
recognize myself. My hair was drawn tightly back from my temples, my
ears were very visible and stood out, looking positively improper in
their nakedness, while on the top of my head was a parcel of little
sausages arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem.

I was perfectly hideous. My forehead, of which I caught a glimpse under
the golden mass of my hair, seemed to me immense, implacable. I did not
recognize my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them veiled by the shadow
of my hair. My head seemed to weigh two or three pounds. I was
accustomed to do my hair as I still do, with two hairpins, and this man
had put five or six packets in it. All this was heavy for my poor head.

I was late, and so I had to dress very quickly. I cried with anger, and
my eyes grew smaller, my nose larger, and my veins swelled. But it was
the climax when I had to put my hat on. It would not go on the pile of
sausages, and my mother wrapped my head up in a lace scarf and hurried
me to the door.

On arriving at the _Conservatoire_, I hurried with my _petite dame_ to
the waiting room, while my mother went direct to the hall. When once I
was in the waiting room I tore off the lace, and, seated on a bench,
after relating the Odyssey of my hairdressing, I gave my head up to my
companions. All of them adored and envied my hair, because it was so
soft and light and golden. All of them took pity on my sorrow, and were
touched by my ugliness. Their mothers, however, were spluttering in
their own fat with joy.

The girls began to take out my hairpins, and one of them, Marie Lloyd,
whom I liked best, took my head in her hands and kissed it
affectionately.

“Oh, your beautiful hair, what have they done to it!” she exclaimed,
pulling out the last of the hairpins. This sympathy made me once more
burst into tears.

Finally, I stood up triumphant, without any hairpins and without any
sausages. But my poor hair was heavy with the beef marrow the wretched
man had put on it, and it was full of the partings he had made for the
creation of the sausages. It fell now in mournful-looking, greasy flakes
around my face. I shook my head for five minutes in mad rage. I then
succeeded in making the hair more loose, and I put it up as well as I
could with a couple of hairpins.

The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth to be called. I could
not remember what I had to say. Mme. Guérard moistened my temples with
cold water, and Mlle. De Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not
recognize me, and was looking about for me everywhere. She had broken
her leg nearly three months ago, and had to support herself on a crutch,
but she had wished to come.

Mme. Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama of the hair
when my name echoed through the room. “Mlle. Chara Bernhardt!” It was
Leautaud, who later on was prompter at the Comédie Française, and who
had a strong Auvergne accent. “Mlle. Chara Bernhardt!” I heard again,
and I then sprang up without an idea in my mind and without uttering a
word. I looked round for the pupil who was to give me my answers, and
together we made our entry.

I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not recognize. I
had cried so much that it had affected my voice, and I spoke through my
nose.

I heard a woman’s voice say:

“Poor child, she ought not to have been allowed to compete; she has an
atrocious cold, her nose is running, and her face is swollen.”

I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the midst of very
feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a somnambulist, and on
reaching Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender fainted away in their arms.
Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumor that “the
little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was sitting far
back in a box bored to death.

When I came to myself again, I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s pretty
face, with tears hanging on her long lashes. I laid my head against hers
and cried quietly, but this time the tears were refreshing, not salt
ones that burned my eyelids.

I stood up, shook out my dress, and looked at myself in the greenish
mirror. I was certainly less ugly now, for my face was rested, my hair
was once more soft and light, and altogether there was a general
improvement in my appearance.

The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had
no recompense at all, but my last year’s second prize had been
mentioned. I felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment,
as I had quite expected things to be like this. Several persons had
protested in my favor. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had
argued a long time for me to have a first prize in spite of my bad
recitation. He said that my examination reports ought to be taken into
account, and they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class
reports. Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced that
day by my nasal voice, my swollen face, and my heavy flakes of hair.
After half an hour’s interval, during which I drank a glass of port wine
and ate cakes, the signal was given for the comedy competition. I was
down as the fourteenth for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My
fighting instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of
injustice made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize that day,
but it seemed to me that I ought to have received it nevertheless.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF HER COIFFEUR.]

I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for comedy, and with
the exaggeration that I have always put into everything, I began to get
excited, and I said to myself that if I did not have the first prize I
must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My love of mysticism and
weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever.

“Yes,” I said to myself, “I will go back to the convent, but only if I
do not get the first prize”; and then the most foolish, illogical strike
imaginable was waged in my weak, girl’s brain. I felt a genuine vocation
for the convent when distressed about losing the prize, and a genuine
vocation for the theater when I was hopeful about winning the prize.

With a very natural partiality I discovered in myself the gift of
absolute self-sacrifice, renunciation, and devotion of every
kind—qualities which would win for me easily the post of Mother Superior
in the Grandchamps Convent. Then with the most indulgent generosity I
attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the fulfillment of my
other dream, namely, to become the first, the most celebrated, and the
most envied of actresses. I counted on my fingers all my qualities:
gracefulness, charm, distinction, beauty, mystery, piquancy. Oh, yes, I
found I had all these, and when my reason and my honesty raised any
doubt or suggested a “but” to this fabulous inventory of my qualities,
my combative and paradoxical _ego_ at once found a plain decisive answer
which admitted of no further argument.

It was under these special conditions and in this frame of mind that I
went on to the stage when my turn came. The choice of my rôle for this
competition was a very stupid one. I had to represent a married woman
who was reasonable and given to reasoning, and I was a mere child, and
looked much younger than I was. In spite of this, I was very brilliant;
I argued well, was very gay, and had immense success. I was transfigured
with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt of a first prize.

I never doubted for a moment that it would be awarded to me unanimously.
When the competition was over, the committee met to discuss the awards,
and in the meantime I asked for something to eat. A cutlet was brought
from the pastry cook patronized by the _Conservatoire_, and I devoured
it, to the great joy of Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender, for I
detested meat, and always refused to eat it.

The members of the committee at last went to their places in the state
box, and there was silence in the hall. The young men were called first
on to the stage. There was no first prize awarded to them. Parfouru’s
name was called for the second prize for comedy. Parfouru is known
to-day as M. Paul Porel, director of the Vaudeville Theater, and
Réjane’s husband. After this came the turn for the girls.

I was in the doorway, ready to rush up to the stage. The words “first
prize for comedy” were uttered, and I made a step forward, pushing aside
a girl who was a head taller than I was. “First prize for comedy awarded
unanimously to Mlle. Marie Lloyd.” The tall girl I had pushed aside now
went forward, slender and beaming, toward the stage.

There were a few muttered protests, but her beauty, her distinction, and
her modest charm won the day with everyone, and Marie Lloyd was cheered.
She passed me on her return, and kissed me affectionately. We were great
friends, and I liked her very, much, but I considered her a nonentity as
a pupil. I do not remember whether she had received any prize the
previous year, but certainly no one expected her to have one now, and I
was simply petrified.

“Second prize for comedy: Mlle. Bernhardt.”

I had not heard this, and was pushed forward by my companions. On
reaching the stage I bowed, and all the time I could see hundreds of
Marie Lloyds dancing before me. Some of them were making grimaces,
others were throwing me kisses—some were fanning themselves and others
bowing. They were very tall, all these Marie Lloyds—too tall for the
ceiling, and they walked over the heads of all the people and came
toward me, crushing me, stifling me, so that I could not breathe. My
face, it seems, was whiter than my dress.

On returning to the green room, I sat down without uttering a word and
looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was greatly
complimented by everyone. She was wearing a pale blue tarlatan dress,
with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the bodice and another in her black
hair. She was very tall, and her delicate, white shoulders emerged
modestly from her dress, which was cut very low, as for her this did not
matter. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud expression, was
charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she had more womanly
charm than all of us. Her large brown eyes had a certain play in them,
her little round mouth gave a smile which was full of mischief, and the
nostrils of her wonderfully cut nose dilated. The oval of her beautiful
face was intercepted by two little pearly, transparent ears of the most
exquisite shape. She had a long, flexible white neck, and the pose of
her head was charming. It was a beauty prize that the jury had
conscientiously awarded to Marie Lloyd. She had come on the stage gay
and fascinating, in her rôle of _Célimène_, and in spite of the monotony
of her delivery, the carelessness of her elocution, the impersonality of
her acting, she had carried off all the votes because she was the very
personification of _Célimène_, that coquette of twenty years of age who
was unconsciously so cruel. She had realized for everyone the ideal
dreamed of by Molière.

All these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain, and this
first lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of great service to
me in my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd’s prize, and every time that
I had to create a rôle, the physical body of the character always
appeared before me dressed, with her hair done, walking, bowing, sitting
down, getting up. But this was only a vision which lasted a second, for
my mind always thought of the soul governing this personage. When
listening to an author reading his work, I tried to define the intention
of his idea, endeavoring to identify myself with that intention. I have
never played an author false with regard to his idea, and I have always
tried to represent the personage according to history, whenever it is a
historical personage, and when it is an invention, according to the
author.

I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth, and
to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, thanks
to its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality; but the
public never followed me. I soon realized that legend remains victorious
in spite of history, and this is perhaps a good thing for the mind of
the crowd. Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet,
and Napoleon I have all entered into legend.

It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the Virgin Mary
accomplishing humiliating human functions. They lived the life that we
are living. Death chilled their sacred limbs, and it is not without
rebellion and grief that we accept this fact. We start off in pursuit of
them in an ethereal heaven, in the infinite of our dreams. We cast down
all the dross of humanity in order to let them, clothed in the ideal, be
seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the rustic,
bold, peasant woman, repulsing violently the old soldier who wants to
joke with her, sitting astride her big steed like a man, laughing
readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers, submitting to the lewd
promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in which she lived, and having, on
that account, all the more merit in remaining a most heroic maiden.

We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile
woman guided by a divine soul. Her girl’s arm which holds the heavy
banner is sustained by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is
something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors
get their strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so
the legend remains triumphant.

But to return to the _Conservatoire_. Nearly all the pupils had gone
away, and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my bench. Marie Lloyd came
and sat down by me.

“Are you unhappy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is
unjust.”

“I do not know whether it is just or not,” answered Marie Lloyd, “but I
assure you that it is not my fault.”

I could not help laughing at this.

“Shall I come home with you to luncheon?” she asked, and her beautiful
eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an orphan and unhappy, and on
this day of triumph she felt the need of a family. My heart began to
melt with pity and affection. I threw my arms round her neck, and we all
four went away together—Marie Lloyd, Mme. Guérard, Mlle. De Brabender,
and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone on home.

In the cab my “don’t-care” character won the day once more, and we
chatted gayly about one and another of the people we had seen during the
morning. “Oh, how ridiculous such and such a person was!” “Did you see
her mother’s bonnet?” “And old Estebenet, did you see his white gloves?
He must have stolen them from some policeman!” And hereupon we laughed
like idiots, and then began again. “And that poor Châtelain had had his
hair curled!” said Marie Lloyd. “Did you see his head?”

I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of how my own
hair had been uncurled, and that it was thanks to that I had not won the
first prize for tragedy.

On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather, our old
friend Meydieu, Mme. Guérard’s husband, and my sister Jeanne with her
hair all curled. This gave me a pang, for she had straight hair, and it
had been curled to make her prettier, although she was charming without
that, and the curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked
uglier.

My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished
indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss over her,
for success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young
friend a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty,
nor yet touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us
that he had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd’s triumph. He then
came to me, put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him.

“Well, you were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now in going in for
the theater? You are thin and small, your face is rather nice close to,
but ugly in the distance, and your voice does not carry!”

“Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather is right. You
had better marry the flour man who proposed, or that imbecile of a
Spanish tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty
eyes. You will never do anything on the stage! You’d better marry!”

M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty
years of age, and Mme. Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and shy; he had been awarded the distinction of the Legion of
Honor, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, had aristocratic gestures,
and was private secretary to M. De la Tour Desmoulins, a deputy very
much in favor. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I owe a great deal
to his kindness.

Jeanne whispered to me:

“Sister’s godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as
possible.” Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her
away, and we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to
go back to the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon
was so tired that I had to go to bed.

When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs,
my head heavy and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I tried
to consider my wretched situation, but sleep, the great restorer, came
to the rescue and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I awoke I
could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it was, and
looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep since three
o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but everything
was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small tray on
which was a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing paper was
placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up, for I never
received any letters. With great difficulty, by my night light, I
managed to read the following words, written by Mme. Guérard:

“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother
that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged
for the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear
child, but have faith in the future. Your _petite dame_.”

I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and
rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was
black to everyone else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I
looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest.

I went back toward my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it,
holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I
then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake.

Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary
at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her
my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation.
I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her
foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the obscurity of the room
I looked for my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I
threw kisses to it. I then took up the letter again from my _petite
dame_ and went to sleep with it in my mind. I do not remember what my
dreams were that memorable night.

The next day everyone was very kind to me. My godfather, who arrived
early, nodded his head in a contented way.

“She must have some fresh air,” he said. “I will pay for a landau.” The
drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart’s content,
as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage.

Two days later, our old servant, Marguerite, breathless with excitement,
brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope there was a wide
stamp around which stood the magic words: “Comédie Française.” I glanced
at my mother and she nodded, as a sign that I might open the letter,
after blaming Marguerite for giving me a letter before obtaining her
permission to do so.

“It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!” I exclaimed. “I am to go there
to-morrow, look—read it!”

My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I danced round with
them singing, “It is to-morrow, it’s to-morrow.” My youngest sister was
eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs to the
flat on the top floor to tell Mme. Guérard. She was just soaping her
children’s white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands and
kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with a soapy lather
and left a snowy patch on each side of my head. I rushed downstairs
again in that condition, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My
godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just commencing
whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a little lather on their faces, at
which I laughed heartily. But I was allowed to do anything that day, for
I had become a personage.

The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français at one
o’clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director.

What was I to wear? That was the great question. My mother had sent for
the milliner, who had arrived with various hats. I chose a white one
trimmed with pale blue, a white _bavolet_ and blue strings. Aunt Rosine
had sent one of her dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks
were too childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was
hideous cabbage green with black velvet put on in Grecian pattern. I
looked like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged to wear it.
Fortunately it was covered by a mantle of black grosgrain stitched all
round with white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a
grown-up person, and all my clothes were suitable only for a child.
Mlle. De Brabender gave me a pair of white gloves, and Mme. Guérard a
sunshade. My mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring.

Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat, uncomfortable in
my green dress, but comforted by my mantle, I went with Mme. Guérard to
M. Thierry’s. My aunt lent me her carriage for the occasion, as she
thought it would look better to arrive in a private carriage. Later on I
found that this arrival in my own carriage, with a footman, made a very
bad impression. What all the theater people thought, I never cared to
consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must really have
preserved me from all suspicion.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT WHEN SHE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY.]

M. Thierry received me very kindly and made a little nonsensical speech.
He then unfolded a paper, which he handed to Mme. Guérard, asking her to
look at it and then to sign it. This paper was my engagement, and my
_petite dame_ explained that she was not my mother.

“Ah!” said M. Thierry, getting up, “then will you take it with you and
have it signed by mademoiselle’s mother?”

He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at the touch of his,
for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I
quickly took mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face,
and eyes that avoided one’s gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin,
who, hearing I was there, had waited to see me. He had made his début a
year before with great success.

“Well, it’s settled, then?” he said gayly.

I showed him the engagement and shook hands with him. I went quickly
down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theater, found myself in
the midst of a group in the doorway.

“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice, which I recognized as M.
Doucet’s.

“Oh, yes, monsieur, thank you so much,” I answered.

“But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said.

“Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we count on
you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked:
“What do you think, your Excellency?”

“I think that this child will be a very great _artiste_,” he replied.

There was silence for a moment.

“Well, you have got a turnout!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He was the
first tragedian of the Comédie, and the worst-bred man in France or
anywhere else.

“This turnout belongs to mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet,
shaking hands with me gently.

“Oh, well, I would much rather it belonged to her than to me,” answered
the tragedian.

I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theater, and drove away. On reaching home I took the engagement to
my mother. She signed it without reading it, and I then fully made up my
mind to be some one, _quand-même_.

A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française, my aunt gave a
dinner party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet,
the Minister of the Beaux-Arts, M. De Walewski, Rossini, my mother,
Mlle. De Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people
came. My mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time
I had worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Everyone
paid me great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I
consented willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I
chose Casimir Delavigne’s poem “L’âme du Purgatoire.”

“That should be said with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini,
when I came to an end. Everyone approved this idea, and Walewski said:

“Mademoiselle will begin again and you could improvise an accompaniment,
_cher maître_.”

There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini
improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My
tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end
my mother kissed me, saying: “This is the first time that you have
really moved me.”

As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini’s
improvisation that had moved her.

The Comte de Kératry was also present, an elegant young Hussar, who paid
me great compliments, and invited me to go and recite some poetry at his
mother’s house.

My aunt then sang a song which was very much in vogue, and had great
success. She was coquettish and charming and just a trifle jealous of
this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her admirers
for a few minutes.

When I returned home I was quite another being. I sat down, dressed as I
was, on my bed and remained for a long time deep in thought. Hitherto
all I had known of life had been through my family and my work. I had
now just had a glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the
hypocrisy of some of the people, and the conceit of others. I began to
wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was. I thought of
my mother. She did not do anything, though. She was indifferent to
everything. I thought of my Aunt Rosine, who, on the contrary, liked to
mix in everything.

I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a whirl, and
feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until I was thoroughly
cold.

CHAPTER VII
I MAKE MY DÉBUT AND EXIT

The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at _Iphigénie_, as M. Thierry had told me I was to make my début in
this rôle.

At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to be at the
rehearsal of _Iphigénie_. Oh, that first notice, how it made my heart
beat! I could not sleep at night, and daylight did not come quickly
enough for me. I kept getting up to look at the time. It seemed to me
that the clock had stopped. I had dozed, and I fancied it was the same
time as before. Finally, a streak of light coming through the
windowpanes was, I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I
got up at once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my rôle while
dressing.

I thought of rehearsing with Mme. Devoyod, the first actress at the
Comédie Française for tragedy, with Maubant, with ... I trembled as I
thought of all this, for Mme. Devoyod was not supposed to be very
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my rôle.

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with conviction.

“Come and rehearse it. Would you like to?” and he took me to the stage.

I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the
_foyer_ of the _artistes_ to the stage. He told me the names of the
celebrities represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before
that of Adrienne Lecouvreur.

“I love that _artiste_,” I said.

“Do you know her story?” he asked.

“Yes, I have read all that has been written about her.”

“That’s quite right, my child,” said the worthy man. “You ought to read
all that concerns your art. I will lend you some very interesting
books.”

He took me on toward the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared
up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of
weights, ropes, trees, friezes, harrows overhead, the yawning house
completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and
the vaultlike chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not
seem to me to be part of that brilliant frame for the living _artistes_
who every night won the applause of the house by their merriment or
their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead glories, and
the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the illustrious ghosts
of those whom the manager had just mentioned. With my highly strung
nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking something, now saw them
advance toward me, stretching out their hands. These specters wanted to
take me away with them. I put my hands over my eyes and stood still.

“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.

“Oh, yes, thank you, it was just a little giddiness.”

His voice had chased away the specters, and I opened my eyes and paid
attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in hand, he explained to me
where I was to stand, and my changes of place. He was rather pleased
with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At
the line:

“_Euripide à l’autel, conduisez la victime_,” he said: “Mlle. Favart was
very effective there....”

The _artistes_ gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They
glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any
further notice of me at all.

I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
a few words that sounded to me coarse, used by one or another of the
_artistes_. I was not accustomed to such language, as at home everyone
was rather scrupulous, and at my aunt’s a trifle affected, while at the
convent it is unnecessary to say I had never heard a word that was out
of place. It is true that I had been through the _Conservatoire_, but I
had not associated intimately with any of the pupils, with the exception
of Marie Lloyd and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta,
who is now an associate of the Comédie Française.

When the rehearsal was over, it was decided that there should be another
one at the same hour the following day, in the public _foyer_.

The costume maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my
costume. Mlle. De Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went
up with me to the costume room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but
the costume maker told her gently that this was impossible for tragedy.

A dress of white woolen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and
the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on,
but this, too, was so ugly that I refused to wear it.

“Well, then, mademoiselle,” said the costume maker dryly, “you will have
to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume
supplied by the Comédie.”

“Very well,” I answered, blushing, “I will get them myself.”

On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as she was always
very generous, she promptly bought me a veil of white _barège_ that fell
in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a wreath of hedge roses which, at
night, looked very soft and white. She also ordered me buskins from the
shoemaker employed by the Comédie.

The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother
had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my fellow student at the
_Conservatoire_. I went with Mme. Dica Petit to M. Massin, a
manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Léontine
Massin, another _Conservatoire_ pupil.

We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réamur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words: “Massin, Manufacturer of Make-up
Boxes.” I knocked and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognized Léontine’s sister, as she had come several times to the
_Conservatoire_.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a surprise for us! Titine,” she then called
out, “here is Mlle. Sarah!”

Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanor. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming:

“How glad I am to see you! And so you are coming out at the Comédie. I
saw it in the paper.”

I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the paper.

“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she talked away at
such a rate that I was bewildered. Mme. Petit did not enter into all
this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an
indifferent “Thanks” to Léontine’s inquiries about her daughter’s
health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to
say, Mme. Petit remarked:

“You must order your box; we have come here for that, you know.”

“Ah! then you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the
passage, and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going
to rehearsal at the Variétés later on.”

Mme. Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.

“Don’t wait, mademoiselle,” she said, “it will be impossible for us to
stay afterwards.”

Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, she turned her back
on my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely
to Mme. Petit, remarked:

“Good-by, Mme. _Gros-tas_, and I hope I shall never see you again.” She
then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Mme. Petit mutter a few
disagreeable words in Dutch, but I did not understand the meaning of
them at the time. We then went to the workshop and found old Massin at
his workbench, planing some small planks of white wood. His hunchback
daughter kept coming in and out, humming gayly all the time. The father
was glum and harassed, and had an anxious look. As soon as we had
ordered the box we took our leave. Mme. Petit went out first and
Léontine’s sister then put her hand into mine and said quietly:

“Father was not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted
my sister to be at the Théâtre Français.”

I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the
painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of
this humble home.

On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my début, I was in the Rue
Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then
just at the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honoré. On the
poster of the Comédie Française I read the words: “Début of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt.”... I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the
letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every
person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I
blushed to the very roots of my hair.

At five o’clock I went to the theater. I had a dressing-room on the top
floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblance. This room was on the other
side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comédie
Française. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage
and means of communication for us to reach the theater.

I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. My _petite dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
De Brabender considered that I had too much color. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theater, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.

When we were told that the play was about to commence I broke out into a
cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint away. I
went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I
arrived on the stage the curtain was being raised. That curtain, which
was raised so slowly and solemnly, was, to me, like the veil being torn
which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep, gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to
encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.
Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one
of Molière’s comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was
tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson
was small, precise, dainty, his shiny white hair curled firmly and
closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of
protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was, nevertheless,
so full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will,
which was always struggling for the victory over my physical weakness.
They knew that my device “_Quand-même_” had not been adopted by me
merely by chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise
of will power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this
device at the age of nine, after a formidable jump over a ditch which no
one could jump, and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had
hurt my face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. While I was
being carried home I exclaimed furiously: “Yes, I would do it again,
_quand-même_, if anyone dared me again. And I will always do what I want
to do all my life.” In the evening of that day, my aunt, who was grieved
to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any pleasure. My
poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and
quite consoled I whispered in a coaxing way: “I should like to have some
writing paper with a motto of my own.”

My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for
a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a
furious “_Quand-même_” that my Aunt Faure started back muttering, “What
a terrible child!”

Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage; but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my catchword on the stage and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried toward _Agamemnon_, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, _Clytemnestre_. I got through my part, and on
leaving the stage I tore up to my room and began to undress.

Mme. Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only played
in one scene and there were four more. I realized then that it would
really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own
motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I
ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a
state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.

The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at
Sarcey’s article in _L’Opinion Nationale_, and she now read me the
following lines.... “Mlle. Bernhardt, who made her début yesterday in
the rôle of _Iphigénie_, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure
and a very pleasing expression, the upper part of her face is remarkably
beautiful. She holds herself well, and her enunciation is perfectly
clear. This is all that can be said for her at present.”

“The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her. “You were
charming.”

She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so. When my godfather arrived in the
afternoon, he exclaimed:

“Good heavens! my poor child, what thin arms you have!”

As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when,
stretching out my arms, I had said the famous lines in which Favart had
made her famous “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly had made
no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be
reckoned such.

My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did have some slight
success.

My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following effusion
from the pen of the same Sarcey:

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT THE TIME OF HER DÉBUT IN “LES FEMMES
SAVANTES.”]

_L’Opinion Nationale_, September 12th.... “The same evening ‘Les Femmes
Savantes’ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third appearance, and
she took the rôle of _Henriette_. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of _Junie_ (he had made a mistake, as
it was _Iphigénie_ I had played) and of _Valérie_, both of which rôles
had been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not so much matter. She is a
débutante, and among the number presented to us it is only natural that
some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the comedians
playing with her were not much better than she was, and they are
_Sociétaires_ of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than their
young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are just
as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays at the
Comédie Française.”

I did not stay there, though; for one of those nothings which change a
whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie expecting to remain
there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about
the various stages of my career.

“The child will have so much during the first five years,” he said, “and
so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have
the pension given to Associates, that is, if she ever becomes an
Associate.” He appeared to have his doubts about this.

My sister Régina was the cause, though quite involuntarily this time, of
the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It was Molière’s anniversary,
and all the _artistes_ of the Français had to salute the bust of the
great writer, according to the tradition of the theater. It was to be my
first appearance at a “ceremony” and my little sister, on hearing me
tell about it at home, besought me to take her to it.

My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to
accompany us. All the members of the Comédie were assembled in the
_foyer_. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the
famous doctor’s cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about
to commence, and everyone hurried to the corridor where the busts were.
I was holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was the
very fat and very solemn Mme. Nathalie. She was a _Sociétaire_ of the
Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.

Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger’s cloak, stepped on
to Nathalie’s, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a
violent push that she was knocked against a column holding a bust.
Régina screamed out, and, as she turned back to me, I saw that her
pretty face was bleeding.

“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman, and, as she
turned round to reply, I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to
faint; there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval,
stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity from those _artistes_ who were
mothers, for the poor child, etc. Two groups were formed, one around the
wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around
little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather
strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women fanning
the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs or fans. A young, but
severe-looking _Sociétaire_ was sprinkling her with drops of water.
Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over her
face and muttered in a far-away voice:

“How stupid! You’ll spoil my make-up!”

The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice:

“I did not do it on purpose, sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old
cow, and she just kicked for nothing at all!”

Régina was a fair-haired seraph who might have made the angels envious,
for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but her language was by
no means choice, and nothing in the world could change it. Her coarse
speech made the friendly group burst out laughing, while all the members
of the enemy’s camp shrugged their shoulders. Bressant, who was the most
charming of the comedians and a general favorite, came up to me and
said:

“We must arrange this little matter, mademoiselle, for Nathalie’s short
arms are really very long. Between ourselves you were a trifle hasty,
but I like that, and then that child is so droll and pretty,” he added,
looking at my little sister.

The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused
twenty minutes’ delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at
once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying: “You are a plucky little comrade!”
Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring: “How dared you do it! She is a
_Sociétaire_!”

As for me, I was not very clear about what I had done, but my instinct
warned me that I should pay dearly for it.

The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call
at the Comédie at one o’clock about a matter concerning me privately. I
had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than
from remorse, and I was more particularly annoyed at the idea of the
attacks I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my
mother see the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie
she had given me full liberty. I received my letters now direct, without
her supervision, and I went about alone.

At one o’clock precisely I was shown into the manager’s office. M.
Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his eyes more crafty,
preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my want of discipline, absence of
respect, and scandalous conduct, and finished his pitiful harangue by
advising me to beg Mme. Nathalie’s pardon.

“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must apologize to her
before three _Sociétaires_ belonging to the Committee. Is she consents
to forgive you the Committee will then consider whether to fine you or
to cancel your engagement.”

I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother in distress,
my godfather laughing in his bourgeois way, and my Aunt Faure
triumphant, with her usual phrase: “That child is terrible!” I thought,
too, of my beloved Brabender with her hands clasped, her mustache
drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute
supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Mme. Guérard arguing with
everyone, so courageous she was always in her confidence in my future.

“Well, mademoiselle?” said M. Thierry curtly.

I looked at him without speaking and he began to get impatient.

“I will go and ask Mme. Nathalie to come here,” he said, “and I beg you
will do your part as quickly as possible, for I have other things to
attend to than to put your blunders right.”

“Oh, no, do not fetch Mme. Nathalie,” I said at last, “I shall not
apologize to her. I will leave. I will cancel my engagement at once.”

He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for the
ungovernable, willful child who was about to ruin her whole future for
the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once gentler and more
polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had not hitherto done, and he
sat down himself opposite to me and spoke to me gently about the
advantages of the Comédie, and of the danger that there would be for me
in leaving that illustrious theater which had done me the honor of
admitting me. He gave me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which
softened me. When he saw the effect he had made, he wanted to send for
Mme. Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.

“Oh, don’t let her come here, I should slap her again!” I exclaimed.

“Well, then, I must ask your mother to come,” he said.

“My mother would never come,” I replied.

“Then I will go and call on her.”

“It will be quite useless,” I persisted, “my mother has given me my
liberty, and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone am responsible
for all that I do.”

“Well, then, mademoiselle, I will think it over,” he said rising to show
me that the interview was at an end. I went back home determined to say
nothing to my mother, but my little sister when questioned about her
wound had told everything in her own way, exaggerating, if possible, the
brutality of Mme. Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done. Rosa
Baretta, too, had been to see me and had burst into tears, assuring my
mother that my engagement would be canceled. The whole family was very
much excited and distressed when I arrived, and when they began to argue
with me it made me still more nervous. I did not take calmly the
reproaches which one and another of them addressed to me, and I was not
at all willing to follow their advice. I went to my room and locked
myself in.

The following day no one spoke to me and I went up to Mme. Guérard to be
comforted and consoled.

Several days passed by and I had nothing to do at the theater. Finally,
one morning, I received a notice requesting me to be present for the
reading of a play. It was “Dolorès,” by M. De Bornier. This was the
first time I had been asked to the reading of a new piece. I was
evidently to have the creation of a rôle. All my sorrows were at once
dispersed like a cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and
she naturally concluded that as I was asked to go to a reading, my
engagement was not to be canceled and I was not to be asked again to
apologize to Mme. Nathalie.

I went to the theater, and to my utter surprise I received from M.
Davennes the rôle of _Dolorès_, the chief part in Bornier’s play. I knew
that Favart, who should have had this rôle, was not well, but there were
other _artistes_ for it, and I could not get over my joy and surprise.
Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible presentiment has always
warned me of any troubles about to come upon me.

I had been rehearsing for five days when one morning, on going upstairs,
I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie, seated under
Gérôme’s portrait of Rachel, known as “The Red Pimento.” I did not know
whether to go downstairs again or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed
by the spiteful woman.

“Oh, you can go by, mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The rôle that you like so much is not to be left to
you after all.”

I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by her speech,
which I guessed would prove true.

I did not mention this incident to anyone, but continued rehearsing. It
was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me, and on Friday I was
disappointed to hear that Davennes was not there and that there was to
be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting into my cab the hall porter ran
out to give me a letter from Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to
come himself and give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful
to me.

He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme youth—the
importance of the rôle—such responsibility for such young shoulders—as
Mme. Favart had recovered from her illness, it was wiser, etc. I
finished reading the letter through blinding tears, but very soon anger
took the place of grief. I rushed back again and up to the manager’s
office. He could not see me just then, but I said I would wait. At the
end of an hour, thoroughly impatient, taking no notice of the office boy
and the secretary, who wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door
of M. Thierry’s office and walked in. I was desperate, and all that
anger with injustice and fury with falsehood could inspire me with, I
let him have in a stream of eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The
manager gazed at me in bewilderment. He could not conceive of such
daring and such violence in a girl so young.

When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down on an armchair, he tried
to calm me, but all in vain.

“I will leave at once,” I said. “Give me back my engagement and I will
send you back mine.”

Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary in,
gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my
engagement.

“Here is your mother’s signature, mademoiselle. I leave you free to
bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not
receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the
theater. But, believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over within
the next forty-eight hours.”

I did not answer but went out of his office. That very evening I sent
back to M. Thierry the engagement bearing his signature and tore up the
one with that of my mother.

I had left Molière’s Theater and was not to re-enter it until twelve
years later.

CHAPTER VIII
CASTLES IN SPAIN

This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it
completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth
among my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my violence.
Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being made by
my aunt and my little sisters. My godfather, whom I had once for all
requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me openly,
but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any peace
for me except at Mme. Guerard’s, and so I was constantly with her. I
enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to make
cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something else to
think about, and I soon recovered my gayety.

One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She
kept looking at the clock and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who
lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived.

“It’s very strange,” my mother said, “for last night after whist he said
he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It’s very strange
indeed.”

She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and
when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should
serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait.

Finally, the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister
was evidently in the secret.

“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his
hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.”

He handed me a letter stamped with the words “_Théâtre du Gymnase_.” It
was from Montigny, the manager at this theater, to M. De Gerbois, a
friend of my godfather’s, whom I knew very well. The letter was very
friendly, as far as M. De Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with
the following words: “I will engage your _protégée_ in order to be
agreeable to you ... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.”

I blushed as I read these lines and I thought my godfather was wanting
in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided wounding me
in this way; but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever lived. My
mother seemed very much pleased, so that I kissed her pretty face, and
thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face, which
was always so cool, and always slightly dewy! When I was a little child
I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long
lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her
eyes, tickling my cheeks while I lay back breathless with delight.

The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some
little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical
old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then
interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard,
but I very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to
me, and of taking stock of me generally, roused my ire at once. I
answered his questions curtly and our conversation, which seemed likely
to take an aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny,
the manager.

“Which of you is Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked.

I at once rose and he continued:

“Will you come into my office, mademoiselle?”

Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humored. He appeared
to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his _ego_, but
that did not matter to me. After some friendly conversation, he preached
a little to me about my outburst at the Comédie and made me a great many
promises about the rôles he should give me. He prepared my engagement
and gave it to me to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my
family.

“I am quite free,” I said to him, “so that my own signature is all that
is required.”

“Oh, very good!” he said, “but what nonsense to give such a self-willed
girl full liberty. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.”

I was just on the point of replying that what my parents chose to do did
not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the engagement, and hurried
home feeling very joyful.

Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young _artiste_ very much in vogue just then, who had the
most delightful talent. I played in “La Maison sans Enfants,” and I took
her rôle at a moment’s notice in “Le Démon du Jeu,” a piece which had
great success. I was fairly good in both pieces, but Montigny, in spite
of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage
manager played me various tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger stirring
within me and I struggled with myself as much as possible to keep my
nerves calm.

One evening, on leaving the theater, a notice was handed to me
requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following day.
Montigny had promised me a good rôle, and I fell asleep that night
lulled by fairies who carried me off into the land of glory and success.
On arriving at the theater I found Blanche Pierson and Céline Montalant
already there. Two of the prettiest creatures that God has been pleased
to create, the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other as dark as a
starry night, for she was brilliant looking in spite of her black hair.
There were other women there, too, very, very pretty ones.

The play to be read was entitled, “Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme,” and it
was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it without any great pleasure
and I thought it stupid. I waited anxiously to see what rôle was to be
given to me, and I discovered this only too soon. It was a certain
_Princess Dimchinka_, a frivolous, foolish, laughing individual, who was
always eating or dancing. I did not like this rôle at all. I was very
inexperienced on the stage and my timidity made me rather awkward. Then,
too, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and
conviction to create now the rôle of an idiotic woman in an imbecile
play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my head. I
wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of this to our
old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable. He approved of my
idea, and wanted me to take a shop, a confectioner’s, on the Boulevard
des Italiens. This became a fixed idea with the worthy man. He loved
sweets himself, and he knew lots of recipes for kinds that were not
generally known, and which he wanted to introduce. I remember one kind
that he wanted to call “_bonbon nègre_.” It was a mixture of chocolate
and essence of coffee to be rolled into grilled licorice root. It was
like black _praline_ and was extremely good. I was very persistent in
this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look at a shop, but when he
showed me the little flat over it where I should have to live, it upset
me so much that I gave up forever the idea of business.

I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece and was
bad-tempered all the time. Finally, the first performance took place,
and my part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply was not
noticed, and at night my mother remarked:

“My poor child, you were ridiculous in your Russian princess rôle and I
was very much grieved!”

I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to kill
myself. I slept very badly that night and toward six in the morning I
rushed up to Mme. Guérard’s. I asked her to give me some laudanum, but
she refused. When she saw that I really wanted it, the poor, dear woman
understood my idea.

“Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that you will not tell
anyone what I am going to do, and then I will not kill myself.”

A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and without weighing it, I
wanted to carry it out at once. She promised, and I then told her that I
should go at once to Spain, as I had wanted to see that country for a
long time.

“Go to Spain!” she exclaimed. “With whom, and when?”

“With the money I have saved,” I answered, “and this very morning.
Everyone is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my trunk and start at
once with you!”

“No, no, I cannot go!” exclaimed Mme. Guérard, nearly beside herself.
“There is my husband to think of and, then, too, I have my children.”

Her little girl was scarcely two years old at that time.

“Well, then, _ma petite dame_, find me some one to go with me.”

“I do not know anyone,” she answered, crying in her excitement. “My dear
little Sarah, give up such an idea, I beseech you.”

But by this time it was a fixed idea with me and I was very determined
about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and then returned to Mme.
Guérard’s. I had wrapped up a pewter fork in paper and this I threw
against one of the panes of glass in a skylight window opposite. The
window was opened abruptly and the sleepy, angry face of a young woman
appeared. I made a trumpet of my two hands and called out:

“Caroline, will you start with me at once to Spain?”

The bewildered expression on the young woman’s face showed that she had
not comprehended what I had said, but she replied at once:

“I am coming, mademoiselle.” She then closed her window and ten minutes
later Caroline was tapping at the door. Mme. Guérard had sunk down
aghast in an armchair. M. Guérard had asked several times from his
bedroom what was going on.

“Sarah is here,” his wife had replied; “I will tell you later on.”

Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Mme. Guérard’s and she had
offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was agreeable and rather
daring, and she now accepted my offer at once. But as it would not do to
arouse the suspicions of the _concierge_ it was decided that I should
take her dresses in my trunk, and that she should put her linen into a
bag that _ma petite dame_ should lend her. Poor, dear Mme. Guérard had
given in. She was quite conquered and soon began to help in my
preparations, which certainly did not take me long. The next thing was
that I did not know how to get to Spain.

“You go through Bordeaux,” said Mme. Guérard.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Caroline, “my brother-in-law is a skipper and he
often goes to Spain by Marseilles.”

I had saved nine hundred francs and Mme. Guérard lent me six hundred. It
was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer the world and nothing
would have induced me to give up my plan. Then, too, it seemed to me as
though I had been wishing to see Spain for a long time. I had got it
into my head that my Fate willed it, that I must obey my star, and a
hundred other ideas, each one more foolish than the other, strengthened
me in my plan. I was destined to act in this way, I thought.

I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With Caroline’s help I
carried the empty trunk up to Mme. Guérard’s, and Caroline emptied my
wardrobe and drawers and then packed the trunk. I shall never forget
that delightful moment. It seemed to me as though the world was about to
be mine. I was going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was
about to travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I
should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and I should
cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I must have gone up and
down the staircase which separated our two flats. Everyone was asleep
and the flat was so constructed that not a sound of our going in and out
could reach my mother. I could go through the kitchen from my bedroom
without any difficulty.

My trunk was at last strapped, Caroline’s valise fastened, and my little
bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the fingers of the
clock had moved along by this time, and to my horror I discovered that
it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would be going down from her bedroom at
the top of the house to prepare my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and
bread and milk for my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild
determination I kissed Mme. Guérard with such violence as almost to
stifle her and rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin Mary
which went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my mother’s
room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart went downstairs. My
_petite dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors to take the
trunk and valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I went like a
whirlwind past the _concierge’s_ door. She had her back turned toward me
and was sweeping the floor. I sprang into the cab and the driver whipped
up his horse. I was on my way to Spain. I had written an affectionate
letter to my mother begging her to forgive me and not to be grieved. I
had written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the manager of
the Gymnase Theater. The letter did not explain anything though. It was
written by a child whose brain was certainly a little affected, and I
finished up with these words: “Have pity on a poor, crazy girl.”

Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s office when
he received my letter.

“I had been talking to Montigny for over an hour,” he said, “about a
piece I was going to write. The conversation was very animated, and when
the door was opened Montigny exclaimed in a fury: ‘I had given orders
that I was not to be disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on
seeing old Monval’s troubled look and he knew there was some urgent
matter. ‘Oh, what’s happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the
old stage manager held out to him. On recognizing my paper, with its
gray border, he said: ‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’”

“No,” said Monval, “she has gone to Spain.”

“She can go to the deuce!” exclaimed Montigny. “Send for Mme. Dieudonnée
to take her part. Bernhardt has a good memory, and half the rôle must be
cut. That will settle it.”

“Any trouble for to-night?” Sardou asked Montigny.

“Oh, nothing,” he answered. “It is that little Sarah Bernhardt who has
cleared off to Spain!”

“That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?”

“Yes.”

“She’s rather amusing.”

“Yes, but not for her managers,” remarked Montigny, continuing
immediately afterwards the conversation which had been interrupted.

This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident.

On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information about the
journey. The result was that we embarked on an abominable trading boat,
a dirty coaster smelling of oil and stale fish, a perfect horror.

I had never been on the sea, so I fancied that all the boats were like
this and that it was no good complaining. After six days of rough sea we
landed at Alicante. Oh, that landing, how well I remember it! I had to
jump from boat to boat, from plank to plank, with the risk of falling
into the water a hundred times over, for I am naturally inclined to
dizziness and the little bridges without any rails, rope, or anything,
thrown across from one boat to another and bending under my light
weight, seemed to me like mere ropes stretched across space.

Exhausted with fatigue and hunger I went to the first hotel recommended
to us at Alicante. Oh, what a hotel it was! The house itself was built
of stone with low arcades. Rooms on the first floor were given to me,
and certainly the owners of it had never had two ladies in their house
before. The bedroom was large, but with a low ceiling. By way of
decoration there were enormous real fish bones arranged in garlands
caught up by the heads of fish. By half shutting one’s eyes this
decoration might be taken for delicate sculpture of ancient times.

I had a bed put up for Caroline in this sinister-looking room. We pulled
the furniture across against the doors, and I did not undress, for I
could not venture on those sheets. I was accustomed to fine sheets
perfumed with iris, for my pretty little mother, like all Dutch women,
had a mania for linen and cleanliness and she had inculcated me with
this harmless mania.

It was about five in the morning when I opened my eyes, no doubt
instinctively, as there had been no sound to rouse me. A door, leading I
did not know where, opened, and a man looked in. I gave a shrill cry,
seized my little Virgin Mary, and waved her about, wild with terror.

Caroline roused up with a start and courageously rushed to the window.
She threw it up screaming: “Fire! Thieves! Help.”

The man disappeared and the house was soon invaded by the police. I
leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante forty years ago were
like. I answered all the questions asked me by a Vice-Consul who was
Hungarian and spoke French. I had seen the man and he had a silk
handkerchief on his head. He had a beard, and on his shoulder a
_poncho_, but that was all I knew. The Hungarian Vice-Consul who, I
believe, represented France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the color of
the brigand’s beard, silk handkerchief and _poncho_. It had been too
dark for me to distinguish the colors exactly. The worthy man was very
much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he was very
thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders for a message to be taken
to his home. It was to ask his wife to send a carriage and to prepare a
room in order to receive a young foreigner in distress. I prepared to go
with him, and after paying my bill at the hotel, we started off in the
Hungarian’s carriage, and I was welcomed by his wife with the most
touching cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she
poured for me, and, during breakfast, told her who I was, and where I
was going. She then told me in return that her father was an important
manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and a great friend of
my father’s. And she took me to the room that had been prepared for me,
made me go to bed, and told me that while I was asleep she would write
me some letters of introduction in Madrid. I slept for ten hours without
waking, and at six in the evening when I roused up, was thoroughly
rested in mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my mother, but
this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante. I wrote a
letter, therefore, to my poor, dear mother, telling her that I was in
the house of friends of my father.

The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the landlord of
the Hotel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were given to us and I sent
messengers with the letters from Mme. Rudcouritz. I spent a fortnight in
Madrid, and was made a great deal of and generally fêted. I went to all
the bullfights, and was infatuated with them. I had the honor of being
invited to a great _corrida_ given in honor of Victor Emmanuel who was
just then the guest of the Queen of Spain. I forgot Paris, my sorrows,
disappointments, ambitions, and everything else, and I wanted to live in
Spain. A telegram sent by Mme. Guérard made me change all my plans. My
mother was very ill, the telegram informed me. I packed my trunk and
wanted to start off at once, but when my hotel bill was paid I had not a
fraction for the railway journey. The landlord of the hotel took my two
bank notes, prepared me a basket of provisions and gave me two hundred
francs at the station, telling me that he had received orders from Mme.
Rudcouritz not to let me want for anything. She and her husband were
certainly most delightful people.

My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in Paris. My _petite
dame_ was waiting for me downstairs in the _concierge’s_ room. She was
very excited to see me looking so well and kissed me with her eyes full
of tears of joy. The _concierge_ and family poured forth their
compliments. Mme. Guérard went upstairs before me to prepare my mother,
and I waited a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by our old servant
Marguerite. My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed me, then
turned me round and examined me. Régina, with her hands behind her back,
leaned against the stove gazing at me furiously.

“Well, won’t you kiss me, Régina?” I asked, stooping down to her.

“No, don’t like you,” she answered. “You’ve went off without me. Don’t
like you now.” She turned away brusquely to avoid my kiss and knocked
her head against the stove.

Finally, Mme. Guérard appeared again, and I went with her. Oh, how
repentant I was, and how deeply affected! I knocked gently at the door
of the room which was hung with pale blue rep. My mother looked very
white, lying in her bed. Her face was thinner, but wonderfully
beautiful. She stretched out her arms like two wings and I rushed
forward to this loving, white nest. My mother cried silently, as she
always did. Then her hands played with my hair, which she let down and
combed with her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred
questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did, too, so that we had
the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses. I found that my
mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy, that she was now
getting better, but was not yet well. I, therefore, took up my abode
again with her, and for the time being went back to my old bedroom. Mme.
Guérard had told me in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side,
had at last agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left
a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day. My mother,
at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me have half this sum,
and she had at last consented, saying that she should use the interest
of the other half, but that the half would still be there for me if I
changed my mind, and consented to marry. I was, therefore, quite decided
to live my life as I wished, to go away from home, and be quite
independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were quite different.
Then, too, my godfather was perfectly odious to me, and for years and
years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining with us every day,
and of playing whist every evening. He was always hurting my feelings in
one way or another. He was an old bachelor, very rich, and with no near
relatives. He adored my mother, but she had always refused to marry him.
She had put up with him at first because he was a friend of my father.
After my father’s death she had put up with him still, because she was
then accustomed to him, until finally she quite missed him when he was
ill or traveling. But, placid as she was, my mother was positive, and
could not endure any kind of constraint. She, therefore, rebelled
against the idea of another master. She was very gentle, but determined,
and this determination of hers ended sometimes in the most violent
anger. She used then to turn very pale and violet rings would come round
her eyes, her lips would tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes
take a fixed gaze, the words would come at intervals from her throat,
all chopped up, hissing and hoarse. After this she would faint, and the
veins of her throat then used to swell, and her hands and feet turn icy
cold. Sometimes she would be unconscious for hours, and the doctors told
us that she might die in one of these attacks so that we did all ill our
power to avoid these terrible accidents. My mother knew this and rather
took advantage of it, and, as I had inherited this tendency to fits of
rage from her, I could not and did not wish to live with her. As for me
I am not placid. I am active, and always ready for fight, and what I
want I always want immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar
to my mother. The blood begins to boil under my temples before I have
time to control it. Time has made me wiser in this respect, but not
sufficiently so. I am aware of this and it causes me suffering.

I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid, but I asked
our old friend, Meydieu, to find me a flat. The old man who had
tormented me so much during my childhood had been most kind to me ever
since my début at the Théâtre Français, and, in spite of my escapade
with Nathalie and my exploit when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to
see the best in me. When he came to see us the day after my return home,
I stayed talking with him for a time in the drawing-room and confided my
intentions to him. He quite approved and said that my intercourse with
my mother would be all the more agreeable through this separation. I
took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Mme. Guérard
undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was well
again I talked to her about it, and several times over induced her to
agree that it was really better I should live by myself and in my own
way. When once she had accepted the situation everything went along
satisfactorily. My sisters were present when we were talking about it.
Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused to speak to
me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly jumped
on my lap.

“Take me with you this time,” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will kiss you
if you will.”

I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed.

“Oh, take her,” she said, “for she is unbearable!”

Régina jumped down again and began to dance a jig, muttering the rudest,
silliest things at the same time. She then nearly stifled me with
kisses, sprang on to my mother’s armchair and kissed her hair, her eyes,
her cheeks, saying:

“You are glad I am going, aren’t you? You can give everything to your
Jenny.”

My mother colored slightly, but as her eyes fell on Jeanne her
expression changed, and a look of unspeakable affection came over her
face. She pushed Régina gently aside, and the child went on with her
jig.

“We two will stay together,” said my mother, leaning her head back on
Jeanne’s shoulder, and she said this quite unconscious of the full force
of her words, just in the same way as she had gazed at my sister. I was
perfectly stupefied and closed my eyes so that I should not see. I could
only hear my little sister dancing her jig and emphasizing every stamp
on the floor with the words: “And we two, as well, we two, we two!”

It was a very painful little drama that was stirring our four hearts in
this little _bourgeois_ home, and the result of it was that I settled
down finally with my little sister in the flat in Rue Duphot. I kept
Caroline with me and engaged a cook. My _petite dame_, Mme. Guérard, was
with me nearly all day and I dined every evening with my mother.

CHAPTER IX
I RETURN TO THE STAGE

I was still on friendly terms with an actor from the Porte Saint Martin
Theater, who had been appointed stage manager there. Marc Fournier was
at that time manager of this theater. A piece entitled “La Biche au
Bois” was then being played. It was a fairyland story, and was having
great success. A delicious actress from the Odéon Theater, Mlle. Debay,
had been engaged for the principal rôle. She played tragedy princesses
most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I
thoroughly enjoyed “La Biche au Bois.” Mme. Ulgade sang admirably in her
rôle of the young prince, and amazed me. Then, too, Marquita charmed me
with her dancing. She was delightful in her dances, which were so
animated, so characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks
to old Josse I knew everyone; but to my surprise and terror, one
evening, toward five o’clock, on arriving at the theater to take our
seats, he exclaimed on seeing me:

“Why, here is our princess, our little “Biche au Bois.” Here she is! It
is the Providence that watches over theaters who has sent her!”

I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain. M. Marc
Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to understand that I
should be doing him a veritable service and keeping up the receipts.
Josse, who guessed what my scruples were, exclaimed:

“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for it is Mlle.
Debay from the Odéon Theater who is playing this rôle of _Princess_, and
Mlle. Debay is the first _artiste_ at the Odéon, and the Odéon is an
imperial theater, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.”

Marquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and Mme. Ulgade was
sent for to rehearse the duos I was to sing. Yes, and I was to sing with
a veritable _artiste_, one who was considered to be the first _artiste_
of the Opéra Comique.

The time passed by, and Josse helped me to rehearse my rôle, which I
almost knew, as I had seen the piece often, and I had an extraordinary
memory. The minutes flew, and the half hours made up entire hours. I
kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s room, where
I was studying my rôle. Mme. Ulgade rehearsed with me. She thought my
voice was pretty, but I kept singing wrong, and she helped and
encouraged me all the time.

I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and finally the moment
arrived and the curtain was raised. Poor me! I was more dead than alive,
but my courage returned after a triple burst of applause for the couplet
which I sang on waking, in very much the same way as I should have
murmured a series of Racine’s lines.

When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a
three years’ engagement; but I asked to be allowed to think it over.
Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a
charming man who was certainly talented, too. He thought I was just the
ideal actress for his heroine, _La Bergère d’Ivry_, but M. Faille, an
old actor who had become the manager of the Ambigu Theater, was not the
only person to consult. A certain M. De Chilly had some interest in the
theater. He had made his name in the rôle of _Rodin_ in the “Juif
Errant,” and, after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the stage,
and was now interested in the business side of theatrical affairs. He
had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille. De Chilly was then
helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She was gentle and
very _bourgeois_, rather pretty, but without any real beauty or grace.
Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he had spoken to Laurence Gérard, but
that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter. The only
thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding. I was
willing to humor the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a manager
as he had been an _artiste_. I acted for him at the Ambigu Theater. The
stage was only lighted by the wretched _servante_, a little
transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I could see M. Faille
balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his waistcoat and the
fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils. This disgusted me
horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his handsome face
smiling, as he looked at me encouragingly.

I was playing in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour,” because the play was
in prose, and I did not want to take poetry. I believe I was perfectly
charming in my rôle, and Lambert Thiboust thought so, too; but when I
had finished, poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said
something in a low voice to the author, and took me to his own room.

“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are not at all
suitable for the stage!”

I resented this, but he continued:

“Oh, no, not at all.” And, as the door then opened, he added, pointing
to the newcomer, “Here is M. De Chilly, who was also listening to you,
and he will say just the same as I say.”

M. De Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked, “no one ever saw such a thin
shepherdess!”

He then rang the bell and told the boy to fetch Mlle. Laurence Gérard. I
understood and, without taking leave of the two boors, I left the room.

My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the _foyer_, where I had
left my hat. I found Laurence Gérard there, but she was fetched away the
next moment. I was standing near her and, as I looked in the glass, I
was struck by the contrast between us. She was plump, with a wide face,
magnificent black eyes, her nose was rather _canaille_, her mouth heavy,
and there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was fair,
slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale face, blue
eyes, a rather sad mouth, and a general look of distinction. This hasty
vision consoled me for my failure, and then, too, I felt that this
Faille was a nonentity, and that De Chilly was common. Five days later
Mlle. Debay was well again and took her rôle as usual.

I was destined to meet with both of these men again later on in my life.
Chilly, soon after, as manager at the Odéon; and Faille, twenty years
later, in such a wretched situation that the tears came to my eyes when
he appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit.

“I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the only attraction at
this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts.”

I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first
interview, but I remembered it well, and could only hope that he did
not.

Before I would accept the engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote
to Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to go
to the offices of the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I
went to see this kind man. He was standing up waiting for me when I was
ushered into the room. He held out his hands to me and drew me gently
toward him.

“Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair. “Come now, you
must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in
voyages, escapades, and boxing people’s ears!”

I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I
looked at him.

“Now, don’t cry, my dear child, don’t cry. Let us try and find out how
we are to make up for all this folly.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a
letter.

“Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said.

It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager at
the Odéon Theater, together with Chilly.

“I am asked for some young _artistes_ to make up the Odéon company.
Well, we must attend to this.” He got up, and accompanying me to the
door, said, as I went away: “We shall succeed.”

I went back home, and began at once to rehearse all my rôles in Racine’s
plays. I waited very anxiously for several days, consoled by Mme.
Guérard, who succeeded in restoring my confidence. Finally, I received a
letter, and went at once to the Ministry. Camille Doucet received me
with a beaming expression on his face.

“It’s settled,” he said. “Oh, but it has not been easy, though,” he
added. “You are very young, but very celebrated already for your
headstrong character. The only thing is, I have pledged my word that you
will be as gentle as a young lamb.”

“Yes, I will be gentle, I promise,” I replied, “if only out of
gratitude. But what am I to do?”

“Here is a letter for Félix Duquesnel,” he replied; “he is expecting
you.”

I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said:

“I shall see you again less officially at your aunt’s on Thursday. I
have had an invitation this morning to dine there, so you can tell me
then what Duquesnel says.”

It was then half past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty
clothes on. I chose an underskirt of canary yellow, a dress of black
silk with the skirt scalloped round, and a straw hat trimmed with corn
and black ribbon. It must have been delightfully mad looking. Arrayed in
this style, feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I went to call
on Félix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little room very
artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very elegant. He
was smiling and altogether charming. I could not grasp the fact that
this fair-haired, gay young man would be my manager.

After a short conversation we agreed on every point we touched.

“Come to the Odéon at two o’clock,” said Duquesnel, by way of
leavetaking, “and I will introduce you to my partner. I ought to say it
the other way round, according to society etiquette,” he added,
laughing, “but we are talking theater.”

He came a few steps down the staircase with me and stayed there leaning
over the balustrade to wish me good-by.

At two o’clock precisely I was at the Odéon, and had to wait an hour. I
began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance of my promise to
Camille Doucet prevented me from departing.

Finally, Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager’s office.

“You will now see the other ogre,” he said, and I pictured to myself the
other ogre as charming as his partner. I was therefore greatly
disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man whom I recognized as
Chilly.

He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognize
me. He signed to me to sit down and, without a word, handed me a pen and
showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me.

Mme. Guérard interposed, laying her hand on mine.

“Do not sign without reading it,” she said.

“Are you mademoiselle’s mother?” he asked, looking up.

“No,” she said, “but it is just the same as though I were.”

“Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly,” he continued, “and then
sign or leave it alone, but be quick.”

I felt the color coming into my face, for this man was odious. Duquesnel
whispered to me:

“There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s all right, don’t take offense.”

I signed my engagement and handed it to his ugly partner.

“You know,” he remarked, “M. Duquesnel is responsible for you. I should
not upon any account have engaged you.”

“And if you had been alone, monsieur,” I answered, “I should not have
signed; so we are quits.”

I went away at once and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew
this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with
my _petite dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my
dressing-room. The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre
Dame des Champs to see my dear governess, Mlle. De Brabender. She had
been ill, with acute rheumatism in all her limbs, for the last thirteen
months. She had suffered so much that she looked like a different
person. She was lying in her little white bed, a little white cap
covering her hair, her big nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes
seemed to have no color in them. Her formidable mustache alone bristled
up with constant spasms of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely
altered that I wondered what had caused the change. I went nearer and,
bending down, kissed her gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively
that she understood instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to
look on the table near her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old
friend’s teeth. I put the three roses I had brought her in the glass
and, kissing her again, I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent
curiosity. I left the convent with a very heavy heart, for the Mother
Superior took me in the garden and told me that my beloved Mlle. De
Brabender could not live much longer. I therefore went every day for a
time to see my gentle old governess, but as soon as the rehearsals
commenced at the Odéon my visits had to be less frequent.

One morning about seven o’clock, a message came from the convent to
fetch me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death
agony. Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look
that I suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands which were holding the
crucifix: they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be
there when she was placed in her coffin.

On arriving at the convent the next day, at the hour fixed, I found
the Sisters in such a state of consternation that I was alarmed. What
could have happened, I wondered? They pointed to the door of the cell
without uttering a word. The nuns were standing round the bed, on
which was the most extraordinary-looking being imaginable. My poor
governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a man’s face. Her mustache
had grown longer, and she had a beard of half an inch all round her
chin. Her mustache and beard were sandy, while the long hair framing
her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the teeth, had
sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy mustache. It was like a
terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face of my
friend. It was the face of a man, while the little, delicate hands
were those of a woman.

There was an awestruck expression in the eyes of the nuns in spite of
the assurance of the nurse, who had declared to them that the body was
that of a woman. They had dressed the poor dead body, but the poor
little Sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.

The day after this dismal ceremony I made my début at the Odéon in “Le
Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard.” I was not suitable for Marivand’s pieces,
as they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were
not then among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too slight, so that
I had no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing along the
corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging me. Chilly
pointed to me and remarked:

“They are no good, these grand folks, there is not even any pluck about
them.”

I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed to my face,
but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s face, that face
always so clean shaven and young looking, under his crown of white hair.
I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on
account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he
came up to me.

“What a pretty voice you have,” he said. “Your second appearance will be
such a pleasure to us!”

This man was always courteous, but truthful. This début of mine had not
given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appearance, and
he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that
anyone could say.

I remained at the Odéon and worked very hard. I was always ready to take
anyone’s place at a moment’s notice, for I knew all the rôles. I had
some success, and the students approved of me. When I came on the stage
I was always greeted by applause from them. A few old sticklers looked
down at the pit to command silence, but no one cared a straw for them.

Finally, my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of
putting “Athalie” on again with Mendelssohn’s choruses. Beauvallet, who
had been odious as a professor, was charming as a comrade. By special
permission from the Ministry he was to play _Joad_. The rôle of
_Zacharie_ was assigned to me. Some of the _Conservatoire_ pupils were
to take the spoken choruses, and the pupils who studied singing
undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad that Duquesnel
and Chilly were in despair. Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but
not choice as regarded his language, muttered some terrible words. We
began over and over again, but it was all to no purpose. The spoken
choruses were simply abominable. Chilly exclaimed at last:

“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. That would be
right enough with her pretty voice!”

Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his mustache to hide a
smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protégée_ after all. He nodded
his head in an indifferent way in answer to his partner’s questioning
look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Everyone
applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the
poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable
small triumph for me! Oh! quite a small one, but still full of promise
for my future. The public, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and
its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was
rewarded by three bursts of applause.

At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said:

“You were adorable!” He addressed me familiarly, using the French
_thou_, and this rather annoyed me; but I answered mischievously, using
the same form of speech:

“You think I am not so thin now?”

He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used
the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable.

Oh, that Odéon Theater! It is the theater I have loved most. I was very
sorry to leave it, for everyone liked each other there, and everyone was
gay. The theater was a little like the continuation of school. The young
_artistes_ came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and
very polite and young himself. During the rehearsal we often went off,
several of us together, to play at hide and seek in the Luxembourg,
during the scenes in which we were not acting. I used to think of my few
months at the Comédie Française. The little world I had known there had
been stiff, scandal-mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at
the Gymnase. Hats and dresses were always discussed there, and everyone
chattered about a hundred things that had nothing to do with art.

At the Odéon I was very happy. We thought of nothing but putting on
plays, and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I
liked that very much.

For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at
Auteuil. I went to the theater in a “little duke,” which I drove myself.
I had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me, because
they had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a
whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the
quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine
and the gayety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold, cracked
steps of the theater with veritable joy, and rushed up to my
dressing-room, wishing everyone I passed “Good morning” on my way. When
I had taken off my coat and gloves I went on the stage, delighted to be
once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light, a
_servante_, hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or
placed on a bench, thrown on the faces of the _artistes_ for a few
seconds.

There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere full of
microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more
brilliant than that darkness.

One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought
she would have died with horror and disgust.

“Oh, you poor child!” she murmured, “How can you live in that?” When
once she was outside again she began to breathe freely, taking long
gasps several times. Oh! yes, I could live in it, and I could scarcely
live _except_ in it. Since then I have changed a little, but I still
have a great liking for that gloomy workshop in which we joyous
lapidaries of art cut the precious stones supplied to us by the poets.

The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed
hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed
to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in “Le Marquis de Villemer”
and “François le Champi.” In the former I took the part of the foolish
_Baroness_, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely
twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played
_Mariette_, and had great success.

Those rehearsals of the “Marquis de Villemer” and “François le Champi”
have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours.

Mme. George Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She
did not talk much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always
dreamy, and her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the
kindest expression. She had, perhaps, a medium-sized figure, but she was
no longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection,
for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!

I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as
long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.

Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to
George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I
ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped
beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I.

Mme. Sand introduced me to him in spite of my wishes. He looked at me in
an impertinent way, and I did not like him. I scarcely replied to his
compliments, and went closer to George Sand.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN “FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI.”]

“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing.

George Sand stroked my cheek gently.

“She is my little Madonna,” she answered, “do not torment her.”

I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the prince.
Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his
conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He
sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle
crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not
very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things
about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew
such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that
George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called
the prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same
time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an
_artiste_ named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in “François le Champi,”
came into the _artistes’ foyer_. Prince Napoleon was there, Mme. George
Sand, the curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and I.
This _artiste_ was common and something of an anarchist. He bowed to
Mme. Sand and, addressing the prince, said:

“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.”

The prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out and, throwing them on
the floor, remarked:

“I thought this seat was clean.”

The actor colored, picked up the gloves, and went away murmuring some
revolutionary threat.

I played the part of _Hortense_ in “Le Testament de César Girôdot,” and
of _Anna Danby_ in Alexandre Dumas’ “Kean.”

On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece the public
was very disagreeable. Dumas’ _père_ was quite out of favor, on account
of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics, for some
time past, had been exciting everyone, and the return of Victor Hugo
from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box, he was
greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began
shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak.
“My young friends ...” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are
quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in
your box.”

Dumas protested vehemently. Several members of the orchestra took his
side, for he had invited a woman into his box, and whoever that woman
might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner.
I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the
hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our
great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing,
and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had
disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when
Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering:

“No, no, this woman shall not leave the box!”

Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted,
shouted: “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few
seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas!_ _Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could
then be heard again in the midst of an uproar truly infernal. We had
been ready to commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited.
Chilly and Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.

“Courage, _mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We
will commence, anyhow, let what will happen!”

“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold
as ice and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him,
“if I get too frightened?”

“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on
playing, and don’t faint upon any account!”

The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird
cries, mewing of cats, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas!_
_Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!”

My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing _Kean_, had been received
badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the
year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I
stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. But the very same
instant the cheers of my dear friends, the students, drowned the
laughter of the disagreeable people. I took courage, and even felt a
desire to fight. But it was not necessary, for after the second,
endlessly long, harangue, in which I give an idea of my love for _Kean_,
the house was delighted, and gave me an ovation. Ignotus wrote the
following paragraph in the _Figaro_:

“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume, which
increased the tumult, but her rich voice—that astonishing voice of
hers—appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little
Orpheus.”

After “Kean” I played in “La Loterie du Mariage.” When we were
rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I
usually sat. I had a little armchair there from my dressing-room, and
put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a
little gas burner there, and I could work while waiting for my turn to
go on the stage. I loved embroidering and tapestry work. I had a
quantity of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up
one or the other as I felt inclined.

Mlle. Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created for
the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large, dark,
gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went up at
the corners in an almost imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth,
and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living
incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her
pretty hands were long and rather soft, while her slow and rather heavy
walk completed the evocation. She was the great tragedian of the Odéon
Theater. She approached me with her measured tread, followed by a young
man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.

“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance for you to
make a poet happy.” She then introduced François Coppée. I invited the
young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His
handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A
thrill of emotion went through me, for I adored Napoleon I.

“Are you a poet, monsieur?” I asked.

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was.

“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle. Agar is sure
that you will play it with her.”

“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it for him. It is a
little masterpiece, and I am sure you will have a gigantic success!”

“Oh, and you, too! You will be so beautiful in it!” said the poet,
gazing rapturously at Agar.

I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few
minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the
beautiful tragedian. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my armchair,
wanted to give it back. On my refusing it she pulled me down on her lap.
The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away together, our three
heads almost touching. It was decided that after reading the piece I
should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable of judging poetry,
and that we should then get permission from both managers to play it for
the benefit of M. X—— after the first performance. The young man was
delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a grateful smile as he
shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as far as the little
landing which projected over the stage. I watched them as they went, the
magnificent, statuelike woman and the slender outline of the young
writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was certainly
very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I could not
understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this matronly
woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she, too, appeared
to be, in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them clasp each
other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward movement, the
young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and kissed it
fervently. Agar came back to me with a faint color in her cheeks. This
was rare with her, for she had a marblelike complexion. “Here is the
manuscript,” she said, giving me a little roll of paper.

The rehearsal was over and I wished Agar good-by; and, on my way home,
read the piece while driving. I was so delighted with it that I drove
straight back to the theater to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him
coming downstairs.

“Do come back again, please,” I exclaimed.

“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as
though you have won a big lottery prize!”

“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office I
produced the manuscript.

“Read this, please,” I continued.

“I’ll take it with me,” he said.

“Oh, no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?”

“No, no,” he replied, “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming
poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued,
sitting down in his armchair. He began to read, while I looked at the
newspapers.

“It’s delicious,” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece!”

I sprang to my feet in my joy.

“And you will get Chilly to accept it?”

“Oh, yes, you can make your mind easy! But when do you want to play it?”

“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said, “and Agar,
too——”

“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a rôle that just
suits your fancy.”

“Yes, my dear Duq,” I acknowledged. “I, too, want it put on at once. Do
you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the
benefit of M. X—— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any
difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.”

“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the
scenery, though?” he muttered, meditatively, biting his nails, which
were his favorite meal when disturbed in his mind.

I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home and on
the way I put my plan before him.

We might have the scenery of “Jeanne de Signoris,” a piece that had
recently been put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered
at by the public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with
flowers, statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we
spoke of them to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost, he would
shriek, as he had done in his rôle of _Rodin_. The only thing for it was
that Agar and I would have to supply our own costumes.

On arriving at Duquesnel’s house, he suddenly asked me to go in with him
and discuss the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and,
after kissing the prettiest face imaginable, I told the owner of the
face about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin
at once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. While she was
talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming
head with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the whole face,
with its two little pink dimples! Her hair was soft and light, and
formed a halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists,
finishing with the prettiest hands imaginable, hands that were, later
on, quite famous.

On leaving the friendly couple I drove straight to Agar’s, to tell her
what had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of
hers, a priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted
with my story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a
timid ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced.

“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and
shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.”

The rehearsals of his piece, “Le Passant,” commenced very soon after
this, and were delightful, for the shy young poet was a most interesting
and intelligent talker.

The first performance took place as arranged, and “Le Passant” was a
veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and the
curtain was raised eight times for Agar and me. We tried in vain to
bring the author forward, as the public wished to see him. François
Coppée was not to be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become
famous within a few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and
myself, we were simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay
for our costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times
consecutively, to a full house. We were asked to give it at the
Tuileries, and at the house of the Princess Mathilde. Oh, that first
performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain forever, and
with my eyes shut I can see every detail again, even now.

It had been managed, between Duquesnel and the official sent from the
court, that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where
we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the
requirements of the piece. The Comte de Laferrière was to introduce me
to the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar
was to be introduced by the Princess Mathilde, for whom she was then
sitting as Minerva.

M. De Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state carriage, and
Mme. Guérard accompanied me.

M. De Laferrière was a very agreeable man with rather stiff manners. As
we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an
instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been
introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and the Comte de Laferrière
explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me: “Good luck!”
Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and
called out: “Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of
good-for-nothings!”

On arriving at the Tuileries Palace we all three got out of the
carriage, and were shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground
floor.

“I will go and inform his majesty that you are here,” said M. De
Laferrière, leaving us.

When alone with Mme. Guérard, I thought I would rehearse my three
courtesies:

“Now, _ma petite dame_,” I said, “tell me whether they are right.”

I made the courtesies, murmuring, “Sire—Sire.” I began over again
several times, looking down at my dress, as I said “Sire,” when suddenly
I heard a stifled laugh.

I stood up quickly, furious with Mme. Guérard, but I saw that she, too,
was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind me
was—the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing
quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was
embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been
courtesying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence to
my mind, and saying: “There—that’s too low, though—There, is that right,
Guérard?” “Good heavens!” I now said to myself, “has he heard all that?”
In spite of my confusion, I now made my courtesy again, but the Emperor
said, smiling:

“It’s no use, it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for
the Empress, who is expecting you.”

Oh! that “just now,” I wondered when it had been.

I could not question Mme. Guérard, as she was following at some distance
with M. De Laferrière. The Emperor was at my side, talking to me of a
hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way on
account of that “just now.”

I liked him much better like this, quite near, than in his portraits. He
had such fine eyes, which he half closed while looking through his long
lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale, and his
voice faint, but seductive.

We found the Empress seated in a large armchair. Her body was encased in
a gray dress, and seemed to have been molded into the material. I
thought her very beautiful. She, too, was more beautiful than her
portrait. I made my three courtesies under the laughing eyes of the
Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough,
hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.

From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her
graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been
introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room,
where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for
the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps, where Agar had to
pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love, and longing for
ideal love.

This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to
represent the first three steps of a huge flight, leading up to a
Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for
some shrubs and flowering plants, which I arranged along all three of
the steps.

The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of
age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar
mounted the steps to try the effect.

He was delicious, with his magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those
of his mother, and with his father’s long eyelashes. He was witty, like
the Emperor, whom people surnamed “Louis the Imbecile,” and who
certainly had the most refined, subtle, and at the same time the most
generous wit.

We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we
should return two days later for a rehearsal before their majesties.

How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the
rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of
us in the most charming manner; but her voice was very ugly. She told
the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits and to
show us over the palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much
about this, but _ma petite dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the
offer that I gave in to them.

I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been
uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor’s study
and the staircases. This inspection of the palace bored me terribly. A
few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at
Winterhalter’s portrait representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked
beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for
it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her majesty.

The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young prince
did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for it was a
dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the
_soirée_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a
costume ball which was to be given for the imperial child. Our
performance was in honor of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the
Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.”

A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had
remarkably small feet, and, in order to make them look still smaller,
she forced them into shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully
beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a
dress of pale blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair
she was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her
small feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppée’s
piece, my eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two
little feet moving restlessly about. Finally, I saw one of the shoes
pushing its little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of
the empress come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at
the toe, and I was very anxious to know how it would get back, for,
under such circumstances, the foot swells and cannot go into a shoe that
is too narrow. When the piece was over, we were recalled twice, and as
it was the Empress who gave the signal for the applause, I thought she
was putting off the moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little
sore foot trying in vain to get back into its shoe. The light curtain
went down, and as I had told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched
the various phases through the divisions in the curtains.

The Emperor rose and everyone followed his example. He offered his arm
to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet
risen. The Emperor’s face lighted up with that smile which I had already
seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and
other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a
rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of
Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her majesty’s
distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped
the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw
that the Empress leaned more heavily on the prince’s arm than she liked,
for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.

We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and
fêted so much that we were delighted with our evening.

CHAPTER X
IN FIRE AND WAR

After “Le Passant” and the famous success of that adorable piece, a
success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me and
began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was
great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the
students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and
long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes, on arriving at the
theater, as I was getting out of my carriage, I received a shower of
flowers which simply covered me, and I was delighted and used to thank
my worshipers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so
that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather
chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant, and
would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well
that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who
were very kindly disposed toward me, nevertheless. They, too, used to
spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and
less headstrong. How many times one or another of those old subscribers
would come and give me a word of advice! “Mademoiselle, you were
charming in ‘Junie,’” one of them observed, “but you bite your lips, and
the Roman women never did that!” “My dear girl,” another one said, “you
were delicious in ‘François le Champi,’ but there is not a single Breton
woman in the whole of Brittany with her hair frizzed.”

A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day, rather curtly: “It is
a want of respect, mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!”

“But, monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at
the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backward.”

“The _artistes_ we had before you, mademoiselle, who were quite as
talented, found a way of going across the stage without turning their
backs on the public.” With this he turned quickly on his heels and was
going away, but I stopped him.

“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass,
without turning your back on me?”

He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and
disappeared, slamming the door after him.

I lived for some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor,
which was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture
which my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure
against fire, as this furniture, he assured me, constituted a small
fortune. I decided to follow his advice, and asked my _petite dame_ to
take the necessary steps for me. A few days later, she told me that some
one would call about it on the 12th. On the day in question, toward two
o’clock, a gentleman called, but I was in an extremely nervous
condition, and could not see anyone. I had refused to be disturbed, and
had shut myself up in my bedroom in a frightfully depressed state. That
same evening, I received a letter from the fire insurance company,
asking me which day their agent might call to have the agreement signed.
I replied that he might come on Saturday. On Friday I was so utterly
wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come and lunch with me. I was
not playing that day, as I never used to play on Tuesdays and Fridays,
the days we went through our repertory, for, as I was playing every
other day in new pieces, it was feared that I should be overtired.

My mother, on arriving, thought I looked very pale.

“Yes,” I replied, “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in
a very nervous state and most depressed.”

The governess came to fetch my little boy to take him out for a walk,
but I would not let him go.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the child must not leave me to-day, I am afraid
of something happening.”

What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than I, with my
love for my family, was dreading.

I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It
was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a
spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was
fearfully tall, and she looked like a giantess. She was thin, and very
upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of her,
feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock
herself, although she was always accompanied by the attendant whom I had
engaged for her. Above this long lady was her little face, with two
immense, pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep
through the night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in gray,
and this neutral color gave something unreal to her general appearance.
My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My
grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire armchair,
questioned me:

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have
not heard you laugh all day.”

I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the
trouble I was dreading would come through her.

“Are you not there?” she persisted.

“Yes, I am here,” I answered, “but please do not talk to me.”

She did not utter another word, but, with her two hands on her lap, sat
there for hours. I sketched her strange, prophet-like face.

It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being
present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend,
Rose Baretta, was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a
most charming man, who was very intelligent and distinguished. His name
was Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came, too, a young journalist already
very much in vogue. I told them about my forebodings with regard to that
day, and begged them not to leave me before midnight.

“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked sprites who
are watching me will have missed their chance.”

They agreed to humor my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who ought to have gone
to some first night at one of the theaters, gave it up. Dinner was more
animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o’clock when we left
the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went away
for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I found
my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative water. I
asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible
headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the
night and then to go to bed. She thanked me and obeyed.

I went back to the drawing-room, and sitting down to the piano, played
“Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s “Last Thought.” I had not
come to the end of this last melody, when I stopped, suddenly hearing
cries in the street of “Fire! Fire!”

“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer.

“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It is not
midnight yet and I am expecting my own misfortune.”

Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts
were coming from. He stepped out on the balcony, and then came quickly
in again.

“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

I rushed to the window and saw the flames coming from the two windows of
my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room to the corridor and then
to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and his
nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door, the
bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women quickly,
wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed to the door with
my precious burden. I then ran downstairs and, crossing the street, took
him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop opposite, just at the corner of the
Rue de Caumartin. The kind man took my little slumberer in, let him lie
on a couch, where the child continued his sleep without any break. I
left him in charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back
to the flaming house.

The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived, and at all
costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was impossible
to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with smoke.
Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower still in his
buttonhole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon
on the first floor, but when once there my knees shook, it seemed as
though my heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen
door, at the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple
turn of the key. My willing companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but
not strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or
something, but just at that moment a newcomer wrenched the door open by
a violent plunge with his shoulder against it.

This new arrival was no other than M. Sohège, a friend of mine. He was a
most charming and excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known
in Paris, very lively and kind, and always ready to do anyone a service.
I took my friends to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed,
out of breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her.
This maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from
Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in
the street, the noise of the fire engines, which had arrived at last,
and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the
maid, while I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and
why we were in her room.

“Very good,” she said: and then she added, calmly, “will you give me the
box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of
it is here.”

“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning to come in
here. We have not any time to lose.”

“Well, do as you like, I shall not leave without my box!” With the help
of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer, we put my grandmother on Sohège’s
back, in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she was
extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was
afraid she might get them injured. Sohège, therefore, took her in his
arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke
stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a
faint.

When I came to myself, I was in my mother’s bed. My little boy was
asleep in my sister’s room, and my grandmother was installed in a large
armchair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression
on her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at
last my mother was angry, and reproached her severely in Dutch with only
caring for herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward,
as though to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which
surrounded her. Her thin body wrapped in an Indian shawl of many colors,
the hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all contributed
to make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did
not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he had six big
children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the youngest, my uncle,
five years. This second wife had never had any children of her own, and
she had been indifferent and even hard toward those of her husband, and
consequently she was not liked in the family. I had taken her in because
smallpox had broken out in the family with whom she had been boarding.
She had then wished to stay with me, and I had not had courage enough to
oppose her. On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she
behaved so badly that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I
resolved not to have her any longer in my house.

News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage, and burned
everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very last book
in my library. My greatest trouble was that I lost a magnificent
portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist very much in
vogue under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father, and a very pretty
pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewelry, and all that was
found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a huge shapeless
mass which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set with diamonds
and pearls, given to me by Kabil Bey, after a performance at his house.
The ashes of this had to be riddled in order to find the stones. The
diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted.

I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had
left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other
useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own
it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a
shell of gold, set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh,
how beautiful it was and how droll! It used to wander round my flat,
accompanied by a small tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its servant,
and I amused myself for hours watching Chrysagère, flashing with a
hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon. Both my tortoises
died in this fire.

Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to see me a few
weeks later, for he had just received a summons from the fire insurance
company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day before the
catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum from me for damages to the
other tenants of the house. The second story was almost entirely
destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be propped up.
I did not possess the forty thousand francs claimed. Duquesnel offered
to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free me from
my difficulty. De Chilly was very walling to agree to anything that
would be of service to me. This benefit was a wonderful success, thanks
to the presence of the adorable Adelina Patti. The young singer, who was
then the Marquise de Caux, had never before sung at a benefit
performance, and it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news that “La
Patti” was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the afternoon,
to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving to me her
sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was announced, every seat in the
house was promptly taken, at prices which were higher than those
originally fixed. She had no reason to regret her friendly action, for
never was any triumph more complete. The students greeted her with three
cheers as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this
noise of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her two
little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating as to
whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She looked so pretty, so
smiling, and when she trilled out the gemlike notes of her wonderful
voice the whole house was delirious with excitement. Everyone sprang up
and the students stood on their seats, waved their hats and
handkerchiefs, nodded their young heads, in their feverish enthusiasm
for art, and encored with intonations of the most touching supplication.
The divine singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing
the _cavatina_ from the “Barber of Seville,” _Una voce poco fa_.

I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theater
escorted by the students, who followed her carriage for a long way,
shouting over and over again: “Long live Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that
evening’s performance I was able to pay the insurance company. I was
ruined all the same, or very nearly so.

I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped for room
there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade. It was a
wretched house and the flat was dark. I was wondering how I should get
out of my difficulties, when one morning M. C——, my father’s notary, was
announced. This was the man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that
he should be shown in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so
long a time. He told me that he had just returned from Hombourg, that he
had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and had now come
to put himself at my service. In spite of my distrust, I was touched by
this, and I related to him the whole drama of my fire. I did not know
how it had started, but I vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having
placed my lighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of
my bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was on this
little piece of furniture that she always placed my water bottle and
glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples, for I like eating
apples when I wake in the night. On opening the door there was always a
terrible draught, as the windows were left open until I went to bed. On
closing the door after her the lace bed curtains had probably caught
fire. I could not explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had
several times seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I
supposed that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to
bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was going to
undress myself, she prepared everything and then came in and told me,
but this time she had not done so. As a rule, too, I just went into the
room myself to see that everything was right, and several times I had
been obliged to move the candle. That day, however, was destined to
bring me misfortune of some kind, though it was not a very great one.

“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?”

“No, I was to sign my policy the day after the event.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the man of law; “and to think that I have been told you
set the flat on fire yourself, for the sake of picking up a large sum
for damages!”

I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this effect in a
newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I already had a certain
disdain for tittle-tattle.

“Oh, well, I must arrange matters for you, if things are like this,”
said Maître C——. “You are really better off than you imagine as regards
the money on your father’s side,” he continued. “As your grandmother
leaves you an annuity, you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to
insure your life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of
the purchaser.” I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted at
such a windfall. This man promised to send me, two days after his
return, 120,000 francs, and he kept his word.

My reason for giving the details of this little episode, which after all
belongs to my life, is to show how differently things turn out from what
seems likely, according to logic or according to our own expectations.
It is quite certain that the accident, which just then happened to me,
scattered to the winds the hopes and plans of my life. I had arranged
for myself a luxurious home with the money that my father and his mother
had left me. I had reserved and placed out the amount necessary to
complete my monthly salary for the next two years, and I was reckoning
that at the end of the two years I should be in a position to demand a
very large salary. And all these arrangements had been upset by the
carelessness of a domestic. I had rich relatives and very rich friends,
but not one among them stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch
into which I had fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going
on to the stage. And yet, Heaven knows what tears it had cost me to take
up this career that had been forced upon me! My Uncle Faure came to see
me at my mother’s house, but my aunt would not listen to a word about
me. I used to see my cousin secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister.
My rich friends considered that I was wildly extravagant, and could not
understand why I did not place the money I had inherited in good, sound
investments.

I received a great deal of poetry on the subject of my fire. Most of the
pieces were anonymous; I have kept them, however, and I quote the
following one, which is rather nice:

_Passant_, te voilà sans abri:
La flamme a ravagé ton gîte.
Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;
Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,
S’exhalant en gémissements
Sur tout ce que le feu dévore.
Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...
Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!

Ne regrette pas ces colliers;
Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!
Tu trouveras dans les halliers,
Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!
Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir
Qui sur l’envers du fossépousse!
Et le cadre de ton miroir
Est une bordure de mousse!

Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:
Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!
Sur les bras polis de Vénus,
Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!
Garde ton charme si puissant!
Ton parfum de plante sauvage!
Laisse les bijoux, _O Passant_,
A celles que le temps ravage!

Avec ta guitare à ton cou,
Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!
Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....
Par la plaine et par la montagne!
Passe, comme la plume au vent!
Comme le son de ta mandore!
Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant
Les flancs d’une barque sonore!

The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue sent me the
following letter, which I quote word for word:

MADAME: If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in our
large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on
the first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a
small boudoir and a bath room. It is of course, understood that this
suite of rooms would be yours free of charge if you would consent to
do as I ask.

Yours truly, etc....

P. S.—You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants for
your drawing-room.

This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one of my friends
to go and give the low fellow his answer.

I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without
comfort and luxury.

I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not without great
sorrow. I had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I
should have to accept it. Mme. Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did
not mention my plan to anyone else. The idea of Russia terrified her,
for at that time my chest was very delicate and cold was my most cruel
enemy. It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer
arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the clever and,
for him, profitable combination, which was to change my whole life once
more.

I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome.
It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There
were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my
grandmother to live at a home kept by lay Sisters and nuns. She was a
Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her
religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took with
her her own maid, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was
accustomed. When I went to see her she told me that she was much better
off there than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your
boy too noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing
my mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her.
She was happy, and that was the essential thing.

I now played in “Le Bâtard,” in which I had great success; in
“L’Affranchi,” in “L’Autre,” by George Sand, and in “Jean-Marie,” a
little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant
success. Porel played the part of _Jean-Marie_. He was at that time
slender, and full of hope as regarded his future. Since then his
slenderness has developed into plumpness and his hope into certitude.

Evil days then came upon us! Paris began to get feverish and excited.
The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and
gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant
groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were
yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew; while we—did not
know!

I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was
ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me
shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset
by the distant cries of human voices.

Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime,
abetted, forgiven, and glorified!

On the 19th of July, war was seriously declared and Paris then became
the theater of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and
delicate as I was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men
gone wild, who were yelling the “Marseillaise,” and rushing along the
streets in close file, shouting over and over again; “To Berlin! To
Berlin!”

My heart used to beat wildly for I, too, thought that they were going to
Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked
us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that
they were getting ready for this great occasion without sufficient
respect and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when
I saw all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying,
holding their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most
frightful anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly,
and I was wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the
horrible catastrophe that was to take place.

The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did not want to
leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of excitement. My
weakness increased though, day by day, and on the 27th day of July I was
taken away in spite of myself. Mme. Guérard, my manservant, and my maid
accompanied me, and I also took my child with me.

At the stations there were posters everywhere, announcing that the
Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army.

On arriving at Eaux-Bonnes, I was obliged to go to bed. My condition was
considered very serious by Dr. Langlet, who told me afterwards that he
certainly thought I was going to die. I vomited blood and had to have a
piece of ice in my mouth all the time. At the end of about twelve days,
however, I began to get up, and after this I soon recovered my strength
and my calmness, and went for long rides.

The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a
certain emotion felt by everyone on hearing that the young Prince
Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck, in the
engagement commanded by General Frossard.

Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence in the
issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked on such an
adventure. But, alas! the glorious progress which my brain had been so
active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from St. Privat.
The political news was posted up every day in the little garden of the
Casino at Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get information.
Detesting tranquillity, as I did, I used to send my manservant to copy
the telegrams. Oh, how grievous it was, that terrible telegram from St.
Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful butchery, of Marshal
Canrobert’s heroic defense, and of Bazaine’s first treachery in not
going to the rescue of his comrades.

I knew Canrobert and liked him immensely. Later on he was one of my
faithful friends, and I shall always remember the exquisite hours spent
in listening to his accounts of the bravery of others—never of his own.
And what an abundance of anecdotes, what wit, what charm!

This news of the battle of St. Privat caused my feverishness to return.
My sleep was full of nightmares and I had a relapse. The news was worse
every day. After St. Privat came Gravelotte where 36,000 men, French and
German, were cut down in a few hours. Then came the sublime but
powerless efforts of MacMahon, who was repulsed as far as Sedan, and
finally Sedan!

Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the
night before amid a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the groans
of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. The month of
September, though, was cursed from its very birth. Its first war cry was
stifled back by the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny.

A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen had to capitulate,
and the Emperor of France had to hand his sword over to the King of
Prussia!

Ah, that cry of grief, that cry of rage uttered by the whole nation! It
can never be forgotten!

On the first of September toward ten o’clock Claude, my manservant,
knocked at my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me his copy of the
first telegrams: “Battle of Sedan commenced.... MacMahon wounded ...
etc., etc.” “Ah, go back again!” I said, “and as soon as a fresh
telegram comes, bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of,
something great—and quite different—is going to happen. We have suffered
so terribly this last month that there can only be something good now,
something fine; for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go
at once, Claude,” I added, and then full of confidence, I soon fell
asleep again, and was so tired that I slept until one o’clock. When I
awoke, my maid Elicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated
near my bed. Her pretty face and her large, dark eyes were so mournful
that my heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put
into my hands the copy of the last telegram: “The Emperor Napoleon has
just handed over his sword....”

The blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control it. I
lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped through my lips with the
groans of my whole being.

For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Langlet sent for one of
my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Mannoir. He came at once,
bringing with him his young wife. She, too, was very ill, worse in
reality than I was, in spite of her fresh look, for she died six months
later. Thanks to their care and to the energetic treatment of Dr.
Langlet I came through alive from this attack.

I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be
proclaimed and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the
capital. Independently of this, everyone at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with
a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post chaise was
found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to take me to
the next train that came. When once in it, we were more or less
comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to find
five seats in the express from there. My manservant was allowed to
travel with the engine driver. I do not know where Mme. Guérard and my
maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy,
there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child
back when I had put him in, but I pushed him again energetically in my
turn.

“No human force will make us get out of this carriage again,” I said;
“do you hear that, you ugly old man? We are here and we shall stay.”

A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three ordinary persons,
exclaimed:

“Well, that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It’s shameful to
let eleven persons get into a compartment where there are only seats for
eight!”

“Will you get out, then?” I retorted, turning to her quickly, “for
without you there would only be seven of us.”

The stifled laughter of the other travelers showed me that I had won
over my audience. Three young men offered me their places, but I
refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The three young men had
risen and they declared that they would also stand, then. The stout lady
called a railway official. “Come here, please,” she began. The official
stopped an instant at the door.

“It is perfectly shameful,” she went on. “There are eleven in this
compartment, and it is impossible to move.”

“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men. “Just look for
yourself; we are standing up and there are three seats empty; send us
some more people in here!”

The official went away laughing and muttering something about the woman
who had complained. She turned to the young man and began to talk
abusively to him. He bowed very respectfully in reply, and said:

“Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We will seat
seven on the other side, including the child, and then you will only be
four on your side.”

The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways at the stout
lady and murmured: “Four! four!” His look and tone showed that he
considered the stout lady took up more than one seat. This look and tone
were not lost on the young man, and before the ugly old man had
comprehended he said to him: “Will you come over here, and have this
corner? All the thin people will be together, then,” he added, inviting
a placid, calm-looking young Englishman of about eighteen to twenty
years of age to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman had the body of
a prize fighter with a face like that of a fair-haired baby. A very
young woman, opposite the stout one, laughed till the tears came. All
six of us then found room on the thin people’s side of the carriage. We
were a little crushed, but had been considerably enlivened by this
little entertainment, and we certainly needed something to enliven us.
The young man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way, was
tall and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost white,
and this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and youthfulness.
My boy was on his knee during the night. With the exception of the
child, the stout lady, and the young Englishman, no one went to sleep.
The heat was overpowering, and the war was of course discussed. After
some hesitation, one of the young men told me that I resembled Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt. I answered that there was every reason why I should
resemble her. The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had
recognized me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron von
Zelern or Von Zelen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man
with the white hair was Felix Faure. He told me that he was from Hâvre,
and that he knew my grandmother very well. I kept up a certain
friendship with these three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit
became my enemy. All three are now dead; Albert Delpit died a
disappointed man, for he had tried everything, and succeeded in nothing;
the Dutch baron died in a railway accident, and Felix Faure as President
of the French Republic.

The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself in her turn:

“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Mme. Laroque....”

“Of Bordeaux?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My mother’s brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux, so that we
were able to talk of our family. Altogether the journey did not seem
very long, in spite of the heat, the overcrowding, and our thirst.

The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands warmly with each
other. The stout lady’s husband was awaiting her with a telegram in his
hand. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a cry, burst
into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wandering what sorrow
had come upon her. Poor woman, I could no longer see anything ridiculous
about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought that we had been
laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already singled her out.

On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her
sometime during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my
health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family,
with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the
siege. My mother, my little boy, and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt
Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother’s maid, were all ready to
start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the
possibility of doing so, another. The stations were invaded by families
like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my manservant
to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with his
clothes torn, after receiving various kicks and blows.

“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me. “It is quite
impossible. I should not be able to protect her. And then, too, madame
will not be alone; there is madame’s mother, the other ladies, and the
children. It is really quite impossible.”

I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and
asked them to accompany me. I told my butler to be ready, as well as my
other manservant, and my mother’s footman. He, in his turn, invited his
younger brother, who was a priest and who was very willing to go with
us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in
all, and only nine who were really traveling. Our eight protectors were
not too many, for they were not human beings who were taking tickets,
but wild beasts, haunted by fear, and spurred on by a desire to escape.
These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading
to the train, and then the train which would insure their escape. The
presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious
character made people refrain sometimes from blows.

When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been
reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the
train started. A shudder of terror then ran through me, for I suddenly
felt so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated
from the little child who was dearer to me than the whole world.

Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured:
“My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you
be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?”

It was Mme. Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was
there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting
that I had sent him away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be
fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I
might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in
Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that
everyone who was well ought to stay in Paris. In spite of my weakness I
felt that I was well, and with reason, as I proved later on. I therefore
stayed, not knowing at all what I was going to do.

CHAPTER XI
I ESTABLISH MY WAR HOSPITAL

For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the usual life around me,
and missing the affection of those I loved. The defense, however, was
being organized, and I decided to use my strength and intelligence in
tending the wounded. The question was where could we install an
_ambulance_?

The Odéon Theater had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to
get permission to organize an _ambulance_ at the Odéon, and, thanks to
Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was granted. I went to the War
Office and made my declaration, and my request and my offers were
accepted for a military _ambulance_.

The next difficulty was that I wanted food. I wrote a line to the
Prefect of Police. A military courier arrived very soon after my letter,
bringing me a note from the prefect, containing the following lines:

MADAME: If you could possibly come at once I would wait for you until
six o’clock. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the
Chamber at nine in the morning, and as your note seems to be urgent, I
am anxious to do all I can to be of service to you.

COMTE DE KÉRATRY.

I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my
aunt’s house the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini. He
was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had
introduced me to his mother, a very charming woman, and I had recited
poetry at her _soirées_. The young lieutenant had gone to Mexico and for
some time we had kept up a correspondence, but this had gradually
ceased, and we had not met again. I asked Mme. Guérard whether she
thought that the prefect might be a near relative of my young friend’s.
“It may be so,” she replied, and we discussed this in the carriage which
was taking us at once to the Tuileries Palace, where the prefect had his
offices. My heart was very heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a
few months previously, one April morning, I had been there with Mme.
Guérard. Then, as now, a footman had come forward to open the door of my
carriage, but the April sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught
the shining lamps of the state carriages, and sent its rays in all
directions. There had been a busy, joyful coming and going of the
officers, and elegant salutes had been exchanged. On this occasion the
misty, crafty-looking November sun fell heavily on all it touched.
Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up one after the other, knocking against
the iron gate, grazing the steps, advancing or moving back, according to
the coarse shouts of their drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations,
I heard now such phrases as:

“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, the wooden jaws!” “Well, any news?”
“Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” etc., etc.... The palace was no
longer the same. The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume
which elegant women leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A
vague odor of tobacco, of greasy clothes, of hair plastered with pomatum
made the atmosphere seem heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I
could see her again in her blue dress embroidered with silver, calling
to her aid Cinderella’s good fairy to help her on again with her little
slipper. The delightful young Prince Imperial, too; I could see him
helping me to place the pots of verbena and Marguerites, and holding in
his arms, which were not strong enough for it, a huge pot of
rhododendrons, behind which his handsome face completely disappeared. I
could see the Emperor Napoleon III himself, with his half-closed eyes,
clapping his hands at the rehearsal of the courtesies intended for him.

The fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the
carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a
foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And
the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the
battlefield. Two horses had been killed under him, but he had not
received so much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword.
And we, at home, had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this
giving up of the sword. Yet what courage it must have required for this
brave man to carry out such an act! He had wanted to save a hundred
thousand men, to spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a
hundred thousand mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some
day do him justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas! alas!
he was too confiding!

I stopped a minute before entering the prefect’s suite of rooms. I was
obliged to wipe my eyes, and, in order to change the current of my
thoughts, I said to my _petite dame_:

“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first
time?”

“Oh, yes!” she replied warmly.

“So much the better!” I said, “for I want this old prefect to think me
pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for.”

On entering his room, what was my surprise to recognize in him the
lieutenant I knew. He had become captain and then prefect of the Seine.
When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and
came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out.

“Ah, you had forgotten me!” he said; and then he turned to greet Mme.
Guérard in a friendly way.

“But I never thought I was coming to see you,” I replied; “and I am
delighted,” I continued, “for you will let me have everything I ask
for.”

“Only that!” he remarked, with a short burst of laughter. “Well, will
you give your orders, madame?” he continued.

“Yes, I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy,
potatoes, eggs, coffee,” I said in one breath.

“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the count-prefect. “You speak so
quickly that I am gasping.”

I was quiet a moment, and then I continued:

“I have started an _ambulance_ at the Odéon, but as it is a military
_ambulance_, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five
wounded men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men
are being sent to me, and I shall have to give them food.”

“You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes,” said the
prefect. “There is food in the palace which was being stored by the
unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I
will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as
regards these I will give orders that your _ambulance_ shall be included
in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will
give you an order for salt and some other things, which you will be able
to get from the Opera.”

“From the Opera!” I repeated, looking at him incredulously. “But it is
only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet.”

“Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding
opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase
leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with
what you want.”

“There is still something else I want to ask,” I said.

“Go on, I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,” he replied.

“Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a stock of powder
in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a
shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that
is not the aim and object of an _ambulance_.”

“You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing could be more
stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about
that, though,” he continued, “for I shall have to deal with a crowd of
stubborn _bourgeois_, who want to organize the defense in their own way.
You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential
householders and tradespeople in the neighborhood. Now are you
satisfied?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, shaking hands with him cordially with both hands. “You
have been most kind and charming. Thank you very much.”

I then moved toward the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as
though hypnotized by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Mme. Guérard saw
what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently:

“My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.”

I looked beseechingly at the young prefect, but he did not understand.

“What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?” he asked.

I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.

“I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand at
all.”

I was still pointing to the coat.

“Give it me, will you?” I said.

“My overcoat?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want it for?”

“For my wounded men when they are convalescent.”

He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this
uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.

“There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a poor fellow, for
instance, whose two fingers have been taken off. He does not need to
stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier’s cape is not warm
enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon
sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I
tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s
overcoat, when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge,
and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity
again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like
a very warm one.”

I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young
prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his
overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the
largest pocket.

“Will you allow me to keep my muffler?” he asked.

I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent. Our host then
rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the overcoat, and said
in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his eyes:

“Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?”

I thanked him again and went away feeling very happy.

Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the
signatures of the householders and tradesmen living near the Odéon.

On entering the prefect’s room I was petrified to see him, instead of
advancing to meet me, rush toward a cupboard, open the door, and fling
something hastily into it. After this he leaned back against the door as
though to prevent my opening it.

“Excuse me,” he said, in a witty, mocking tone, “but I took a violent
cold after your first visit. I have just put my overcoat—oh, only an
ugly, old overcoat, not a warm one,” he added quickly, “but still an
overcoat, inside there, and there it is now, and I will take the key out
of the lock.”

He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came forward and
found me a chair. Our conversation soon took a more serious turn,
though, for the news was very bad. For the last twelve days the
_ambulances_ had been crowded with the wounded. Everything was in a bad
way, home politics as well as foreign politics. The Germans were
advancing on Paris. The Army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta,
Chanzy, Bourbaki, and Trochn were organizing a desperate defense. We
talked for some time about all these sad things, and I told him about
the painful impression I had had on my last visit to the Tuileries, of
my remembrance of everyone, so brilliant, so considerate, and so happy
formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at present. We were silent for a
moment, and then I shook hands with him, told him I had received all he
had sent, and returned to my _ambulance_.

[Illustration: AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF SARAH BERNHARDT.]

The prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of brandy; 30,000
eggs all packed in boxes with lime and bran; a hundred bags of coffee,
boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert biscuits, a thousand tins of
preserve, and a quantity of other things. M. Menier, the great chocolate
manufacturer, had sent me five hundred pounds of chocolate. One of my
friends, who was a flour dealer, had made me a present of twenty sacks
of flour, ten of which were maize flour. Félix Potin, my neighbor when I
was living at 11 Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by
sending two barrels of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks
of rice, two sacks of lentils, and twenty sugar loaves. From M. De
Rothschild I had received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of
his own wine for the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected
present. Léonie Dubourg, an old schoolfellow of mine at the Grandchamps
Convent, sent me fifty tin boxes, each containing four pounds of salt
butter. She had married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated
his own farms, which it seems were very numerous. I was very much
touched at her remembering me, for I had never seen her since the old
days at the convent. I had also asked for all the overcoats and slippers
of my various friends, and I had bought up a job lot of two hundred
flannel vests. My Aunt Betty, my blind grandmother’s sister, who is
still living in Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed
to get for me, through the delightful Dutch Ambassador, Baron ——, three
hundred night shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a hundred pairs of
sheets. I received lint and bandages from every corner of Paris, but it
was more particularly from the Palais de l’Industrie that I used to get
my provisions of lint and linen for binding wounds. There was an
adorable woman there, named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all
the _ambulances_. All that she did was done with a cheerful
gracefulness, and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused
sorrowfully, but still in a gracious manner. She was at that time more
than thirty years of age, and although unmarried she looked more like a
young married woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes, and a laughing
mouth, a deliciously oval face, little dimples, and crowning all this
grace, this dreamy expression and this coquettish, inviting mouth, a
wide forehead like that of the virgins painted by the early painters, a
wide and rather prominent forehead, encircled by hair worn in smooth,
wide, flat bandeaux, separated by a faultless parting. The forehead
seemed like the protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle.
Hocquigny was adored by everyone, and made much of, but she remained
invulnerable to all homage. She was happy in being beloved, but she
would not allow anyone to express affection for her.

At the Palais de l’Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated doctors
and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as the convalescents, were
all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny. As she and I were great
friends, she confided to me her observations and her sorrowful disdain.
Thanks to her I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organized my
_ambulance_ with a very small staff. My cook was installed in the public
_foyer_. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she could
make soups and herb tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief attendant.
I had given him two assistants, and Mme. Guérard, Mme. Lambquin, and I
were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we each went to bed
every third night. I preferred this to taking on some woman whom I did
not know. Mme. Lambquin belonged to the Odéon, where she used to take
the part of the duennas. She was plain and had a common face, but she
was very talented. She talked loud and was very plain spoken. She called
a spade a spade, and liked frankness and no under meaning to things. At
times she was a trifle embarrassing with the crudeness of her words and
her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert, and devoted. My various
friends who were on service at the fortifications came to me in their
free time to do my secretarial work. I had to keep a book, which was
shown every day to a sergeant who came from the Val-de-Grâce military
hospital, giving all details as to how many men came into our
_ambulance_, how many died, and how many recovered and left. Paris was
in a state of siege, and no one could go far outside the walls, and no
news from outside could be received. The Germans were not, however,
round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then to see me,
and I had, as head surgeon, Dr. Duchesne, who gave up his whole time,
night and day, to the care of my poor men during the five months that
this truly frightful nightmare lasted.

I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion. It was
no longer the country in danger that kept my nerves strung up, but the
sufferings of all her children. There were all those who were away
fighting, those who were brought in to us wounded or dying, the noble
women of the people, who stood for hours and hours in the _queue_ to get
the necessary dole of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones
at home. Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theater
windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and stamping
their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing, for that winter was
the most cruel one we had had for twenty years. Frequently one of these
poor, silent heroines was brought in to me, either in a swoon from
fatigue, or struck down suddenly with congestion caused by cold. On the
20th of December, three of these unfortunate women were brought into the
_ambulance_. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost the big toe
of her right foot. The second was an enormously stout woman, who was
suckling her child, and her poor breasts were harder than wood. She
simply howled with pain. The youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen
to eighteen years of age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I
had had her placed to send her home. On the 24th of December, there were
fifteen degrees of cold. I often sent William, our attendant, out with a
little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh, the suffering they must have
endured, those heartbroken mothers, those sisters, and _fiancées_, in
their terrible dread! How excusable their rebellion seems during the
Commune, and even their bloodthirsty madness!

My _ambulance_ was full. I had sixty beds and was obliged to improvise
ten more. The soldiers were installed in the _artistes’ foyer_ and in
the general _foyer_, and the officers in a room which had formerly been
used for refreshments.

One day a young Breton named Marie le Gallec was brought in. He had been
struck by a bullet in the chest and another in the wrist. Dr. Duchesne
bound up his chest firmly and splintered his wrist. He then said to me
very simply:

“Let him have everything he likes, he is dying.”

I bent over his bed and said to him:

“Tell me anything that would give you pleasure, Marie le Gallec?”

“Soup,” he answered promptly, in the most comic way.

Mme. Guérard hurried away to the kitchen and soon returned with a bowl
of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the bowl on the little wooden
shelf with four short legs which was so convenient for the meals of our
poor sufferers. The wounded man looked up at me and said:

“Barra!” I did not understand, and he repeated: “Barra!” His poor chest
caused him to hiss out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to
repeat his emphatic request. I sent immediately to the Marine Office
thinking that there would surely be some Breton seamen there, and I
explained my difficulty, and my ignorance of the Breton dialect. I was
informed that the word “barra” meant bread. I hurried at once to Le
Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up and, taking it
from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let the
pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle of
the broth and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand
upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier
smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the
young priest from St. Sulpice, who had my _ambulance_ in charge,
arrived. I had sent for him on hearing the doctor’s sad verdict. He laid
his hand gently on the young man’s shoulder, thus stopping the movement
of his arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the
Holy Cup.

“Oh!” he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the
steaming soup, he put his hands together. We had arranged the two
screens, which we used for isolating the dead or dying, around his bed.
He was left alone with the priest while I went on my rounds to calm the
murmurers, or help the believers to raise themselves for the prayer. The
young priest soon pushed aside the partition, and I then saw Marie le
Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his abominable bread sop. He fell
asleep soon afterward, roused up to ask for something to drink, and died
immediately, in a slight fit of choking.

Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came
into my _ambulance_, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely
upset me. I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age,
but I could nevertheless see the cowardliness of some of the men, and
the heroism of many of the others. A young Savoyard eighteen years old
had had his forefinger taken off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he
had shot it off himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that.
I noticed, though, that in spite of our nursing and care the wound did
not heal. I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw
that the bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Mme. Lambquin,
who was sitting up that night together with Mme. Guérard.

“Good; I will keep my eye on him; you go to sleep, my child, and count
on me.”

The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught the young
man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife. I called him and
told him that I should have to report this to the Val-de-Grâce Hospital.
He began to weep and vowed to me that he would never do it again, and
five days later he was well. I signed the paper authorizing him to leave
the _ambulance_, and he was sent to the army of the defense. I often
wondered what became of him.

Another of our patients bewildered us, too. Each time that his wound
seemed to be just on the point of healing up, he had a violent attack of
dysentery which threw him back. This seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne,
and he asked me to watch the man. At the end of a considerable time, we
were convinced that our wounded man had thought out the most comical
scheme. He slept next the wall and therefore had no neighbor on the one
side. During the night, he managed to file the brass of his bedstead. He
put the filings in a little pot which had been used for ointment of some
kind. A few drops of water and some salt mixed with this powdered brass
formed a poison, which might have cost its inventor his life. I was
furious at this stratagem. I wrote to the Val-de-Grâce, and an
_ambulance_ conveyance was sent to take this unpatriotic Frenchman away.

But side by side with these despicable men, what heroism we saw! A young
captain was brought in one day. He was a tall fellow, a regular
Hercules, with a superb head, and a frank expression. On my book he was
described as Captain Menesson. He had been struck by a bullet at the top
of the arm, just at the shoulder. With a nurse’s assistance I was trying
as gently as possible to take off his cloak, when three bullets fell
from the hood which he had pulled over his head, and I counted sixteen
bullet holes in the cloak. The young officer had stood upright for three
hours, serving as a target himself, while covering the retreat of his
men as they fired all the time on the enemy. This had taken place among
the Champigny vines. He had been brought in unconscious in a hospital
conveyance. He had lost a great deal of blood, and was half dead with
fatigue and weakness. He was very gentle and charming, and thought
himself sufficiently well two days later to return to the fight. The
doctor, however, would not allow this, and his sister, who was a nun,
besought him to wait until he was something like well again.

“Oh, not quite well,” she said, smiling; “but just well enough to have
strength to fight.”

Soon after he came into the _ambulance_ the Cross of the Legion of Honor
was brought for him, and this was a moment of intense emotion for
everyone. The unfortunate wounded men who could not move turned their
suffering faces toward him and, with their eyes shining through a mist
of tears, gave him a fraternal look. The more convalescent among them
held out their hands to the young giant.

It was Christmas Eve, and I had decorated the _ambulance_ with festoons
of green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels in front of the Virgin
Mary, and the young priest from St. Sulpice came to take part in our
poor but poetical Christmas service. He repeated some beautiful prayers,
and the wounded men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad,
solemn songs, full of charm. Porel, the present manager of the
Vaudeville Theater, had been wounded on the Avron Plateau. He was then
convalescent, and was one of my guests, together with two officers now
ready to leave the _ambulance_. That Christmas supper is one of my most
charming and at the same time most melancholy memories. It was served in
the small room which we had made into a bedroom. Our three beds were
covered with draperies and skins which I had fetched from home, and we
used them as seats.

Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five yards of white pigs’ pudding,[1] the
famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers who were well enough,
were delighted with this delicacy. One of my friends had had twenty
large brioche cakes made for me, and I had ordered some large bowls of
punch, the colored flames from which amused the grown-up sick children
immensely. The young priest from St. Sulpice accepted a piece of brioche
and, after taking a little white wine, left us. Ah, how charming and
good he was, that poor young priest! And how well he managed to make
that unbearable Fortin cease talking. Gradually the latter began to get
humanized, until finally he began to think the priest was a good sort of
fellow. Poor young priest! He was shot by the Communists, and I cried
for days and days over his murder.

Footnote 1:

In France “_white pudding_” is as often eaten as “_black pudding_,”
and is somewhat similar in taste.

CHAPTER XII
MORE HOSPITAL DAYS

The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy held Paris day by
day in a still closer grip. Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold
enveloped the city, and the poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only
slightly wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal, their
brains numbed and their bodies half frozen.

No more news could be received from outside; but thanks to the United
States Minister, who had chosen to remain in Paris, a letter arrived
from time to time. It was in this way that I received a thin slip of
paper, as delicate as a primrose petal, bringing me the following
message: “Everyone well. Courage. A thousand kisses. Your mother.” This
impalpable missive dated from seventeen days previously.

And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at The Hague all
this time, and my mind which had been continually traveling in their
direction had been wandering along the wrong route, toward Hâvre, where
I thought they were established tranquilly at the house of a cousin of
my father’s mother.

I had my two aunts living at The Hague, but the question was, Were they
there at this time? I no longer knew, and from that moment I never
ceased suffering the most anxious and torturing mental distress.

I was doing all in my power just then to have some wood for burning.
Comte de Kératry had sent me a large provision before his departure to
the provinces, in a balloon, on the 9th of October. I was now very
short, and I would not allow the stock we had in the cellars to be
touched, so that we should not be quite without fuel in case of an
emergency. I had all the little footstools belonging to the theater used
for firewood, all the wooden cases in which the accessories were kept, a
good number of old Roman benches, armchairs, and curule chairs that were
stowed away under the Odéon, and, indeed, everything which came to hand.
Finally, taking pity on my despair, pretty Mlle. Hocquigny sent me about
twenty thousand pounds’ weight of wood, and I then took courage again.

I had been told about some new system of keeping meat, by which the meat
neither lost its juices nor its nutritive quality. I sent Mme. Guérard
to the Council House, in the neighborhood of the Odéon, where such
provisions were distributed, but some brute answered her that when I had
removed all the Buddhistic images from my _ambulance_ I should receive
the necessary food. M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary
holding an influential post, had been to inspect my _ambulance_. The
important personage had requested me to have the beautiful white
Virgins, which were on the mantelpieces and tables, taken away, as well
as the Divine Crucified One, hanging on the wall of each room in which
there were any of the wounded. I refused in a somewhat insolent and very
decided way to act in accordance with the wish of my visitor; whereupon,
the famous republican turned his back on me, and gave orders that I
should be refused everything at the Council House. I was very
determined, however, and I moved heaven and earth until I succeeded in
being included for the distribution of food, in spite of the orders of
the chief. It is only fair to say that the mayor was a charming man.
Mme. Guérard returned after her third visit, with a child pushing a hand
barrow containing ten enormous bottles of the miraculous meat. I
received the precious consignment with infinite joy, for my men had been
almost without meat for the last three days; and the beloved
_pot-au-feu_ was an almost necessary resource for the poor wounded
fellows. On all the bottles were directions as to opening them: “Let the
meat soak so many hours, etc., etc.”

Mme. Lambquin, Mme. Guérard, and I, together with all the staff of the
infirmary, were soon grouped, anxiously and inquisitively, around these
glass receptacles.

I told the head attendant to open the largest of the bottles, in which
through the glass we could see an enormous piece of beef, surrounded by
thick, muddy-looking water. The string, fastened round the rough paper
which hid the cork, was cut and then, just as the man was about to put
the corkscrew in, a deafening explosion was heard, and a rank odor
filled the room. Everyone rushed away terrified. I called them all back,
scared and disgusted as they were, and showed them the following words
on the directions: “Do not be alarmed at the bad odor on opening the
bottle.” Courageously, and with resignation, we took up our work once
more, though we felt sick all the time from the abominable exhalation. I
took the beef out and placed it on a dish that had been brought for the
purpose. Five minutes later this meat turned blue, and then black, and
the stench from it was so unbearable that I decided to throw it away.
Mme. Lambquin was wiser, though, and more reasonable.

“No, oh, no, my dear girl,” she said; “in these times it will not do to
throw meat away, even though it may be rotten. Let us put it in the
glass bottle again and send it back to the Council House.” I followed
her wise advice, and it was a very good thing I did, for another
_ambulance_, installed at Boulevard de Medicis, on opening these bottles
of meat had been as horrified as we were and had thrown the contents
into the street. A few minutes after the crowd had gathered round in a
mob and, refusing to listen to anything, had yelled out insults
addressed to “the aristocrats,” “the clericals,” and “the traitors,” who
were throwing good meat, intended for the sick, into the street, so that
the dogs were enjoying it, while the people were starving with hunger.
It was with the greatest difficulty that the wretched, mad people had
been prevented from invading the _ambulance_, and when one of the
unfortunate nurses had gone out, later on, she had been mobbed, and
beaten, until she was left half dead from fright and blows. She did not
want to be carried back to her own _ambulance_, and the druggist begged
me to take her in. I kept her for a few days, in one of the boxes in the
second gallery of the theater, and when she was better she asked if she
might stay with me as a nurse. I granted her wish, and kept her with me
afterwards as a maid.

She was a fair-haired girl, gentle and timid, and was predestined for
misfortune. She was found dead in the Père Lachaise Cemetery after the
skirmish between the Communists and the Versailles troop. A stray bullet
had struck her in the back of the neck as she was praying at the grave
of her little sister, who had died two days before from smallpox. I had
taken her with me to St. Germain, where I had gone to stay during the
horrors of the Commune. Poor girl! I had allowed her to go to Paris very
much against my own will.

As we could not count on this preserved meat for our food, I made a
contract with a knacker, who agreed to supply me, at rather a high
price, with horseflesh, and until the end this was the only meat we had
to eat. Well prepared and well seasoned, it was very good.

Hope had now fled from all hearts and we were living in the expectation
of we knew not what. An atmosphere of misfortune seemed to hang like
lead over us, and it was a sort of relief when the bombardment commenced
on the 27th of December. At last, we felt that something fresh was
happening. It was an era of fresh suffering. There was some stir, at any
rate, for the last fortnight the fact of not knowing anything had been
killing us.

On the 1st of January, 1871, we lifted our glasses to the health of the
absent ones, to the repose of the dead; and the toast choked us with a
lump in our throats.

Every night we used to hear the dismal cry of “_Ambulance! Ambulance!_”
underneath the windows of the Odéon. We went down to meet the pitiful
procession, and one, two, or sometimes three conveyances would be there,
full of our poor, wounded soldiers. There would be ten or twelve rows of
them, lying or sitting up on the straw. I said that I had one or two
places, and lifting the lantern, I looked into the conveyance, and the
faces would then turn slowly toward the lamp. Some of the men would
close their eyes, as they were too weak to bear even that feeble light.
With the help of the sergeant who accompanied the conveyance, and our
attendant, one of the unfortunates would with difficulty he lifted to
the narrow litter on which he was to be carried up to the hospital.

Oh, what sorrowful anguish it was for me when, on lifting the patient’s
head, I discovered that it was getting heavy, oh, so heavy; and when
bending over that inert face I felt that there was no longer any breath!
The sergeant would then give the order to take him back, and the poor
dead man was put back in his place, and another wounded man was lifted
out. The other dying men would then move back a little, in order not to
profane the dead. Ah, what grief it was when the sergeant said: “Do try
to take one or two more in! It is a pity to drag these poor chaps about
from one hospital to another. The Val-de-Grâce is full.”

“Very well, I will take two more,” I would say, and then I wondered
where we should put them. We had to give up our own beds, and in this
way the poor fellows were saved. Ever since the first of January, we had
all three been sleeping every night at the hospital. We had some loose
dressing-gowns of gray swanskin, not unlike the soldiers’ cloaks. The
first of us who heard a cry or a groan sprang out of bed, and if
necessary, called the other two.

On the 10th of January, Mme. Guérard and I were sitting up at night, on
one of the lounges in the _artistes’ foyer_, awaiting the dismal cry of
“_Ambulance!_” There had been a fierce affray at Clamart and we knew
that there would be many wounded. I was telling her of my fear that the
bombs, which had already reached the Museum, the Sorbonne, the
Salpétrière, the Val-de-Grâce, would fall on the Odéon.

“Oh, but my dear Sarah,” said the sweet woman, “the hospital flag is
waving so high above it, that there could be no mistake. If it were
struck it would be purposely, and that would be abominable.”

“But Guérard,” I replied, “why should you expect these execrable enemies
of ours to be better than we are ourselves? Did we not behave like
savages at Berlin, in 1806?”

“But at Paris there are such admirable public monuments,” she urged.

“Well, and was not Moscow full of masterpieces? The Kremlin is one of
the finest buildings in the world. That did not prevent us giving that
admirable city up to pillage. Oh, no, my poor _petite dame_, do not
deceive yourself! Armies may be Russian, German, French or Spanish, but
they _are_ armies, that is, they are beings who form an impersonal
‘whole’—a ‘whole’ that is ferocious and irresponsible. The Germans will
bombard the whole of Paris, if the possibility of doing so should be
offered them. You must make up your mind to that, my dear Guérard.”

I had not finished my sentence when a terrible detonation roused the
sleeping neighborhood. Mme. Guérard and I had been seated opposite each
other. We found ourselves standing up, close together in the middle of
the room, terrified. My poor cook, her face quite white, came to me for
safety. The reports continued rather frequently. The bombarding had
commenced from our side that night. I went round to the wounded men, but
they did not seem to be much disturbed. Only one, a boy of fifteen, whom
we had surnamed “pink baby,” was sitting up in bed. When I went to him
to soothe him, he showed me his little medal of the Holy Virgin.

“It is thanks to her that I was not killed,” he said. “If they would put
the Holy Virgin on the ramparts of Paris the bombs would not come.”

He lay down again then, holding his little medal in his hand, and the
bombarding continued until six in the morning.

“_Ambulance! Ambulance!_” we then heard, and Mme. Guérard and I went
down.

“Here,” said the sergeant, “take this man. He is losing all his blood,
and if I take him any farther he will not arrive living.”

The wounded man was put on the litter, but, as he was German, I asked
the subofficer to take all his papers and give them in at the Ministry.
We gave the man the place of one of the convalescents, whom I installed
elsewhere. I asked him his name and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer,
and that he was the first soldier of the Silesian Landwehr. He then
fainted, from weakness caused by loss of blood. He soon came to himself
again, with our care, and I then asked him whether he wanted anything,
but he did not answer a word. I supposed that he did not speak French,
and as there was no one at the hospital who spoke German, I waited until
the next day to send for some one who knew his language. I must own that
the poor man was not welcomed by his dormitory companions. A soldier
named Fortin, who was twenty-three years of age, and a veritable child
of Paris, a comical fellow, mischievous, droll, and good-natured, never
ceased railing against the young German, who on his side never flinched.
I went several times to Fortin, and begged him to be quiet, but it was
all in vain. Every fresh outbreak of his was greeted with wild laughter,
and his success put him into the gayest of humors, so that he continued,
getting more and more excited all the time. The others were prevented
from sleeping and he moved about wildly in his bed, bursting out into
abusive language when too abrupt a movement intensified his suffering.
The unfortunate fellow had had his sciatic nerve torn by a bullet, and
he had to endure the most atrocious pain.

After my third fruitless appeal for silence, I ordered the two men
attendants to carry him into a room where he would be alone. He sent for
me, and when I went to him, promised to behave well all night long. I
therefore countermanded the order I had given, and he kept his word. The
following day I had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a
young Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a shell,
and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity.

One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to see whether the
Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man’s face lighted up on hearing
his own language and then, turning to me, he said:

“I understand French quite well, madame, and if I listened calmly to the
horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was because I know that
you cannot hold out two days longer, and I can understand his
exasperation.”

“And why do you think that we cannot hold out?”

“Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats.” Dr. Duchesne had
just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible wound which the patient
had above his thigh.

“Well,” he said, “my friend, as soon as your fever has gone down you
shall eat an excellent wing of chicken.” The German shrugged his
shoulders and the doctor continued: “Meanwhile drink this, and tell me
what you think of it.”

Dr. Duchesne gave him a glass of water with a little of the excellent
cognac which the prefect had sent me. That was the only _tisane_ that my
soldiers took. The Silesian said no more, but he put on the reserved,
circumspect manner of people who know and will not speak.

The bombardment continued, and the hospital flag certainly served as a
target for our enemies, for they fired with surprising exactitude, and
altered their firing directly a bomb fell a little away from the
neighborhood of the Luxembourg. Thanks to this, we had more than twelve
bombs one night. These dismal shells, when they burst in the air, were
like the fireworks at a fête. The shining splinters then fell down black
and deadly. George Boyer, who at that time was a young journalist, came
to call on me at the hospital, and I told him about the terrifying
splendors of the night.

“Oh, how much I should like to see all that!” he said.

“Come this evening, toward nine or ten o’clock, and you will see,” I
replied.

We spent several hours at the little round window of my dressing-room,
which looked out toward Châtillon. It was from there that the Germans
fired the most.

We listened, in the silence of the night, to the muffled sounds coming
from there, right over yonder, then there would be a light, a formidable
noise in the distance, and the bomb arrived, falling in front of us or
behind, bursting either in the air or on reaching its goal. Once we had
only just time to draw back quickly, and even then the disturbance in
the atmosphere affected us so violently that for a second we were under
the impression we had been struck.

The shell had fallen just underneath my dressing-room, grazing the
cornice, which it dragged down in its fall to the ground, and bursting
there feebly. But what was our amazement to see a little crowd of
children swoop down on the burning pieces, just like a lot of sparrows
on fresh manure when the carriage has passed! The little vagabonds were
quarreling over the _débris_ of these engines of warfare. I wondered
what they could possibly do with them.

“Oh, there is not much mystery about it!” said Boyer; “these little
starving urchins will sell them.”

This proved to be true. One of the men attendants, whom I sent to find
out, brought back with him a child of about ten years old.

“What are you going to do with that, my little man?” I asked him,
picking up the piece of shell, which was warm and still dangerous, by
the edge where it had burst.

“I am going to sell it,” he replied.

“What for?”

“To buy my turn in the _queue_, when the meat is being distributed.”

“But you risk your life, my poor child. Sometimes the shells come
quickly, one after the other. Where were you when this one fell?”

“Lying down on the stone of the wall that supports the iron railings.”
He pointed across to the Luxembourg gardens, opposite the _artistes’_
entrance to the Odéon.

We bought up all the _débris_ that the child had, without attempting to
give him advice which might have sounded wise. What was the use of
preaching wisdom to this poor little creature who heard of nothing but
massacres, fire, revenge, retaliation and all the rest of it, for the
sake of honor, for the sake of religion, for the sake of right! And
then, too, how was it possible to keep out of the way? All the people
living in the Faubourg St. Germain were liable to be blown to pieces, as
the enemy, very luckily, could only bombard Paris on that side and not
everywhere even there. No, we were certainly in the most dangerous
neighborhood.

One day Baron Larrey came to see Frantz Mayer, who was very ill. He
wrote a prescription, which a young errand boy was told to wait for, and
bring back very, very quickly. As the boy was rather given to loitering,
I went to the window. His name was Victor, but we called him Toto. The
druggist lived at the corner of the Place Medicis. It was then six
o’clock in the evening. Toto looked up, and on seeing me, he began to
laugh and jump as he hurried to the druggist’s. He had only five or six
more yards to go, and as he turned round to look up at my window, I
clapped my hands and called out: “Good, be back soon!” Alas! Before the
poor boy could open his mouth to reply, he was cut in two by a shell
which had just fallen. It did not burst, but bounced a yard high, and
then struck poor Toto right in the middle of the chest. I uttered such a
shriek that everyone came rushing to me. I could not speak, but pushed
everyone aside and rushed downstairs, beckoning for some one to come
with me.

“A litter—the boy—the druggist’s,” I managed to articulate.

Ah, what a horror, what an awful horror! When we reached the poor child,
his intestines were all over the ground, his chest, and his poor little
red, chubby face had the flesh entirely taken off. He had neither eyes,
nose, nor mouth, nothing, nothing but some hair, at the end of a
shapeless bleeding mass, a yard away from his body. And it was as though
a tiger’s two claws had opened the body and emptied it with fury and a
refinement of cruelty, leaving nothing but the poor little skeleton.

Baron Larrey, who was the best of men, turned slightly pale at this
sight. He saw many such sights certainly, but this poor little fellow
was a holocaust which had been terribly mutilated. Ah, the injustice,
the infamy of war! Will the much dreamed-of time never come, when wars
are no longer possible, when the monarch who wants war will be dethroned
and imprisoned as a malefactor? Will the time never come when there will
be a cosmopolitan council, where the wise man of every country will
represent his nation, and where the rights of humanity will be discussed
and respected! So many men think as I do. So many women talk as I do,
and yet nothing is done.

A man, whom I liked very much, was engaged in certain inventions for
balloons. To find out how to steer balloons means, for me, finding out
how to realize my dream, namely, to fly in the air, to approach the sky,
and have under one’s feet the moist downlike clouds. Ah, how interested
I was in my friend’s researches! One day, though, he came to me very
much excited with a new discovery.

“I have discovered something about which I am wild with delight!” he
said. He then began to explain to me that his balloon would be able to
carry inflammable matter without the least danger, thanks to this, and
thanks to that.

“But what for?” I asked, bewildered by his explanations and half crazy
with so many technical words.

“What for?” he repeated; “why, for war!” he replied. “We shall be able
to fire, and to throw terrible bombs to a distance of a thousand, twelve
hundred, and even fifteen hundred yards, and it would be impossible for
us to be harmed at such a distance. My balloon, thanks to a substance
which is my invention, with which the covering would be coated, would
have nothing to fear from fire nor yet from gas.”

“I do not want to know anything more about you or your invention,” I
said, interrupting him brusquely. “I thought you were a humane savant,
and you are a wild beast. Your researches were in connection with the
most beautiful manifestation of human genius, with those fêtes of the
skies which I loved so dearly. You want to transform these now into
cowardly attacks turned against the earth. You horrify me! Do go!”

With this I left my friend to himself and his cruel invention, ashamed
for a moment. His efforts have not succeeded, though, according to his
wishes.

The remains of the poor lad were put into a small coffin, and Mme.
Guérard and I followed the pauper’s hearse to the grave. The morning was
so cold that the driver had to stop and take a glass of hot wine, as
otherwise he might have died of congestion. We were alone in the
carriage, for the boy had been brought up by his grandmother who could
not walk at all, and who knitted vests and stockings. It was by going to
order some vests and socks for my men that I had made the acquaintance
of _Mère Tricottin_, as she was called. At her request I had engaged her
grandson, Victor Durieux, as an errand boy, and the poor old woman had
been so grateful that I did not dare go now to tell her of his death. My
_petite dame_ went for me to the Rue de Vaurigard, where the old woman
lived. As soon as Mme. Guérard arrived, the poor grandmother could see
by her sad face that something had happened.

“_Bon Dieu!_ my dear lady, is the poor little _maigrotte_ dead?”

This was her name for me. Mme. Guérard then told her, as gently as
possible, the sad news. The old woman took off her spectacles, looked at
Mme. Guérard, wiped them and put them on her nose again. She then began
to grumble violently about her son, the father of the dead boy. He had
taken up with some low girl, by whom he had had this child, and she had
always foreseen that misfortune would come upon them through it. She
continued in this strain, not sorrowing for the poor boy, but abusing
her son, who was a soldier in the Army of the Loire. Although the
grandmother seemed to feel so little grief, I went to see her after the
funeral.

“It is all over, Mme. Durieux,” I said, “but I have secured the grave
for a period of five years for the poor boy.”

She turned toward me, quite comic in her vexation.

“What madness!” she exclaimed; “now that he’s with the _bon Dieu_ he
won’t want for anything. It would have been better to have taken a bit
of land that would have brought something in. Dead folks don’t make
vegetables grow.”

This outburst was so terribly logical that, in spite of the odious
brutality of it, I yielded to _Mère Tricottin’s_ desire, and gave her
the same present I had given to the boy. They should each have their bit
of land, the child who had had a right to a longer life should sleep his
eternal sleep in his, while the old woman could wrest from hers what
fruits she might.

I returned to the _ambulance_ sad and unnerved. A joyful surprise was
awaiting me. A friend of mine was there, holding in his hand a very
small piece of tissue paper, on which were the following two lines in my
mother’s handwriting: “We are all very well and at Hombourg.” I was
furious on reading this. At Hombourg! All my family at Hombourg,
settling down tranquilly in the enemy’s country! I racked my brains to
think by what extraordinary combination my mother had gone to Hombourg.
I knew that my pretty Aunt Rosine had a friend there, with whom she
stayed every year, for she always went for two months to Hombourg, two
months to Baden-Baden, and a month to Spa, as she was the greatest
gambler that the _bon Dieu_ ever created. Anyhow, those who were so dear
to me were all well, and that was the principal thing. But I was
nevertheless annoyed with my mother for going to Hombourg.

I heartily thanked the friend who had brought me the little slip of
paper. It was sent to me by the American Minister, who had put himself
to no end of trouble in order to give help and consolation to the
Parisians. I then gave him a few lines for my mother, in case he should
be able to send them to her.

The bombardment of Paris continued. One night the Brothers from the
_Ecole Chrétienne_ came to ask us for conveyances and help, in order to
collect the dead on the Châtillon Plateau. I let them have my two
conveyances, and I went with them to the battlefield. Ah, what a
horrible remembrance! It was like a scene from Dante! It was an icy cold
night and we could scarcely get along. Finally, by the light of torches
and lanterns we saw that we had arrived. I got out of the vehicle with
the infirmary attendant and his assistant. We had to move slowly, as at
every step we trod upon the dying or the dead. We passed along
murmuring: “_Ambulance! Ambulance!_” When we heard a groan we turned our
steps in the direction whence it came. Ah, the first man that I found in
this way! He was half lying down, his body supported by a heap of dead.
I raised my lantern to look at his face and found that his ear and part
of his jaw had been blown off. Great clots of blood, coagulated by the
cold, hung from his lower jaw. There was a wild look in his eyes. I took
a wisp of straw, dipped it in my flask, drew up a few drops of brandy
and blew them into the poor fellow’s mouth between his teeth. I repeated
this three or four times. A little life then came back to him and we
took him away in one of the vehicles. The same thing was done for the
others. Some of them could drink from the flask, which made our work
shorter. One of these unfortunate men was frightful to look at. A shell
had taken all the clothes from the upper part of his body, with the
exception of two ragged sleeves, which hung from the arms at the
shoulders. There was no trace of a wound, but his poor body was marked
all over with great black patches, and the blood was oozing slowly from
the corners of his mouth. I went nearer to him, for it seemed to me that
he was breathing. I had a few drops of the vivifying cordial given to
him, and he then half opened his eyes and said: “Thank you.” He was
lifted into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from a hemorrhage,
covering all the other wounded men with a stream of dark blood.

Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn. The lanterns had
burned out, but we could now distinguish each other. There were about a
hundred persons there: Sisters of Charity, military and civil
men-nurses, the Brothers from the _Ecole Chrétienne_, other priests and
a few ladies who like myself had given themselves up, heart and soul, to
the service of the wounded.

The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the night had
hidden in its shadows appeared then in the tardy, wan light of that
January morning.

There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport them all,
and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness. Other vehicles kept
arriving, but there were so many wounded, so very many. Many of those
who had only slight wounds had died of cold.

On returning to the hospital I met one of my friends at the door. He was
a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded at
the Fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was entered
as Désiré Bloas, boatswain’s mate, aged twenty-seven. He was a
magnificent fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words.

As soon as he was in bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to shave him,
as his bushy whiskers had been ravaged by a bullet that had lodged
itself in the salivary gland, carrying with it hair and flesh into the
wound. The surgeon took up his pincers to extract the pieces of flesh
which had stopped up the opening of the wound. He then had to take some
very fine pincers to extract the hairs which were mixed up inextricably
in the torn mass of flesh. When the barber laid his razor very gently
near the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid, and an oath escaped
his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered: “Pardon,
mademoiselle.” I was very young, but I appeared much younger than my
age. I looked like a very young girl, in fact. I was holding the poor
fellow’s hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds of
consoling words that spring from a woman’s heart to her lips, when she
has to soothe moral or physical suffering.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed,
“you gave me courage.”

When he was more easy I asked him if he would like something to eat.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?” asked Mme.
Lambquin.

“Sweets,” replied the strong, powerful-looking fellow, smiling.

Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest.
He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but he seemed to have a
terrible grudge against his father, for one day, when I asked him
whether his father was still living, he looked up with his fearless eyes
and appeared to fix them on a being visible only to himself, as though
challenging him, with an expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas,
the brave fellow was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that
later on.

The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their effect on
the “morale” of the Parisians. Bread had just been rationed out; there
were to be three hundred grammes for adults, and one hundred and fifty
grammes for children. A silent fury took possession of the people at
this news. Women were the most courageous, the men were excited.
Quarrels grew bitter, for some wanted war to the very death, and others
wanted peace.

One day when I entered Frantz Mayer’s room to take him his meal, he went
into the most ridiculous rage. He threw his piece of fowl down on the
ground and declared that he would not eat anything, nothing more at all,
for they had deceived him by telling him that the Parisians had not
enough food to last two days before surrendering, and he had been in the
_ambulance_ seventeen days now, and was having fowl. What the poor
fellow did not know was that I had bought about forty fowls and six
geese at the beginning of the siege, and I was feeding them up in my
dressing-room in the Rue de Rome. Oh, my dressing room was very pretty
just then, and I let Frantz believe that all Paris was full of fowls,
ducks, geese, and other domestic bipeds.

The bombardment continued, and one night I had to have all my patients
transported to the Odéon cellars, for when Mme. Guérard was helping one
of the sick men to get back into bed a shell fell on the bed itself,
between her and the officer. It makes me shudder even now to think that
three minutes previously the unfortunate man would have been killed as
he lay in bed, although the shell did not burst.

We could not stay long in the cellars. The water was getting deeper in
them and rats tormented us. I therefore decided that the _ambulance_
must be moved, and I had the worst of the patients taken to the
Val-de-Grâce Hospital. I kept about twenty men who were on the way to
convalescence. I rented an immense empty flat for them in the Rue de
Provence, and it was there that we awaited the armistice.

I was half dead with anxiety, as I had had no news from my own family
for so long. I could not sleep and had become the very shadow of my
former self.

Jules Favre was entrusted with the negotiations with Bismarck. Oh, those
two days of preliminaries! They were the most unnerving days of any for
the besieged. False reports were spread. We were told of the maddest,
and most exorbitant demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly
were not tender to the vanquished.

There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two
hundred million francs down, for our finances were in such a pitiful
state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be able to make up
the sum of two hundred millions immediately.

Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and
brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions. This fine
deed was soon forgotten, and there are even people who gainsay it.

When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for twenty days, a
frightful sadness took possession of us all, even of those who most
ardently wished for peace.

Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror. It was the
brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable treaty of peace.

Oh, that 31st of January, 1871! I was anæmic from the siege, undermined
by grief, tortured with anxiety about my family, and I went out with
Mme. Guérard and two friends toward the Parc Monceau. Suddenly one of my
friends, M. De Plancy, turned pale as death. I looked to see what was
the matter, and noticed a soldier passing by. He had no weapons. Two
others passed and they, also, had no weapons. And they were so pale,
too, these poor, disarmed soldiers, these humble heroes. There was such
evident grief and hopelessness in their very gait; and their eyes, as
they looked at us women, seemed to say: “It is not our fault!” It was
all so pitiful, so touching I burst out sobbing, and went back home at
once, for I did not want to meet any more disarmed French soldiers.

CHAPTER XIII
A WARTIME JOURNEY

I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in search of my family.
I asked Paul de Rémusat to get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order
to obtain from him a passport for leaving Paris. I trusted Mme. Guérard
and Mme. Lambquin with disbanding my _ambulance_.

M. Thiers gave me the passport, and I was ready to go, but I could not
start alone. I felt that the journey I was about to undertake was a very
dangerous one, and M. Thiers and Paul de Rémusat had also warned me of
this. I could see, therefore, that I should be very dependent on my
traveling companion all the time, and on this account I decided not to
take a servant with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to
Mme. Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely to
let her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad and dangerous.
Mad it certainly was, and dangerous, too.

I did not insist, but I sent for my son’s governess, Mlle. Soubise. I
asked her whether she would go with me, and did not attempt to conceal
from her any of the dangers of the journey. She jumped with joy, and
said she would be ready within twelve hours. This girl is at present the
wife of Commandant Monfils-Chesneau. And how strange life is, for she is
now teaching the two daughters of my son, her former pupil.

Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and she looked like a Creole. She had
very beautiful, dark eyes, with a gentle, timid expression, and the
voice of a child. Her head, however, was full of adventure, romance, and
day dreams.

In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young girls, for,
although I was older than she was, my slenderness and my face made me
look younger. It would have been absurd to try to take a trunk with us,
so I took a bag for us both. We had only a change of linen and some
stockings. I had my revolver, and I offered one to Mlle. Soubise, but
she refused it with horror, and showed me an enormous pair of scissors
in an enormous case.

“But what are you going to do with them?” I asked.

“I shall kill myself if we are attacked,” she replied.

I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was taking a
revolver determined to protect myself by killing others; she was
determined to protect herself by killing herself.

On the 24th of February, we started on this journey, which was to have
lasted three days, and lasted eleven. At the first gate at which I
presented myself in leaving Paris, I was sent back in the most brutal
fashion! Permissions to go outside the city had to be submitted for
signature at the German outposts. I went to another gate, but it was
only at the postern gate of _Poissonniers_ that I could get my passport
signed.

We were taken into a little shed, which had been transformed into an
office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked me up and down,
and then said:

“Are you Sarah Bernhardt?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And this young lady is with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you think you are going to cross easily?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, then, you are mistaken, and you had better stay inside Paris.”

“No, I want to leave. I see myself what may happen, but I want to
leave.”

He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something I did not
understand in German, and then went out, leaving us alone without our
passports.

We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I suddenly heard a
voice I knew. It was one of my friends, René Griffon, who had heard of
my departure, and had come after me to try to dissuade me. The trouble
he had taken was all in vain, though, as I was determined to leave. The
general returned soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know what might
happen to us.

“Everything!” answered the officer. “And worse than everything!”

Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about
us. This rather annoyed me, for as I did not understand, I imagined that
he was urging the general to prevent our starting. I nevertheless
resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats. A few minutes
later, a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the shed.

“There you are,” said the German officer roughly. “I am sending you to
Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an
hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station master, the
Commandant—after that may God take care of you!”

I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my friend,
who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station,
where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The
coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him,
and drove away at full speed. I advanced toward the group, wondering to
whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed: “What, you here!
Where have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret, the
tenor in vogue at the Opera. He was going to his young wife, I believe,
of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his
friends, who was traveling with him, and whose name I do not remember,
General Pelissier’s son, and a very old man, so pale and so sad-looking
and woebegone that I felt sorry for him. It was M. Gerson, and he was
going to Belgium, to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His two sons
had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was married,
and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the orphan
boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as possible
afterwards. Ah, the poor fellow, his wish must have been accomplished
very quickly, for he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly
ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy.

Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer, named
Théodore Joussiau, a wine dealer. He did not require any introduction.

“How do you do, madame!” he began. “How lucky we are that you are going
to travel with us! Ah! the journey will be a difficult one. Where are
you going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all
the routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders,
and thieves. Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German
sharpshooters! Sh—we must speak quietly, though. These sly fellows are
very quick of hearing!...” He then pointed to the German officers who
were walking up and down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went on. “If I had my
military costume and my gun they would not walk so boldly in front of
Théodore Joussiau. I have no less than six helmets at home....”

The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see
which of the men before me could be the station master. A tall young man
with his arm in a sling, came toward me with an open letter. It was the
one which the general’s coachman had handed to him, recommending me to
his care. He held out his well arm to me but I refused it. He bowed and
led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by Mlle. Soubise.

On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which
knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o’clock
in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water,
since the evening before. I was very much touched by this
thoughtfulness, and we did honor to the very simple but refreshing meal
prepared for us by the young officer.

While we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing. He was very
young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a
compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man who was crippled for
life, and my hatred for war increased still more.

He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French:

“I think I can give you news of one of your friends.”

“What is his name?” I asked.

“Emmanuel Bocher.”

“Oh, yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How is he?”

“He is still a prisoner, but he is very well.”

“But I thought he had been released,” I said.

“Some of those who were taken with him were released, on giving their
word never to take up arms against us again, but he refused to give his
word.”

“Oh, the brave soldier!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself.

The young German looked at me with his clear, sad eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply, “the brave soldier!”

When we had finished our luncheon, I rose to return to the other
travelers.

“The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two hours,” said
the young officer. “If you would like to rest, ladies, I will come for
you at the right time.” He went away, and before long I was sound
asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue. Mlle. Soubise touched me on the
shoulder to rouse me. The train was ready to start, and the young
officer walked with me to it. I was a little amazed when I saw the
carriage in which I was to travel. It had no roof, and was filled with
coal. The officer had several sacks put in, one on the top of the other,
to make our seats less hard. He sent for his officer’s cloak, begging me
to take it with us, and send it back, but I refused this odious disguise
most energetically. It was a deadly cold day, but I preferred dying of
cold to muffling up in a cloak belonging to the enemy.

The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the train
started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages. The
subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as brutish and
rude as the German officers were polite and courteous.

The train stopped without any plausible reason; it started again to stop
again, and it then stood still for an hour on this icy cold night. On
arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine driver, the soldiers, and
everyone else got out. I watched all these men, whistling, bawling to
each other, spitting, and bursting into laughter as they pointed to us.
Were they not the conquerors and we the conquered?

At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the distant sound
of foreign music, and the hurrahs of Germans who were making merry. All
this hubbub came from a white house about five hundred yards away. We
could distinguish the outlines of human beings locked in each others’
arms, waltzing, and turning round and round in a giddy revel.

It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue until
daylight. I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to stretch my
limbs. We went toward the white house, and then, as I did not want to
tell him my plan, I asked him to wait there for me.

Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the threshold
of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a cigarette, was
just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me in German.

“I am French,” I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking my
language, for they could all talk French.

He asked me what I was doing there, and my nerves were so overstrung
that I burst out sobbing, and told him, through my sobs, of our
lamentable odyssey since our departure from Gonesse, and finally of our
waiting two hours in an icy cold carriage, while the stokers, engine
drivers, and conductors, were all dancing in this house.

“But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages, and it
was I who gave permission to these men to dance, and drink. The guard of
the train told me that he was taking cattle and goods, and that he did
not need to arrive before eight in the morning, and I believed him....”

“Well, monsieur,” I said, “the only cattle in the train will be the
eight French passengers, and I should be very much obliged if you would
give orders that the journey should be continued.”

“Make your mind easy about that, madame,” he replied. “Will you come in
and rest? I am here just now on a round of inspection, and am staying
for a few days in this inn. You shall have a cup of tea, and that will
refresh you.”

I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road, and a lady in
the railway carriage.

“But that makes no difference,” he said, “let us go and fetch them.”

A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone. His
head was on his knees and he was asleep. I asked him to fetch Mlle.
Soubise.

“And if your other traveling companions will come and take a cup of tea,
they will be welcome,” said the officer. I went back with him, and we
entered by the little door through which I had seen him come out. It was
a fairly large room which we entered, on a level with the meadow; there
were some mats on the floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on
which were two large maps of France. One of these was studded over with
pins and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor William,
mounted, and fastened up with four pins, and all this belonged to the
officer.

On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a bride’s
wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On each side of the
glass shade was a china vase, containing a branch of box. All this,
together with the table and the bed, belonged to the landlady, who had
given up her room to the officer. There were five cane chairs round the
table, a velvet armchair, and a wooden bench covered with books against
the wall. A sword and belt were lying on the table, and two horse
pistols.

I was philosophizing to myself on all these heterogeneous objects, when
the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young Gerson, and that
unbearable Théodore Joussiau. I hope he will forgive me if he is living
now, poor man, but the thought of him still irritates me.

The officer had some boiling hot tea brought in for us, and it was a
veritable treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold.

When the door was opened for the tea to come in, Théodore Joussiau
caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and other people.

“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter, “we are at his
majesty William’s; there is a reception on, and it’s _chic_—I can tell
you that!...” With this he smacked his tongue twice. Villaret reminded
him that we were the guests of a German, and that it was preferable to
be quiet.

“That’s enough, that’s enough!” he replied, lighting a cigarette.

A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of the
deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner half
opened the door.

I could see the officer giving orders to two subofficers who, in their
turn, separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine driver, and
the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that I was sorry for
them. They were kicked in the back, they received blows with the flat of
the sword on the shoulder, and a blow with the butt end of a gun knocked
the guard of the train down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I
have ever seen. All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went
back toward our carriage, with a hangdog look and a threatening mien.

We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to what might
happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The officer evidently had a
similar idea, for he ordered one of the subofficers to accompany us as
far as Amiens. This subofficer got into our carriage and we set off
again. We arrived at Amiens at six in the morning. Daylight had not yet
succeeded in piercing through the night clouds. A fine rain was falling,
which was hardened by the cold. There was no carriage to be had and not
even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hotel du Cheval-Blanc, but a man
who happened to be there said to me:

“It’s no use, my little young lady, there’s no way of putting up even a
lath like you. Go to the house over there with a balcony; they can put
some people up.”

With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had gone off without
saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson had been stowed away silently
in a covered country cart, hermetically closed. A stout, ruddy,
thick-set matronly woman was waiting for them, but the coachman looked
as though he belonged to nice people. General Pelissier’s son, who had
not uttered a word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared like a
ball from the hands of a conjurer.

Théodore Joussiau politely offered to accompany us, and I was so weary
that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag, and began to walk at
full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so
breathless with the walk that he could not talk, which was a great
relief to me.

Finally, we arrived at the house, and entered, but my horror was great
on seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed into a
dormitory. We could scarcely walk between the mattresses laid down on
the ground, and the grumbling of the people was by no means promising.

When once we were in the office, a young girl in mourning told us that
there was not a corner vacant. I sank down on a chair, and Mlle. Soubise
leaned against the wall, with her arms hanging down, looking most
dejected.

The odious Joussiau then yelled out that they could not let two women,
as young as we were, be out in the street all night. He went to the
proprietress of the hotel and said something quietly about me. I do not
know what it was, but I heard my name distinctly. The young woman in
mourning then looked at me with misty eyes. “My brother was a poet,” she
said. “He wrote a very pretty sonnet about you, after seeing you play
‘Le Passant’ more than ten times. He took me, too, to see you and I
enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all over though.” She lifted
her hands toward her head and sobbed, trying to stifle her cries.

“It’s all over!” she repeated. “He is dead! They have killed him! It is
all over! All over!”

I got up, moved to the depths of my being by this horrible grief. I put
my arms round her, and kissed her, crying myself, and whispering to her
words that soothe, and hopes that comfort.

Lulled by my words, and touched by my sisterliness, she wiped her eyes,
and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise followed. I signed to
Joussiau in an authoritative way to stay where he was. And we went up
the two flights of stairs of the hotel, in silence. At the end of a
narrow corridor she opened a door. We found ourselves in rather a large
room, reeking with the smell of tobacco. A small night lamp, placed on a
little table by the bed, was all the light in this large room. The
wheezing respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked
toward the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp, I saw a man
half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man was aged-looking,
rather than really old. His beard and hair were white and his face bore
traces of suffering. Two large furrows were formed, from the eyes to the
corners of the mouth. What tears must have rolled down that poor
emaciated face!

The girl went quietly toward the bed, signed to us to come inside the
room, and then shut the door. We walked across on tiptoes to the far end
of the room, our arms stretched out to maintain our equilibrium. I sat
down with precaution on a large Empire couch, and Soubise took a seat
beside me. The man in bed half opened his eyes. “What is it, my child?”
he asked.

“Nothing, father, nothing serious,” she replied. “I wanted to tell you,
so that you should not be surprised when you woke up. I have just given
hospitality in our room to two ladies who are here.”

He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look at us at the end
of the room.

“The lady with fair hair,” continued the girl, “is Sarah Bernhardt, whom
Lucien liked so much, you remember?”

The man sat up and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered at us. I went
near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then made a gesture with his
hand. His daughter understood the gesture and brought him an envelope
from a small bureau. The unhappy father’s hands trembled as he took it.
He drew three sheets of paper out, slowly, and a photograph. He fixed
his gaze on me and then on the portrait.

“Yes, yes, it certainly is you, it certainly is you,” he murmured.

I recognized my photograph, taken in “Le Passant,” smelling a rose.

“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, “you were this
child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about you.”

He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent,
a very pretty sonnet.

He then unfolded a second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt
were scrawled. The third paper was a sort of triumphant chant,
celebrating all our victories over the enemy.

“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the father,
“and yet he has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his
head. The first shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued
firing on the scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear
off, and the third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to
rise again. His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old.
And now—it’s all over!”

The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert
hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale
cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his
lips. The girl had fallen on her knees and buried her head in the
bedclothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were
completely upset. Ah, those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed
to buzz in my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I
stretched my hands out into space and closed my eyes. Soon there was a
distant rumbling noise, which increased and came nearer, then yells of
pain, bones knocking against each other, horses’ feet making human
brains gush out with a dull, flabby sound; men barbed with iron passed
by like a destructive whirlwind, shouting: “_Vive_ the war!” And women
on their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out: “War is infamous! In
the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you,
in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over
your cradles, let this cease!”

But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched
my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in
the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A
man whom I did not know, but whom some one called “doctor,” laid me
gently down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my
thoughts.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise. “You fainted,
and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been
very frightened!” I turned my face to the doctor.

“Yes, dear lady,” he said, “you must be very prudent still for the next
forty-eight hours, and then you can set out again. But you have had a
great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must be
careful.” I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologized
to the owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round
with my face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.

Two days later I left our sad but congenial hosts. My traveling
companions had all disappeared. When I went downstairs I kept meeting
Prussians, for the unfortunate proprietor had been invaded compulsorily
by the German army. He looked at each soldier and at each officer,
trying to find out whether he were not the one who had killed his poor
boy. He did not tell me this, but it was my idea. It seemed to me that
such was his thought and such the meaning of his gaze.

In the vehicle in which I drove to the station, the kind man had put a
basket of food. He also gave me a copy of the sonnet and a tracing of
his son’s photograph.

I left the desolate couple with the deepest emotion, and I kissed the
girl on taking our departure. Soubise and I did not exchange a word on
our journey to the station; we were both preoccupied with the same
distressing thoughts.

CHAPTER XIV
HOMBOURG AND RETURN

At the station we found that the Germans were masters there, too. I
asked for a first-class compartment to ourselves, or for a
_coupé_—whatever they liked, provided we were alone.

I could not make myself understood. I saw a man oiling the wheels of the
carriages, who looked to me like a Frenchman. I was not mistaken. He was
an old man, who had been kept on, partly out of charity and partly
because he knew every nook and corner, and being Alsatian, spoke German.
This good man took me to the booking office and explained my wish to
have a first-class compartment to myself. The man who had charge of the
ticket office burst out laughing. There was neither first nor second
class, he said; it was a German train, and I should have to travel like
everyone else. The wheel oiler turned purple with rage, which he quickly
suppressed. (He had to keep his place. His consumptive wife was nursing
their son, who had just been sent home from the hospital with his leg
cut off and the wound not yet healed up. There were so many in the
hospital....) All this he told me as he took me to the station master.
The latter spoke French very well, but he was not at all like the other
German officers I had met. He scarcely saluted me, and when I expressed
my desire he replied curtly:

“It is impossible. Two places shall be reserved for you in the officers’
carriage.”

“But that is what I want to avoid,” I exclaimed. “I do not want to
travel with German officers.”

“Well, then, you shall be put with German soldiers,” he growled angrily,
and putting on his hat, he went out, slamming the door.

I remained there, amazed and confused by his insolence. I turned so
pale, it appears, and the blue of my eyes became so clear, that Soubise,
who was acquainted with my fits of anger, was very much alarmed.

“Do be calm, madame, I implore,” she said. “We are two women alone among
these people. If they liked to harm us they could, and we must
accomplish the aim and object of our journey, we must see little Maurice
again.”

She was very clever, this charming Mlle. Soubise, and her little speech
had the desired effect. To see the child again was my aim and object. I
calmed down and vowed that I would not allow myself to get angry during
this journey, which promised to be fertile in incidents, and I almost
kept my word. I left the station master’s office and found the poor
Alsatian waiting at the door. I gave him a couple of louis which he hid
away quickly, and then shook my hand as though he would break it off.

“You ought not to have that so visible, madame,” he said, pointing to
the little bag I had hanging at my side. “It is very dangerous.”

I thanked him, but did not pay any attention to his advice. Just as the
train was about to start we entered the only first-class compartment.
There were two young German officers in it. They saluted, and I took
this as a good omen. The train whistled, and I thought what good luck we
had had, as no one else would get in! Well, the wheels had not turned
round ten times when the door opened violently, and five German officers
leaped into our carriage.

We were nine then, and I thought, What torture! The station master waved
a farewell to one of the officers, and both of them burst out laughing
as they looked at us. I glanced at the station master’s friend. He was a
surgeon major and was wearing the _ambulance_ badge on his sleeve. His
wide face was congested, and a ring of sandy, bushy beard surrounded the
lower part of it. Two little bright, light-colored eyes in perpetual
movement lit up this ruddy face and gave him a sly look. He was broad
shouldered and thick-set, and gave one the idea of having strength
without nerves. The horrid man was still laughing when the station and
its station master were far away from us, but what the other one had
said was evidently very droll. I was in a corner seat, with Soubise
opposite me, and the two young German officers on the other side of each
of us. They were both very gentle and polite, and one of them was quite
delightful in his youthful charm. The surgeon major took off his helmet.
He was very bald and had a very small, stubborn-looking forehead. He
began to talk in a loud voice to the other officers. Our two young
bodyguards took very little part in the conversation. Among the others
was a tall, affected young man whom they addressed as Baron. He was
slender, very elegant, and very strong. When he saw that we did not
understand German, he spoke to us in English. But Soubise was too timid
to answer, and I speak English very badly. He therefore resigned himself
regretfully to talking French. He was agreeable, too agreeable; he
certainly had not bad manners, but he was deficient in tact. I made him
understand this by turning my face toward the scenery we were passing.

We were very much absorbed in our thoughts and had been traveling for a
long time when I suddenly felt suffocated by smoke which was filling the
carriage. I looked round and saw that the surgeon major had lighted his
pipe and, with his eyes half closed, was sending up puffs of smoke to
the ceiling. My throat was smarting with it, and I was choking with
indignation, so that I was seized with a fit of coughing, which I
exaggerated in order to attract the attention of the impolite man. The
baron, however, slapped him on the knee and endeavored to make him
comprehend that smoke annoyed me. He answered by an insult which I did
not understand, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to smoke.
Exasperated by this, I lowered the window on my side. The intense cold
made itself felt in the carriage, but I preferred that to the nauseous
smoke of the pipe. Suddenly the surgeon major got up, putting his hand
to his ear. I then saw that his ear was filled with cotton wool. He
swore like an ox-driver and, pushing past everyone, and stepping on my
loot and on Soubise’s, he shut the window violently, cursing and
swearing all the time—quite uselessly, for I did not understand him. He
went back to his seat, continued his pipe, and sent out enormous clouds
of smoke in the most insolent way. The baron and the two young Germans
who had been the first in the carriage appeared to ask him something,
and then to remonstrate with him, but he evidently told them to mind
their own business and began to abuse them. Very much calmer myself on
seeing the increasing anger of the disagreeable man, and very much
amused by his earache, I again opened the window. He got up again,
furious, showed me his ear and his swollen cheek, and I comprehended the
word periostitis in the explanation he gave me on shutting the window
again. I then made him understand that I had a weak chest and that the
smoke made me cough. The baron acted as my interpreter and explained
this to him. But it was easy to see that he did not care a bit about
that, and he once more took up his favorite attitude and his pipe. I
left him in peace for five minutes, during which time he was able to
imagine himself triumphant until, with a sudden jerk of my elbow, I
broke the pane of glass. Stupefaction was then depicted on the major’s
face, and he became livid. He got straight up, but the two young men
rose at the same time, while the baron burst out laughing in the most
brutal manner. The surgeon moved a step in our direction, but he found a
rampart before him; another officer had joined the two young men, and he
was a strong, hardy-looking fellow, just cut out for an obstacle. I do
not know what he said to the surgeon major, but it was something clear
and decisive. The latter, not knowing how to expend his anger, turned on
the baron, who was still laughing, and abused him so violently that the
latter calmed down suddenly, and answered in such a way that I quite
understood the two men were calling each other out. That affected me but
little. They might very well kill each other, these two men, for they
were equally ill-mannered.

The carriage was now quiet and icy cold, for the wind blew in wildly
through the broken pane. The sun had set. The sky was getting cloudy. It
was about half past five and we were approaching Tergnier. The major had
changed seats with his friend, in order to shelter his ear as much as
possible. He kept moaning like a half-dead cow.

Suddenly, the repeated whistling of a distant locomotive made us listen
attentively. We then heard two, three, and four _petards_ bursting under
our wheels. We could perfectly well feel the efforts the engine driver
was making to slacken speed, but before he could succeed we were thrown
against each other by a frightful shock. There were cracks and creaks,
the hiccoughs of the locomotive spitting out its smoke in irregular
fits, desperate cries, shouts, oaths, sudden downfalls, a lull, then a
thick smoke, broken by the flames of a fire. Our carriage was standing
up like a horse kicking up its hind legs. It was impossible to get our
balance again.

Who was wounded and who was not wounded? We were nine in the
compartment. For my part, I fancied that all my bones were broken. I
moved one leg and then I tried the other. Then, delighted at finding
them without any broken places, I tried my arms in the same way. I had
nothing broken and neither had Mlle. Soubise. She had bitten her tongue
and it was bleeding, and this had frightened me. She did not seem to
understand anything. The tremendous shaking up had made her dizzy, and
she lost her memory for some days. I had a rather deep scratch between
my eyes. I had not had time to stretch out my arms, and my forehead had
knocked against the hilt of the sword which the officer seated by
Soubise had been holding upright.

Assistance arrived from all sides. For some time the door of our
compartment could not be opened. The darkness had come on when it
finally yielded, and a lantern shone feebly on our poor, broken-up
carriage. I looked round for our one bag, but on finding it I let it go
immediately, for my hand was red with blood. Whose blood was it? Three
men did not move, and one of them was the major. His face looked to me
livid. I closed my eyes, in order not to know, and I let the man who had
come to our aid pull me out of the compartment. One of the young
officers got out after me. He took Soubise, who was almost in a fainting
condition, from his friend. The imbecile baron then got out; his
shoulder was out of joint. A doctor came forward among the rescuers. The
baron held his arm out to him and told him to pull it, which he did at
once. The French doctor took off the officer’s cloak, told two of the
railway men to hold him, and then, pushing against him himself, pulled
at the poor arm. The baron was very pale and gave a low whistle. When
the arm was back in its place the doctor shook the baron’s other hand.
“_Cristi!_” he said, “I must have hurt you very much. You have a
precious lot of courage.” The German saluted and I helped him on again
with his cloak.

The doctor was then fetched away, and I saw that he was taken back to
our compartment. I shuddered in spite of myself. We were now able to
find out what had been the cause of our accident. A locomotive attached
to two vans of coal had been shunting, in order to get on to the siding
and let us pass, when one of the vans got off the rails and the
locomotive tired its lungs with whistling the alarm, while men ran to
meet us scattering _petards_. Everything had been in vain, and we had
run against the overturned van.

What were we to do? The soft roads were all broken up by the cannon. We
were about four miles from Tergnier, and a fine, penetrating rain was
making our clothes stick to our bodies.

There were four carriages, but the wounded had to be conveyed. Other
carriages would come, but there were the dead to be carried away. An
improvised litter was just being borne along by two workmen. The major
was lying on it, so livid that I clenched my hands until my nails
entered the flesh. One of the officers wanted to question the doctor who
was following.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “please, please do not. I do not want to know.
The poor fellow!”

I stopped my ears as though some one was about to shout out something
horrible to me, and I never knew his fate.

We were obliged to resign ourselves to setting out on foot. We went
about two kilometers as bravely as possible, and then I stopped quite
exhausted. The mud which clung to our shoes made them very heavy. The
effort we had to make at every step to get each foot out of the dirt
tired us out. I sat down on a milestone and declared that I would not go
any farther.

My companion wept, and the two young German officers, who had acted as
bodyguards, made a seat for me by crossing their hands, and we went
nearly another mile like that. My companion could not walk any farther.
I offered her my place, but she refused it. “Well, then, let us wait
here!” I said, and quite at the end of our strength, we rested against a
little broken tree.

It was now night, and such a cold night! Huddled close to Soubise,
trying to keep warm, I began to fall asleep, seeing before my eyes the
wounded men of Châtillon, who had died seated against the little shrubs.
I did not want to move again, and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly
delicious.

A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of the young men
hailed it and, when the terms were made, I felt myself picked up from
the ground, lifted into the vehicle and carried along by the jerky,
rolling movement of two loose wheels which climbed the hills, sank into
the mire, and jumped over the heaps of stones, while the driver whipped
up his beasts and urged them on with his voice. He had a “don’t care,
let what will happen” way of driving, which was quite the note of the
times. I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep, for I was not really
asleep, but I did not want to answer any questions. I gave myself up to
this prostration of my whole being with a certain enjoyment.

A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at Tergnier. The
cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had to get out. I pretended to be
still asleep. But it was no use, I had to wake up. The two young men
helped me up to my room.

I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart before the
departure of our excellent young companions, who were sorry to leave us.
I signed for each of them a voucher, on a sheet of the hotel paper, for
a photograph. Only one of them ever claimed it. This was six years
later, and I sent it to him.

The Tergnier Hotel could only give us one room between us. I let Soubise
go to bed, and I slept in an armchair, dressed as I was. The following
morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told that there was no
train. We had to work marvels to get a vehicle, but finally, Dr.
Meunier, or Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That
was something, but there was no horse. The poor doctor’s horse had been
requisitioned by the enemy. A wheelwright, for an exorbitant price, let
me hire a colt that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild
when the harness was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after
being well lashed, but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He
stood still on his four legs, which were trembling with fury, and
refused to move. With his neck stretched forward toward the ground, his
eye fixed, and his nostrils dilating, he would not budge any more than a
stake in the earth. Two men then held the light carriage back, the
halter was taken off the colt’s neck, he shook his head for an instant
and, thinking himself free and without any impediments, he began to step
out. The men were scarcely holding the vehicle. He gave two little kicks
and then began to trot. It was only a very short trot. A boy then
stopped him, some carrots were given to him, his mane was stroked, and
the halter was put on again. He stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping
into the gig and holding the reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged
him to move on. The colt tried timidly and, not feeling any resistance,
began to trot along for about a quarter of an hour, and then came back
to us at the door of the hotel. I had to leave a deposit of four hundred
francs with the notary of the place, in case the colt should die.

Ah, what a journey that was with the boy! Soubise and I sitting close
together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt!
The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is
raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop,
because of the poor beast who could not go any farther, it was five in
the afternoon and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was
certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away
from a sordid-looking house. I knocked and an enormous old woman opened
the door.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse.”

She looked out on the road and saw our turnout. “Hey, father,” she
called out in a husky voice, “come and look here!”

A fat man, quite as fat, but older than she was, came hobbling heavily
along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out
laughing and said to me in an insolent way:

“Well, what do you want?”

I repeated my phrase, “Hospitality for an hour, etc., etc.”

“P’raps we can do it, but it’ll want paying for.”

I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge.

“Oh, but in these times, you know, it’s well worth forty francs!”

“Very good,” I said, “agreed, forty francs.”

He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and sent his son
forward to the boy, who was coming along holding the colt by his mane.
He had taken off the halter very considerately, and thrown my rug over
its steaming sides. On reaching the house, the poor beast was quickly
unharnessed, and taken into a little inclosure, at the far end of which
a few badly joined planks served as a stable for an old mule, which was
aroused by the fat woman with kicks, and turned out into the inclosure.
The colt took its place, and when I asked for some oats for it she
replied: “P’raps we could get it some, but that isn’t in the price of
the forty francs.”

“Very well,” I said; and I gave our boy five francs to fetch the oats,
but the old shrew took the money from him and handed it to her lad,
saying: “You go, you know where to find them, and come back quick.”

Our boy stayed with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down as well as
he could. I went back to the house, where I found my charming Soubise
with her sleeves turned up, and her delicate hands washing two glasses
and two plates for us. I asked if it would be possible to have some
eggs.

“Yes, but——”

I interrupted our monstrous hostess.

“Don’t tire yourself, madame, I beg,” I said. “It is understood that the
forty francs are your tip and that I am to pay for everything else.”

She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying to find
words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought me five eggs and
I began to prepare my omelette, as my culinary glory is an omelette.

The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the boy and let
him have something to eat in our presence, for I was afraid that the
ogress would give him too economical a meal.

When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive, of
course, of the forty francs, the matron put on her spectacles and,
taking one of the gold pieces, looked at it on one side, then on the
other, made it ring on a plate and then on the ground. She did this with
each of the three gold pieces. I could not help laughing. “Oh, there’s
nothing to laugh at!” she grunted. “For the last six months we’ve had
nothing but thieves here.”

“And you know something about theft!” I said.

She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the laughing
expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This was very fortunate,
as they were people capable of doing us harm. I had taken the
precaution, when sitting down to table, of putting my revolver near me.

“You know how to fire that?” asked the lame man.

“Oh, yes, I shoot very well!” I answered, but this was not true. Our
steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and we proceeded on our
way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful. He stamped, kicked a little,
and began to go at a pretty steady pace. Our disagreeable hosts had told
us the way to St. Quentin, and we set off, after our poor colt had made
attempts to stand still. I was dead tired and fell asleep, but after
about an hour the vehicle stopped abruptly, and the wretched beast began
to snort and put his back up, supporting himself on his four stiff,
trembling legs.

It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky seemed to be shedding tears
slowly over the earth. We had stopped in the middle of a field, which
had been plowed up all over by the heavy wheels of cannon. The rest of
the ground had been trampled by horses’ feet, and the cold had hardened
the little ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there which
glittered dismally in the thick atmosphere.

We got down from the vehicle to try to discover what was making our
little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry of horror for, only
about five yards away, some dogs were pulling wildly at a dead body,
half of which was still underground. It was a soldier and, fortunately,
one of the enemy. I took the whip from our young driver and lashed the
horrid animals as hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing
their teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable work,
growling sullenly at us.

Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle. We went on
with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these devastated
plains. Darkness came over us and it was icy cold. The moon feebly
pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape with a wan, sad
light. I was half dead with fright. It seemed to me that the silence was
broken by cries from underground, and every little mound of earth
appeared to me to be a head. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in
her hands. After going along for half an hour, we saw, in the distance,
a little group of people coming along carrying lanterns. I went toward
them, as I wanted to find out which way to go. I was embarrassed on
getting nearer to them, for I could hear sobs. I saw a poor woman, who
was very corpulent, being helped along by a young priest. The whole of
her body was shaken by her fits of grief. She was followed by two
subofficers and by three other persons. I let her pass by, and then
questioned those who were following her. I was told that she was looking
for the bodies of her husband and son, who had both been killed a few
days before on the St. Quentin plains. She came each day at dusk, in
order to avoid inquisitive people, and she had not yet met with any
success. It was hoped that she would find them this time, as one of
these subofficers, who had just left the hospital, was taking them to
the spot where he had seen the poor creature’s husband fall, mortally
wounded. He had fallen there himself, and had been picked up by the
_ambulance_ people.

I thanked these persons, who told me the wretched road we must take, the
best one there was, lay through this cemetery.

We could now distinguish groups of people searching about, and it was
all so horrible that it made me want to scream out.

Suddenly, the boy who was driving us pulled my coat sleeve.

“Oh, madame,” he said, “look at that scoundrel stealing!”

I looked and saw a man lying down full length, with a large bag near
him. He had a dark lantern, which he held toward the ground. He then got
up, looked around him, for his outline could be seen distinctly on the
horizon, and began his work again.

When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp, and crouched down on the
ground. We walked on in silence straight toward him. I took the colt by
the bridle, on the other side from the boy, who no doubt understood my
idea, for he let himself be guided by me. I walked straight toward the
man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we pulled
hard and made it advance. We were so near to him that I shuddered at the
thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to be trampled over
by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal his presence.
Fortunately, though, I was mistaken; a stifled voice murmured:

“Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me.” I took the gig
lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us
better, and I turned it now on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied
to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a
hollow-looking face, framed with long, dirty, white whiskers. He had a
muffler round his neck, and was wearing a peasant’s cloak of a dark
color. Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass
buttons, sword hilts, and other objects that the infamous old man had
torn from the poor dead men.

“You are not wounded. You are a thief, and a violator of tombs! I shall
call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable
wretch!” I exclaimed, and went so near to him that I could feel his
breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees, and, clasping his
criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice.

“Leave your bag there, then,” I said, “and all those things. Empty your
pockets, leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of
sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are searching, and I shall
give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you
off and not giving you up.”

He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away
when the lad whispered: “He’s hiding some boots under his cloak.” I was
furious with rage with this vile thief and I pulled his big cloak off.

“Leave everything, you wretched man,” I exclaimed, “or I will call out.”

Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard
ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of
his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects.

“Will you leave that, and get away quickly?” I said, “my patience is at
an end.”

“But if I am caught I shan’t be able to defend myself,” he exclaimed, in
a fit of desperate rage.

“It will be because God willed it so,” I answered. “Go at once or I will
call.” The man then made off, abusing me as he went.

Our little driver then fetched a soldier to whom I related the
adventure, showing him the objects.

“Which way did the rascal go?” asked a sergeant who had come with the
soldier.

“I can’t say,” I replied.

“Oh, well, I don’t care to run after him,” he said, “there are enough
dead men here.”

We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met,
and it was then possible for us to take a road a little more suitable
for vehicles.

After going through Busigny, and a wood, where there were bogs in which
we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an
end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue,
fright, and despair.

I was obliged to take a day’s rest there, for I was prostrate with
feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly whitewashed but quite
clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood
bed, and curtains of white sateen.

I sent for a doctor for my nice little Mlle. Soubise, who, it seemed to
me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state,
though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and
made my head burn. Soubise could not keep still, but kept seeing
specters and fires, hearing shouts, and turning round quickly, imagining
that some one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a
soothing draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot
bath brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days
since we had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to
reach Hombourg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at
present. I took the train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a
trunk, and a few necessary things.

From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we
were able to take the train again the same evening.

I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we
continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne,
although on passing through Strasbourg I had a nervous attack from
sorrow and despair. On arriving at Cologne we had a cruel
disappointment. The train had only just entered the station, when a
railway official, passing quickly in front of the carriages, shouted
something in German, which I did not catch. Everyone seemed to be in a
hurry, and men and women pushed each other without any courtesy. I
addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my bag
very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I did not
understand the excitement, until the man flung my bag into a
compartment, and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible. Mlle.
Soubise was already on the step, when she was pushed aside violently by
a railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of
what had happened, the train had disappeared. My bag had gone in the
carriage, and my trunk was with all the other trunks, in a luggage van
that had been unhooked from the train which had arrived and fastened on
to the express which had left. I began to cry with rage. An official
took pity on us and led us to the station master. He was a very superior
sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great
leather armchair, and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He
looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station master at the first
station. “You will have them again to-morrow, toward midday,” he said.

“Then I cannot start this evening?” I asked.

“Oh, no, that is impossible,” he replied. “There is no train, for the
express that will take you to Hombourg does not start before to-morrow
morning.”

“O God, God!” I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair,
which soon affected Mlle. Soubise, too.

The poor station master was rather embarrassed and tried to soothe me.
“Do you know anyone here?” he asked.

“No, no one. I have only been to Baden-Baden. That was three years ago,
and I do not know anyone in Cologne.”

“Well, then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord. My
sister-in-law has been there for two days and she will look after you.”

Half an hour later his carriage arrived and he took us to the Hôtel du
Nord, after driving a long way around to show us the city. But at that
time I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans.

On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law,
a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my
taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She
engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the
ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her
drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming
woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even
Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman, in letting
us hear only French composers. I asked her to play something from Mozart
and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed: “Do you like
Wagner!”

“I like his music,” I replied, “but I detest the man.”

Mlle. Soubise whispered to me: “Ask her to play Liszt.”

She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must own that
I spent a delicious evening there.

At ten o’clock the station master (whose name I have very stupidly
forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me he would
call for us at eight the following morning, and then took leave of us. I
fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, etc.

At eight o’clock the next morning, a servant came to tell me that the
carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and
our pretty hostess of the previous evening said sweetly: “Come, you must
start!” I was really very much touched by the delicacy of this pretty
German woman.

It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk
and, on her reply in the affirmative, we all three started for the
station, which is not far from the hotel. An engaged carriage had been
reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as
possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us and wished us a
pleasant journey.

When the train had started, I discovered, in one of the corners, a
bouquet of forget-me-nots with the sister’s card, and a box of
chocolates from the station master.

I was at last about to arrive at my goal and was in a state of wild
excitement at the idea of seeing, once more, all my beloved ones. My
eyes, which had grown larger with anxiety, traveled more rapidly than
the train. I fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw
flying along. I laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces
of those I was going to see again, and then I began to tremble with
anxiety. What had happened to them? and should I find them all? I should
if ... ah, those “ifs,” those “becauses,” and those “buts”! My mind
became full of them, they bristled with illnesses, and accidents, and I
began to weep. My poor little traveling companion began to weep, too.

Finally, we came within sight of Hombourg. Twenty more minutes of this
turning of wheels and we entered the station. But just as though all the
spirites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to torture
my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the windows. “What
is it?” “What’s the matter?” “Why are we not going on?” There was a
train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake, and the line
had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my teeth and hands
and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil spirits which were so
bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely closed my eyes. I muttered
some invectives against the invisible sprites, and declared that as I
would not suffer any more, I was now going to rest. I then fell fast
asleep, for the power of sleeping when I wish is a precious gift which
God has bestowed on me. In the most frightful circumstances and the most
cruel moments of life, when I have felt that my reason was giving way
under shocks that have been too great or too painful, my will has laid
hold of my reason, just as one holds a bad-tempered little dog that
wants to bite, and subjugating it, my will has said to my reason:
“Enough, you can take up again to-morrow your suffering and your plans,
your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish. You have had enough for
to-day. You would give way altogether under the weight of so many
troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will not have it! We
will forget everything for a while and go to sleep together!” And I have
gone to sleep. This is absolutely true.

Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train had really arrived. I was
refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage, and had
given the address: 7 Obere Strasse.

We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and
they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in
all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious
sobs.

Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the
next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so
incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house;
we had to escape in our night clothes, camp out for six hours in five
feet of snow, etc., etc., but everyone was safe and sound.

We then set out for Paris, but on arriving at St. Denis there were no
more trains. It was four o’clock in the morning. The Germans were
masters of all the suburbs of Paris and the trains ran only for their
service. After an hour spent in running about, in discussions and
rebuffs, I found an officer of higher rank, who was better educated and
more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to take me to the Gare du
Hâvre.

The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Régina,
Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a
little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench,
which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine
went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or
railway carriages.

We left at five in the morning and reached the Gare du Hâvre at seven.
At a place which I cannot locate, our German conductors were exchanged
for French. I questioned them and learned that Paris was just then
disturbed by revolutionary movements.

The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very
advanced individual. “You would do better to go somewhere else, and not
to Paris,” he said, “for before long they will come to blows there.”

We had arrived by this time, but at this hour, as no train was expected
in, it was impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from
the locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials.

I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men
if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those
belonging to my family later on.

There was not a single carriage outside the station. What was to be
done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de Rome, and this was not far away,
but my mother scarcely ever walked, for she was delicate and had a weak
heart. The children, too, were very, very tired. Their eyes were puffed
up and scarcely open, and their little limbs benumbed by the cold and
the sitting still. I began to get desperate, but a milk cart was just
passing by, and I sent the porter to hail it. I offered twenty francs if
the man would drive my mother and the two children to 4 Rue de Rome.

“And you, too, if you like, young lady,” said the milkman. “You are
thinner than a grasshopper, you won’t make it any heavier.” I did not
want inviting twice, although rather annoyed by the man’s speech.

When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation, by the
side of the milkman, and the children and I were in among the full and
empty milk pails, I said to the man: “Would it be all the same to you to
come back and fetch the others?” I pointed to the remaining group, and
added: “You shall have twenty francs more.”

“Right you are!” said the worthy fellow. “A good day’s work! Don’t you
tire your legs, you others. I’ll be back for you directly!”

He then whipped up his horse and took us off at a wild rate. The
children rolled about and I held on. My mother set her teeth and did not
utter a word, but from under her long lashes she glanced at me with a
displeased look.

On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so short that I
thought my mother would fall out on to the animal’s back. We had
arrived, though, and we got out. The cart started off again at full
speed. My mother would not speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty
mother, it was not my fault after all.

CHAPTER XV
THE COMMUNE AND VICTOR HUGO

I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and had then left a sad
city. The sadness had been painful, the result of a great misfortune
which had been unexpected. No one had dared to look up, fearing to be
blown upon by the same wind which was blowing the German flag floating
over yonder beyond the Arc de Triomphe.

I found Paris now effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded
with many-colored posters, and all these posters contained the wildest
harangues. Fine, noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats.
Workmen, on their way to their daily toil, stopped in front of these
bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin the
reading over again. And all these human beings, who had just been
suffering so much through this abominable war, now echoed these appeals
for vengeance. They were very much to be excused. This war, alas! had
hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin and of mourning.
Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations of the siege had
lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of the defeat had
discouraged the men. Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist
shouts, these yells from the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down
with the Republic! Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with
the Jews! Down with the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who
work! Down with everything!”—all these cries roused the benumbed
hearers. The Germans, who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real
service without intending it. Those who had given themselves up to
resignation were stirred out of their torpor. Others, who were asking
for “revenge,” found an aliment for their inactive forces. None of them
agreed. There were ten or twenty different parties, devouring each other
and threatening each other. It was terrible!

But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my
friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them
interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them. I often saw Gambetta
at Girardin’s, and it was a joy to me to listen to this admirable man.
What he said was so wise, so well balanced and so captivating! This man
with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a halo of
beauty round him when he spoke. And he was never common, never ordinary.
He took snuff, and the gesture of his hand when he brushed away the
stray grains, was full of grace, He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke
them without annoying anyone. When he was tired of politics and talked
literature, it was a rare charm, for he knew everything and quoted
poetry admirably. One evening, after dinner at Girardin’s, we played
together the whole of the scene in the first act between _Hernani_ and
_Doña Sol_. He was not handsome, like Mounet-Sully, but he was just as
admirable in it.

Another time he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz.” But I preferred
his political discussions to all that, especially when he criticised the
speech of some one whose opinion was opposed to his own. The eminent
qualities of this politician’s talent were logic and balance, and his
seductive force was chauvinism. The obscure death of so great a thinker
is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride.

I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease
with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and,
although I am very Republican, I liked the Emperor, Napoleon III. He had
been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that
Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune.

I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favorite of Thiers. He had
great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some
people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more
advanced Republican than Thiers. Anyone must have known him very little
to believe him anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat
had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very
straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics,
except in private circles; and his advice always prevailed, even in the
Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except in the office.
The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times, but he
repeatedly refused it. Finally, after my repeated entreaties, he almost
allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine Arts, but at the last
moment he declined, and wrote me a delicious letter, from which I quote
a few passages. As the letter was not written for publication, I do not
consider that I have a right to give the whole of it, but there seems to
be no harm in publishing these few lines:

Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see better
there than in the dazzling brilliancy of men. You are grateful to me,
sometimes, for being attentive to the miseries you point out to me.
Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to have the
right to relieve everyone than to be obliged to relieve no matter
whom.... In matters of art, I have made for myself an ideal of beauty
which would naturally seem too partial....

It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not
allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me
were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be
helped.

I also knew, and frequently saw, a great, foolish fellow full of dreams
and Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice
looking. He wanted everyone to be happy and everyone to have money, and
he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing by
making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was impossible,
but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his death. He
came to see me with a very young girl, who wanted to devote herself to
dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the poor child
came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had refused to
surrender, and, stretching out his arms, and shouted to the hesitating
soldiers: “Shoot! shoot! I would not have spared you!” And he had then
fallen under the bullets.

Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous
madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of
Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined
to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm
than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to that band of
students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them
everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris “the
drivelers.” One day he brought me a little one-act play. This piece was
so stupid and the verses so insipid that I sent it back to him with a
few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for he bore me malice
for them and attempted to avenge himself in the following way. He called
on me one day. Mme. Guérard was there when he was shown in.

“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.

“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied.

“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war,” he
continued.

This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As I can foresee
that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher monsieur_, I will
not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would
prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, to have for enemies,
rather than for friends.” With these words I rang for my footman to show
the Prefect of Police to the door.

Mme. Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us some harm, my dear
Sarah, I assure you,” she said.

She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking
of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by
sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an
inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries
for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of
Police, on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a
mounted courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening
to send a prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of
this wretch, who was shot shortly after, and died without showing any
courage.

Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to
St. Germain en Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to
Switzerland with my youngest sister.

The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists,
with gun on shoulder, stopped the trains and searched in all our bags
and pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They
were afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles.
This was monstrously stupid.

The installation at St. Germain was not easy. Nearly all Paris had taken
refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is dull. From the
height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning and night, we
could see the alarming progress of the Commune. On all sides of Paris
the flames rose, proud and destructive. The wind often brought us burnt
papers, which we took to the Council House. The Seine brought quantities
along with it, and the boatmen collected these in sacks. Some days—and
these were the most distressing of any—an opaque veil of smoke enveloped
Paris. There was no breeze to allow the flames to pierce through. The
city then burned stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to
discover what fresh homes these furious madmen had set alight.

I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far
as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across
poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but
often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or
Communist sharp shooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier. One day
on the way back from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had been for a
gallop over all the hills, we entered the forest rather late in the
evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot wits fired from a neighboring
thicket, which made my horse bound so sharply toward the left that I was
thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O’Connor hurried to me, but I
was already up and ready to mount again. “Just a second,” he said, “I
want to search that thicket.” With a short gallop he was soon at the
spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under flying feet,
then another shot, not at all like the two former ones, and my friend
appeared again with a pistol in his hand.

“It has not touched you?” I asked.

“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low.
The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet
from my revolver in his body.”

“But I heard some one running away,” I said.

“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will not go far!”

“Poor wretch!” I murmured.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg. They kill
numbers of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my
regiment were found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but
mutilated,” and, gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an
oath.

I turned toward him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We
continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest
would allow us. All at once, our horses stopped short, snorting and
sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off and led his
horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground. “That
must be my wretch of just now,” said my companion and, bending down over
the man, he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor had not
seen his man, so he could not have recognized him. He lighted a match,
and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted and was trying to
raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my hand covered with
blood. He had opened his eyes and fixed them on O’Connor.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN RIDING HABIT.]

“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I
missed you, but—” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but
the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor, on his
side, had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man
and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely
recognize my friend, for this nice-looking, fair-haired man, so correct,
rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute.
Leaning forward toward the unfortunate man, his under jaw advancing, he
was muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand
seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter,
before flinging it away in disgust.

“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said.

He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way and seemed
to become aware of the situation again. “Good!;” he said, helping me to
mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will come
back with some men to pick up this wretch.” Half an hour later we were
back home, without having exchanged another word during our ride.

I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again
without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the
brutelike mask, under which I had seen him for a second, would fix
itself again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March, 1905,
General O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one
evening in my dressing-room at the theater. He told me about his
difficulties with some of the great Arab chiefs.

“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have to have a brush
together.”

The captain’s mask, for me, then fixed itself on the general’s face. I
never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.

We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful
peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was
supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! what women in
mourning! what ruins!

The bitter odor of smoke was what we inhaled in Paris. All that I
touched at home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost
imperceptible color. A general uneasiness beset France, and more
especially Paris. The theaters, however, opened their doors once more,
and that was a general relief.

One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out
my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse
snorting. The race ground was to be opened for us again. We should be
able to gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were open. The
contest was beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange
that man’s mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there
is no longer War there is Battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us
for the same object, God has created the earth and man for each other.
The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon miles,
acres upon acres of new land, waiting for arms that will take from its
bosom the treasures of inexhaustible nature. And we remain grouped round
each other; crowds of famishing people watching other groups, which are
also lying in wait.

The Odéon opened its doors to the public, offering them its repertory.
Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these, more particularly,
had great success. It was André Theuriet’s “Jean-Marie,” and was given
in October, 1871. This little one-act play is a veritable masterpiece,
and it took its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the
part of _Jean-Marie_, had huge success. He was at that time slender,
nimble, and full of youthful ardor. He needed a little more poetry, but
the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardor for what
was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow.

My rôle of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband
forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_
who was absent, perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching through
the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the end of the
piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success and increased my
growing reputation.

I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I
did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had
to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to
place on my head the crown of the Elect.

At the end of that year, 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and
solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My
mind, at that time of my life, was still closed to great ideas. What
with my somewhat cosmopolitan family, their rather snobbish
acquaintances and friends, and the acquaintances and friends I had
chosen in my independent life as an _artiste_, I was living in rather a
_bourgeois_ atmosphere. I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my
childhood as a rebel and a renegade, and his works, which I had read
with passion, did not prevent my judging him with very great severity.
And I blush to-day with anger and shame, when I think of all my absurd
prejudices, nourished by the imbecile or insincere little court which
flattered me. I had a great wish, nevertheless, to play in “Ruy Blas.”
The rôle of the queen seemed so charming to me.

I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it.
Jane Essler, an _artiste_ then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great
chances, though, against me. She was on very friendly terms with Paul
Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. A friend brought
Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was the other friend, and even a
relative of the “illustrious master.”

Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak for me to Victor Hugo, and two days
later he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favor.
Paul Meurice himself, a very straightforward man with a delightful mind,
had proposed me to the author. Then, too, Geffroy, the admirable
_artiste_ taken from the Comédie Française to play “Don Salluste,” had
said, it appears, that he could see only one little Queen of Spain
worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know Geffroy,
and I did not know Paul Meurice, and was rather astonished that they
should know me.

The reading was to be at Victor Hugo’s the next day at two o’clock. I
was very much spoiled and very much praised and flattered, so that I
felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did not condescend to
disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house, when there was
neutral ground, the theater, for the reading of plays. I told this
unheard of thing at five o’clock to my little court, and men and women
alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the other day an outlaw!
That man who has only just been pardoned! That nobody dares to ask the
little Idol, the Queen of Hearts, the Fairy of Fairies to inconvenience
herself!”

All my little sanctuary was in a tumult, men and women alike could not
keep still. “She must not go,” they said. “Write him this ... write him
that.” And they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when
Marshal Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little
five o’clock court, and he was soon posted by my turbulent visitors. He
was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered against the great poet.

“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me
that he has no reason to deviate from the regular customs. But make an
excuse of sudden illness—follow my advice, and show the respect for him
that we owe to genius.”

I followed my great friend’s counsel and sent the following letter to
the poet:

MONSIEUR: The Queen has taken a chill and her _Camerara Mayor_ forbids
her to go out. You know better than anyone else the etiquette of this
Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.

I sent the letter, and the following is the poet’s reply:

I am your valet, Madame.

VICTOR HUGO.

The next day the play was read on the stage to the _artistes_. I believe
that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the
master’s house.

I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for
a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!

The monster was charming, so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a
gallantry that was an homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to
the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of
elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in
his way of speaking, which savored of the old French peer. He was quick
at repartee, and his observations were gentle but persistent. He recited
poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited.

He often spoke in verse when he wanted to reprimand an _artiste_. One
day, during a rehearsal, he was trying to convince poor Tallien about
his bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat
down on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience and,
getting up from the middle of the orchestra, exclaimed:

“Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable
Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table.”

I sprang from the table, slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer him
in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to say,
and remained there, confused and in a bad temper.

One day when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was
waiting, my forehead pressed against the window pane, for the arrival of
Mme. Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the
footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor
Hugo had just crossed the road and was about to walk on. An old woman
attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down
on the ground and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of
perspiration.

In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open, as she was
panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing anxiety, as she
looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages and omnibuses
passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after a short
conversation, he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it to
her, then taking off his hat he confided it to her and, with a quick
movement and a laughing face, lifted the bundle to his shoulder and
crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I rushed downstairs
to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached the passage,
jostled against De Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and descended the
staircase, Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could see only the old woman’s
back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now more briskly.

The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate, good
deed. “Oh,” said Paul Maurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day
that dawns is a day of kindness for him!” I embraced Victor Hugo and we
went to the rehearsal.

Oh, those rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”! I shall never forget them, for there
was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo arrived
everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie and Paul
Maurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the master was absent they
kept up the divine fire. Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often
gave me advice. Then, during the intervals of rest, I posed for him in
various attitudes, for he was a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie
Française there are two pictures representing the members of both sexes
for two generations. The pictures are not of very original composition,
neither are they of beautiful coloring, but they are faithful
likenesses, it appears, and rather happily grouped.

Lafontaine, who was playing _Ruy Blas_, often had long discussions with
the master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that
he was always right. Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but
his elocution was very bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they
were replaced by a set of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to
his delivery, and there was a little odd, clacking sound between his
real palate and his artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the
ear listening attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.

As to that poor Tallien, who was playing _Don Guritan_, he made a hash
of it every minute. He had understood his rôle quite wrongly. Victor
Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Tallien was a
well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as
stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first, he never
understood. It was finished for life. But, as he was straightforward and
loyal, he put himself into the hands of the author, and gave himself up
then in complete self-abnegation. “That is not as I understood it,” he
would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”

He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the
inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most
painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic
pride. I often took this poor Tallien aside and tried to urge him on to
rebellion, but it was all in vain. He was tall, and his arms were too
long and his eyes tired, his nose was weary with having grown too long,
and it sank over his lips with heartrending dejection. His forehead was
covered with thick hair, and his chin seemed to be running away in a
hurry from this ill-built face. A great kindliness was diffused all over
his being, and this kindliness was just himself. Everyone was therefore
infinitely fond of him.

The 26th of January, 1872, was an artistic fête for the Odéon. The
_Tout-Paris_ of first nights and all youthful Paris were to meet in the
large, solemn, dusty theater. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance
it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe looking
in his black costume as _Don Salluste_! Mélingue rather disappointed the
public as _Don César de Bazan_, and the public was in the wrong.... The
rôle of _Don César de Bazan_ is a treacherously good rôle, which always
tempts _artistes_ by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth
act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless.
It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its
shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.

This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me, the thin veil which
still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity.
Until that day I had remained the students’ little Fairy. I became then
the Elect of the Public.

Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to
whom to reply, in the ever-changing stream of men and women admirers.
All at once, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I
caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming toward me. In a
second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed
across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and
barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my
life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my
repentance, and to tell him of my devout gratitude.

Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and, raising my
two hands to his lips, he murmured: “Thank you! Thank you!”

And so it was he who said thank you. He, the great Victor Hugo, whose
mind was so fine, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose
generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how
small I felt, how ashamed and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the
hands that were held out to him, finding for everyone the right word.

He was so handsome that night, with his wide forehead, which seemed to
retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing,
luminous eyes.

Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into
Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and burst into tears. He
took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be
intoxicated with this great success, now,” he said. “There must be no
more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have
to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.”

“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I
answered, looking at him. “I will try to be more sociable, but that is
all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my
risky jumps—and I feel that I shall always be making jumps—the crown
will not shake off.”

Paul Maurice, who had come up to me, overheard this conversation and
reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of “Angelo,”
at the Sarah Bernhardt Theater, on the 7th of February, 1905.

CHAPTER XVI
I LEAVE THE ODÉON

On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Mme. Guérard, and
when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich
in hopes and future that I was afraid of thieves. My _petite dame_
stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took
a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for
another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: “Le
Passant,” and “Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix”; _Anna Danby_ in “Kean,”
and “Jean-Marie,” but I felt that the “Ruy Blas” success was greater
than any of the others, and that this time I had become some one likely
to be criticised, but not to be overlooked.

I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s and he was always very
charming and kind.

When I was quite at my ease with him, I told him about my first
impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him,
about all that I had been told and all that I had believed, in my naïve
ignorance about political matters.

On this particular morning, the master took great delight in my
conversation. He sent for Mme. Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of
his glorious and rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing, but
melancholy way, about the evil work of bad people, in sowing error in
every soil, whether favorable or not. That morning is engraved forever
in my mind, for the great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me,
but for what I represented in his eyes! Was I not, as a matter of fact,
the young generation, in whom a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had
warped the intelligence, by closing the mind to every generous idea, to
every flight toward the New?

When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his
friendship.

I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some being who loved
the poet, but he was out.

I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise.
Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms
of the marshal, who was coming out of his house.

“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked laughing.

I did not understand and gazed at him rather bewildered. “Well, have you
forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked.

I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it. “Well, all the
better!” I said. “I very much wanted to talk to you. Come, I am going to
take you with me now.”

I then described my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine
things he had said to me, forgetting that I was constantly saying things
that were contrary to his ideas. This admirable man could admire,
though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the great
ideas which were to bring about great changes.

One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there had been a
political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a
moment that things might take a wrong turn, as Busnach was the most
witty, and at the same time the rudest man in France.... It is only fair
to say, though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well
bred, he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was
worked up by the teasing speeches of the marshal.

“I challenge you, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious
Utopias that you have just been supporting!” “Oh, M. Busnach,” replied
Canrobert, coldly, “we do not use the same steel for writing history!
You use a pen and I a sword.”

The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a
luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found
there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. De Montbel, a
young attaché of the Embassy. I explained my lateness as well as I could
and the morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.

I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of
listening.

During a silence, Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the marshal and said: “Are
you not of the opinion that our young friend ought to enter the Comédie
Française?”

“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed, “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the
Comédie and the short time I stayed there I was so unhappy.”

“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged! Believe
me, it will be better early than late.”

“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been
happier!”

One morning after this my maid brought me a letter. The large round
stamp, on which the words “Comédie Française” are to be read, was on the
corner of the envelope.

I remembered that just ten years ago that very day, our old servant
Marguerite had, without my mother’s permission, handed me a letter in
the same kind of envelope. My face then had flushed with joy, but this
time I felt a faint tinge of pallor touch my cheeks. When events occur
which disturb my life, I always have a movement of recoil toward the
past. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself headlong
into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to his trapeze
bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force into space. In
one second the “now” becomes for me the “has been,” and I love it with
tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be without
seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown, the
mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something unheard
of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness.

I receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive
enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea.
What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large,
small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the
rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s
corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going
to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing
waves? What pink “seastar”? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell?

So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to
recognize the handwriting, the seal, and it is only when I am quite
certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my
secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Leylor. My friends know this
so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their
envelopes. At that time, I had no secretary, but my _petite dame_ served
me as such. I looked at the envelope a long time and gave it at last to
Mme. Guérard.

“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the ‘Comédie Française,’”
she said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or
Wednesday afternoon at the ‘Comédie Française,’ or at your own house.”

“Thanks, what day is it to-day?” I asked.

“Monday,” she replied.

I then installed Mme. Guérard at my desk and asked her to reply that I
would go there the following day at three o’clock.

I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on
what my father had left me, that is, on the transaction made by the
Hâvre notary, and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel
and showed him the letter.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.”

“Oh, well, I shall advise you to stay at the Odéon! Besides, your
engagement does not terminate for another year, and I shall not let you
leave!”

“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand
francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will
stay, for I do not want to leave.”

“Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly way. “You know
that I am not free to act alone, but I will do my best, I promise you,”
and Duquesnel certainly kept his word. “Come here to-morrow before going
to the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice
and if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave, we
shall find a way. And besides ... anyhow, I cannot say any more!”

I returned the following day according to arrangement. I found Duquesnel
and Chilly in the manager’s office. Chilly began at once somewhat
roughly: “And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you
going? It is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider and
think it over for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces,
pieces for dressy plays. That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is
the same. At the Gaieté you would spoil your voice. You are too
distinguished for the Ambigu.”

I looked at him without replying and he felt awkward and mumbled:

“Well, then, you are of my opinion?”

“No,” I answered, “you have forgotten the Comédie.”

He was sitting in his big armchair and he burst out laughing.

“Ah, no, my dear girl!” he said, “you must not tell me that! They’ve had
enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night
with Maubant and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the
Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you he did
not show much affection as far as you were concerned, the great
tragedian!”

“Oh, well, you ought to have taken my part!” I exclaimed, irritated.
“You know very well that I am very reliable.”

“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even that it would be
a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an _artiste_
with your will power, that perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of
the house, and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was
beside himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the
first place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite poetry. He
declares that you make all your A’s too broad. Finally, when he had no
arguments left, he declared that as long as he lives you will never
enter the Comédie Française.”

I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable
result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured
somewhat waveringly: “Well, then, you will not give me a higher salary?”

“No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try to make me sing
when your engagement comes to an end and then we will see. But I have
your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our
engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you
besides ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that
theater.”

“You make a mistake, perhaps,” I answered. He got up brusquely and came
and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an
odious and familiar tone: “Ah! that’s it, is it? You think I am an
idiot, then?”

I got up, too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back: “I think you
are a triple idiot.” I then hurried away toward the staircase, and all
Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.

On arriving under the Odéon Arcade I was stopped by Paul Maurice, who
was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly for Victor Hugo to a
supper to celebrate the hundredth presentation of “Ruy Blas.”

“I have just come away from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few
lines from Victor Hugo.”

“Good, good, that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I
shall see you to-morrow, then, my friend.”

“Good heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said.

“Yes!” I replied; and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my
coachman: “Drive to the Comédie Française.”

I looked at Paul Maurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied
on the arcade steps.

On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes
later was ushered in to that icy manikin. There were two very distinct
personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the
other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession.
Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the
manikin was cold and somewhat given to posing.

I was first received by Perrin, the manikin. He was standing up, his
head bent to bow to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the
hospitable armchair. He waited, with a certain affectation, until I was
seated, before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper knife, in
order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak
voice, the voice of the manikin, he remarked:

“Have you thought it over, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.”

Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the
things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen and prepared to
sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my
arm out across the whole width of the writing table and dipped my pen
this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink pot. I took too much ink,
however, this time, and on the return journey a huge drop of it fell on
the large sheet of white paper in front of the manikin. He bent his
head, for he was slightly shortsighted, and looked for a moment like a
bird when it discovers a hempseed in its grain. He then proceeded to put
aside the blotted sheet.

“Wait a minute! oh, wait a minute!” I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper.
“I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a
butterfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong.”
I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot and
pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh,
giving up his manikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the
paper with me, and we opened it very gently, just as one opens one’s
hand after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the
midst of its whiteness, a magnificent black butterfly with outspread
wings was to be seen.

“Well, then,” said Perrin, with nothing of the manikin left, “we were
quite right in signing.”

After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for
this man was charming and very fascinating in spite of his ugliness.
When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other.

I was playing “Ruy Blas” that night at the Odéon. Toward ten o’clock
Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.

“You were rather rough on that poor Chilly,” he said. “And then, too,
you really were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you.
Is it true, as Paul Maurice tells us, that you went straight to the
Théâtre Française?”

“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement with the
Comédie.

Duquesnel took the paper and read it.

“Will you let me show it to Chilly?” he asked.

“Show it him, certainly,” I replied.

He came nearer and said in a grave, hurt tone:

“You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a
lack of confidence, and I did not deserve that.”

He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived,
furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger.

“It is abominable!” he said. “It is treason, and you had not even the
right to do it! I shall make you pay damages!”

As I felt in a bad humor, I turned my back on him and excused myself in
as poor a way as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little
ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness; and
it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had
held the door open for my future.

Chilly kept his word and brought an action against me and the Comédie. I
lost and had to pay six thousand francs damage to the managers of the
Odéon.

A few months later Victor Hugo invited the interpreters of “Ruy Blas” to
a big supper in honor of the one hundredth performance. This was a great
delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of this kind.

[Illustration: SKULL IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH
VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO.]

I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in
question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was
seated at the right of Victor Hugo, and at his left was Mme. Lambquin,
who was playing the _Camerara Mayor_. Duquesnel was next to Mme.
Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile
Gautier, with his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant
mind and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his
fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The
expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an
Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly
all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection, the fond lover of the
Beautiful.

It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could
see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with
gems of all colors, and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips. I
was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a word
from my neighbor, Victor Hugo, made me turn toward him. What a
difference! He was just himself, the great poet, the most ordinary of
beings, except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy looking, although
very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth without
any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to listen to
him while looking at Théophile Gautier.

I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for
at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de Ste. Victor.
His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil was oozing out.
His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes evil looking and
hard, his arms too short, and he was too stout. He had plenty of wit and
talent, but he employed both in saying and writing more harm than good.
I knew that this man hated me, and I promptly returned him hatred for
hatred.

In the toast proposed by Victor Hugo in thanking everyone for such
zealous help on the reappearance of his work, every person raised his
glass and looked toward the poet, but the illustrious master turned
toward me and continued: “As to you, madame——” Just at this moment Paul
de St. Victor put his glass down so violently on the table that it
broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the
table and held my glass out toward Paul de St. Victor.

“Take mine,” I said, “monsieur, and then when you drink you will know
what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so
clearly!”

The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!

Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers.
Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell
Chilly to reply, that it was his turn to speak.

“Come, get up,” I said to him. He gazed at me with a glassy look and in
a far-away voice replied:

“My legs are being held.” I looked at him more attentively, while
Duquesnel asked for silence for M. De Chilly’s speech. I saw that his
fingers were grasping a fork desperately, the tips of his fingers were
white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy
cold, the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was
silence and all eyes turned toward Chilly.

“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head
suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled
uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid,
commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one
mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the
waiters came and carried the body away, living, but inert, and placed it
in a small drawing-room.

Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s
guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups
had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was no
better.

“The doctor has just arrived and he cannot yet say,” I replied.

“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (_Ruy Blas_), tossing off a glass
of liqueur brandy.

“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Tallien (_Don Guritan_) clumsily,
for he was always losing his memory.

Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:

“It is a beautiful kind of death.”

He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying
to chase my sadness away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little
time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel returned.
He was pale, but had put on the attitude of a man of the world, and was
ready to answer all questions.

“Oh, yes, he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared.
He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been
cold during the meal.”

“Yes,” put in one of the “Ruy Blas” guests, “there certainly was a fine
draught from some chink under the table!”

“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him.
“Yes, no doubt, there was too much heat for his head.”

“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with
that wretched gas.”

I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by
all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his
banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He
shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd said:

“It’s all over with him.”

I had had a presentiment of this, but the certainty of it now caused me
intense grief.

“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Would you kindly tell some one to
ask for my carriage?”

I moved toward the small drawing-room which served as a cloak room for
our wraps, and there old Mme. Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly
intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Tallien.

“Ah! I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said, “I nearly knocked you
over.”

I pulled her toward me and, without reflecting, whispered to her, “Don’t
dance any more, Mamma Lambquin, Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but
her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she
did not utter a word.

“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured, “I did not know I should make you so
wretched!”

But she was not listening to me any longer. She was putting on her
cloak.

“Are you leaving?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you....”

She wrapped a black fichu round her head and we both went downstairs,
accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Maurice, who saw us into the carriage.

She lived in the St. Germain neighborhood and I in the Rue de Rome. On
the way the poor woman told me the following details:

“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists, and
fortune tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult
them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me: ‘You
will die a week after a man who is dark and not young and whose life is
connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making
game, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a
widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this,
as I paid her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people but
seven francs to _artistes_. She was furious at my not believing her, and
she seized my hands and said: ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as
I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who
supports you, and even to be more exact still, there are two men who
support you, the one dark and the other fair—It’s a nice thing, that!’
She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as
she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I
puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant.
And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark
and the other fair, are our two managers: Chilly and Duquesnel. And, now
you tell me that Chilly——”

She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with
terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and, in spite of the freezing
cold, we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four
flights of stairs and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her,
and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do
so, I went home myself very much upset by all these incidents, as
dramatic as they were unexpected, in the midst of a fête.

Three days later Chilly died without ever recovering consciousness.

Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her
absolution she said: “I am dying because I listened to and believed the
demon.”

CHAPTER XVII
I RETURN TO THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored and still adore
that theater. It always seems as though in itself it were a little
provincial town. Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor old
_savants_ take the air and are sheltered at the same time from the sun;
the large flags all round, between the crevices of which microscopic
yellow grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by time, by hands, and
by the dirt from the road; the uninterrupted noise going on all around,
the departure of the omnibuses, like the departure of the old coaches;
the fraternity of the people who meet there, everything, even to the
very railings of the Luxembourg, give it a quite special aspect in the
midst of Paris. Then, too, there is a kind of odor of the colleges
there, the very walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are
not always talking there of yesterday as they do in the other theaters.
The young _artistes_ who come there talk of to-morrow.

In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of my life without
a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter and without a dilation
of the nostrils, inhaling again the odor of little ordinary bouquets,
clumsily tied up, bouquets which had all the freshness of flowers that
grow in the open air, flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of
twenty summers, little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students.

I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon. I left the
furniture of my dressing-room to a young _artiste_. I left my costumes,
all the little toilette knickknacks. I divided them and gave them away.
I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that
the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, that life
was about to commence, and I divined rightly.

My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I
knew that I was going into the lion’s den. I counted few friends in this
house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and Mounet-Sully; the two first my
friends of the _Conservatoire_, and the latter of the Odéon. Among the
women Marie Lloyd and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood,
the disagreeable Jouassain, who was nice only to me, and the adorable
Mlle. Brohan, whose goodness delighted the soul, whose wit charmed the
mind, and whose indifference rebuffed devotion.

M. Perrin decided that I should make my début in “Mademoiselle de Belle
Isle,” according to Sarcey’s wish. The rehearsals began in the _foyer_,
which troubled me very much. Mlle. Brohan was to play the part of the
_Marquise de Prie_. At this time she was so fat as to be almost
unsightly, while I was so thin that the composers of popular and comic
verses took my meager proportions as their theme and the cartoonists as
a subject for their albums. It was therefore impossible for the _Duc de
Richelieu_ to mistake the _Marquise de Prie_ (Madeleine Brohan) for
_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_ (Sarah Bernhardt) in the inconvenient and
conclusive nocturnal _rendezvous_ given by the _Marquise_ to the _Duc_,
who thinks he embraces the chaste _Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_.

At each rehearsal, Bressant, who took the part of the _Duc de
Richelieu_, would stop, saying: “No, it is too ridiculous. I must play
the _Duc de Richelieu_ with both my arms cut off!” And Madeleine left
the rehearsal to go to the director’s room, in order to try and get rid
of the rôle.

This was exactly what Perrin wanted; he had from the earliest moment
thought of Croizette, but he wanted to have his hand forced for private
and underhand reasons which he knew and which others guessed.

At last the change took place, and the serious rehearsals commenced.
Then the first performance was announced for November 6 (1872). I have
always had, from the very beginning, and still have, a terrible fear,
especially when I know that much is expected from me. And I knew a long
time beforehand that the _Salle_ had been let; I knew that the Press
counted on a big success, and that Perrin himself was reckoning on a
succession of good takings.

Alas! all these hopes and predictions went for nothing, and my débuts at
the Comédie Française were only mediocre.

The following is an extract from the _Temps_ of November 11, 1872. It
was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I was not then acquainted,
but who was following my career with very great interest:

“It was a very brilliant assembly, as this début had attracted all
theater lovers. The fact is, besides the special merit of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt, a whole crowd of true or false stories had been circulated
about her personally, and all this had excited the curiosity of the
Parisian public. Her appearance was a disappointment. She had, by her
costume, exaggerated in a most ostentatious way a slenderness which is
elegant under the veils and ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman
heroines, but which is objectionable in modern dress. Then, too,
either powder does not suit her, or stage fright had made her terribly
pale. The effect of this long, white face emerging from a long, black
sheath was certainly unpleasant” (I looked like an ant), “particularly
as the eyes had lost their brilliancy, and all that relieved the face
were the sparkling white teeth. She went through the first three acts
with a convulsive tremor, and we recognized the Sarah of ‘Ruy Blas’
only by two couplets which she gave in her enchanting voice with the
most wonderful grace; but in all the more powerful passages she was a
failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt will ever, with her
delicious voice, be able to render those deep, thrilling notes,
expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which are capable of
carrying away an audience. If only nature had endowed her with this
gift, she would be a perfect _artiste_, and there are none such on the
stage. Roused by the coldness of her public, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was
entirely herself in the fifth act. This was certainly our Sarah once
more, the Sarah of ‘Ruy Blas,’ whom we had admired so much at the
Odéon,” etc., etc.

As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my début. My excuse,
though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed it, but the
terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly leave her seat in
the dress circle five minutes after my appearance on the stage. I had
glanced at her on entering, and had noticed her deathlike pallor. When
she went out, I felt that she was about to have one of those attacks
which endangered her life, so that my first act seemed to me
interminable. I uttered one word after another, stammering through my
sentences haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing to know
what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive of the tortures
endured by the unfortunate comedians who are there before them in flesh
and blood on the stage, gesticulating and uttering phrases, while their
heart, all torn with anguish, is with the beloved absent one who is
suffering! As a rule, one can fling away the worries and anxieties of
everyday life, put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on
another and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another
life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering; anxiety
then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying the dark,
maddening our brain, which is living two lives at once, and tormenting
our heart, which is beating as though it would burst. These were the
sensations I experienced during that first act.

“Mamma? What has happened to mamma?” were my first words on leaving the
stage. No one could tell me anything.

Croizette came up to me and said: “What’s the matter? I hardly recognize
you, and you weren’t yourself at all just now in the play.”

In a few words I told her what I had seen, and all that I had felt.
Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the doctor came hurrying
to me.

“Your mother had a fainting fit, mademoiselle,” he said, “but they have
just taken her home.”

“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him.

“Yes,” he replied, “madame’s heart is in a very agitated state.”

“Oh, I know how ill she is!” I said, and not being able to control
myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me back to my
dressing-room. She was very kind, for we had known each other from
childhood, and were very fond of each other. Nothing ever estranged us,
in spite of all the malicious gossip of envious people, and all the
little miseries due to vanity.

My dear Mme. Guérard (_ma petite dame_) took a cab and hurried away to
my mother to get news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the
public, not knowing what was taking place, were annoyed with me,
thinking I was guilty of some fresh caprice, and received me still more
coldly than before. It was all the same to me, as I was thinking of
something else. I went on saying _Mademoiselle de Belle Isle’s_ words (a
most stupid and tiresome rôle), but all the time, I, Sarah, was waiting
for news about my mother. I was watching for the return of _ma petite
dame_. “Open the door on the O. P. side, just a little way,” I had said
to her, “and make a sign like this, if mamma is better, and like that,
if she is worse.” But I had forgotten which of the signs was to stand
for better, and when, at the end of the third act, I saw Mme. Guérard
opening the door and nodding her head for “yes,” I became quite idiotic.
It was in the big scene of the third act when _Mademoiselle de Belle
Isle_ reproaches the _Duc de Richelieu_ (Bressant) with doing her such
irreparable harm. The _Duc_ replies, “Why did you not say that some one
was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed: “It’s Guérard
bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant
went on quickly, and so saved the situation.

After an unenthusiastic recall, I heard that my mother was better, but
that she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me
such a fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb
indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that, in its
turn, to rage, on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone:
“Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”

[Illustration: “OPHELIA”—SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT.]

I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act
with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was
Croizette’s, who was charming as the _Marquise de Prie_. My success,
nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it
became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed
heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a
horror of useless words.

I continued my débuts in “Junie de Britannicus,” having for hero
Mounet-Sully, who played admirably. In this delicious rôle of _Junie_ I
obtained an immense and incredible success.

Then, in 1873 I played _Chérubin_ in “Le Mariage de Figaro.” Croizette
played _Suzanne_, and it was a real treat for the public to see the
delicious creature play a part so full of gayety and charm. _Chérubin_
was for me the opportunity of a fresh success.

In the month of March, 1873, Perrin took it into his head to stage
“Dalila,” by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls,
young princesses, or young boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my
delicate aspect marked me out, for the time being, for the rôle of
victim. When suddenly Perrin, finding that the victims attracted the
pity of the public, and thinking that it was for this reason I pleased
them, made the most ridiculous change in the distribution of the parts;
he gave me the rôle of _Dalila_, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious
princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the rôle of the fair young
dying girl.

The piece, under this strange distribution, was turned upside down. I
forced my nature in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I
stuffed my bodice with wadding, and the hips under my skirt with
horsehair; but I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was
obliged to repress the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed
and suffocated her, but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.

I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it
was absurd, and the piece was only a partial success.

After that I created “L’Absent,” a pretty piece in verse by Eugène
Manuel, “Chez l’Avocat,” a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier,
where Coquelin and I quarreled beautifully. Then, August 22d, I played
with immense success the rôle of _Andromaque_. I shall never forget the
first performance, in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious triumph.
Oh, how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his rôle of _Oreste_! His
entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this
marvelous _artiste_—how fine it was! How magnificent!

After _Andromaque_ I played _Aricie_ in “Phedre”; and that evening in
this secondary rôle, it was I who obtained, in reality, the success of
the evening.

I took such a position, in a very short time, at the Comédie, that
some of the _artistes_ began to feel uneasy, and the management shared
the anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent man, whom I have
always remembered with great affection, was horribly authoritative. I
was authoritative, also, so that there was always perpetual warfare
between us. He wanted to impose his will on me, and I would not submit
to it. He was always ready to laugh at my outbursts when they were
against the others, but he was furious when they were directed against
himself. As for me, I will own that to get Perrin in a fury was one of
my delights. He stammered so when he tried to talk quickly, he who
weighed every word on ordinary occasions; the expression of his eyes,
which was generally wavering, grew irritated and deceitful, and his
pale, distinguished-looking face became mottled with patches of color,
like the dregs of wine. His fury made him take his hat off and put it
on again fifteen times in as many minutes, and his extremely smooth
hair stood on end with this mad gallop of his headgear. Although I had
certainly arrived at the age of discretion, I delighted in my wicked
mischievousness, which I always regretted after, but which I was
always ready to recommence, and even now after all the days, weeks,
months, and years that I have lived since then, it still gives me
infinite pleasure to play a joke on anyone. All the same, life at the
Comédie began to affect my nerves.

I wanted to play _Camille_ in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour.” The rôle
was given to Croizette. I wanted to play _Célimène_; that rôle was
Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to Croizette. He admired her, and
as she was very ambitious, she was most thoughtful and docile, which
charmed the authoritative old man. She always obtained everything she
wanted, and as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often
said to me when I was grumbling: “Do as I do, be more yielding, you pass
your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing everything that Perrin
wants me to do, but in reality I make him do all I want him to. Try the
same thing.” I accordingly screwed up my courage and went to see Perrin.
He nearly always said to me when we met:

“Ah, how do you do, Mlle. Revolt? Are you calm to-day?”

“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant me what I am
going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and spoke in my prettiest
way. He almost purred with satisfaction, and was witty (this was no
effort to him, as he was naturally so), and we got on very well together
for a quarter of an hour. I then made my petition:

“Let me play _Camille_ in ‘On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour.’”

“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette is playing
it.”

“Well, then, we’ll both play it, we’ll take it in turns.”

“But Mlle. Croizette wouldn’t like that.”

“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind.”

“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the distribution of parts concerns the management and not the
_artistes_.”

He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I was in a fury,
and a few minutes later, I went out of the room, banging the door after
me. All this preyed on my mind, though, and I used to cry all night. I
then decided to take a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was
not able to use my intelligence and my energy in creating rôles at the
theater, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began working
at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made great progress, and
started on an enormous composition: “After the Storm.” I was indifferent
now to the theater. Every morning at eight my horse was brought round
and I went for a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard
de Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the double
effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most alarming way, and
for hours together I was unconscious. I never went to the Comédie,
except when obliged to by my duties there. My friends were seriously
concerned about me, and Perrin was told what was going on. Finally,
urged on by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided to
give me a rôle to create in Octave Feuillet’s play “Le Sphinx.”

The principal rôle was for Croizette, but on hearing it read, I thought
the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that it should also be
the principal rôle. There would have to be two principal ones, that was
all. The rehearsals went along very smoothly at the start, but it soon
became evident that my rôle was more important than had been imagined,
and friction soon began.

Croizette, herself, got nervous; Perrin was annoyed, and all this
by-play had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a shrewd,
charming man, extremely well bred and slightly ironical, thoroughly
enjoyed the skirmishes that took place. War was doomed to break out,
however, and the first hostilities came from Sophie Croizette.

I always wore in my bodice three or four roses which were apt to open
under the influence of the warmth, and some of the petals naturally
fell. One day, Sophie Croizette slipped down full length on the stage,
and as she was tall and not slim, she fell rather indecently, and got up
again ungracefully. The stifled laughter of some of the subordinate
persons present stung her to the quick, and turning to me, she said:
“It’s your fault, your roses fall and make everyone slip.” I began to
laugh.

“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all
three are by the armchair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O. P.
side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.”
The discussion continued and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans
were formed, the “Croizettists,” and the “Bernhardtists,” war was
declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers
and detractors. The rumor of these little quarrels spread in the world
outside the theater and the public, too, began to form clans. Croizette
had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering
from congestion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and
the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from
the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was
fought over the moon.

We had begun the full-dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was
laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon
which was _Blanche_ (Croizette) kissing _Savigny_ (Delaunay), who was
supposed to be my husband. I (_Berthe de Savigny_) had to arrive by a
little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight.
Croizette had just played her part and her kiss had been greeted with a
burst of applause by the house. This was rather daring in those days for
the Comédie Française.

Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on
some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing the bridge, my
pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which was intended
to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my limp fingers;
my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the use out of
them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon and the effect, it
seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal, aggressive voice
cried out: “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for Mlle. Bernhardt.”

I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, M. Perrin,” I
exclaimed, “you had no right to take my moon away. The manuscript reads:
‘_Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the rays of the moon
falling on her_’... I am pale and I am convulsed ... I must have my
moon!...”

“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mlle. Croizette’s ‘You love me,
then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing the Sphinx,
that is the chief part in the play and we must leave her the principal
effect....”

“Very well, then, give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less
brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the
_artistes_ and all the employés of the theater put their heads in at all
the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The
“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the
discussion.

Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and got up in his turn.

“I grant that Mlle. Croizette is very beautiful in her moon effect.
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is ideal, too, with her ray of moonlight. I want
the moon, therefore, for both of them.”

Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion between the
author and the director, followed by others between the _artistes_, and
between the doorkeeper and the journalists who were questioning him. The
rehearsal was interrupted; I declared that I would not play the part if
I did not have my moon. For the next two days I received no notice of
another rehearsal but through Croizette I heard that they were trying my
rôle of _Berthe_ privately. They had given it to a young woman whom we
had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed all the rehearsals
just as that animal follows boats—she was always hoping to snatch up
some rôle that might happen to be thrown overboard. Octave Feuillet
refused to accept the change of _artistes_ and he came himself to fetch
me, accompanied by Delaunay, who had negotiated matters.

“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands, “there will be a moon for
both of you.”

The first night was a triumph for both Croizette and for me. The party
strife between the two clans waxed warmer and warmer, and this added to
our success and amused us both immensely, for Croizette was always a
delightful friend and a loyal comrade. She worked for her own ends, but
never against anyone else.

After the “Sphinx” I played a pretty piece in one act by a young pupil
of the Polytechnical School, Louis Denayrouse—“La Belle Paule.” This
author has now become a renowned scientific man and has renounced his
poetry.

I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he refused
energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsal of
“Zaïre,” during the trying months of June and July, and in spite of my
reluctance, announced the first performance for the 6th of August. That
year it was fearfully hot in Paris. I believe that Perrin, who could not
tame me alive, had, without really any bad intention, but by pure
autocracy, the desire to tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him and
told him that my state of weakness was such that it would be positively
dangerous for me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would hear
nothing of it. Then, furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual
_bourgeois_, I swore I would play on to the death.

Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to vex
others. I remember once having swallowed the contents of a large ink pot
after being compelled by mamma to swallow a “_panade_”[2] because she
imagined that _panades_ were good for the health. Our nurse had told her
my dislike to this form of nourishment, adding that every morning I
emptied the _panade_ into the slop pail. I had, of course, a very bad
stomach ache, and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma: “It is you who
have killed me”—and my poor mother wept. She never knew the truth, but
they never again made me swallow anything against my will.

Footnote 2:

Bread stewed a long time in water and flavored with a little butter
and sugar; a kind of “sops” given to children in France.

Well, after so many years had gone over my head, I experienced the same
bitter and childish sentiment. “I don’t care,” I said, “I shall
certainly fall senseless, vomiting blood, and perhaps I shall die! And
it will serve Perrin right. He will be furious!” Yes, that is what I
thought. I am, at times, very foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain
it, but I admit it.

The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the part of
_Zaïre_. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration. I saw the
spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as regards scenery,
but very well presented as regards costumes, was particularly well
played by Mounet-Sully, _Orosmane_, Laroche, _Nerestan_, and
myself—_Zaïre_—and obtained an immense success.

I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined to die,
in order to enrage Perrin. I gave myself entirely up to it. I had
sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I had been stabbed by the
poignard of _Orosmane_, uttering a true cry of suffering, for I had felt
the steel penetrate my breast; then falling panting, dying, on the
Oriental divan, I had meant to die in reality, and dared scarcely move
my arms, convinced as I was that I was in my death agony and somewhat
afraid, I must admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick
on Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the close
of the piece, and I got up quickly to answer to the call and salute the
public without languor, without fainting, ready to recommence the piece.

And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for that day I
learned that my vital force was at the service of my intellect. I had
desired to follow the impulse of my brain, whose conceptions seemed to
me to be too forceful for my physical strength to carry out and I found
myself, having given out all of which I was capable—and more—in perfect
equilibrium.

Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future.

I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard,
and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my
gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked
authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation, could
not tame the lion (the public). I thought then of all that. I had
received proof that I could count on my physical strength, for I had
commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness that it
was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act without
fainting.

On the other hand, although the rôle was easy, it required two or three
shrieks which might have provoked the vomiting of blood which frequently
troubled me at that time. That evening, therefore, I acquired the
certainty that I could count on the strength of my vocal cords, for I
had uttered my shrieks with real rage and suffering, hoping to break
something in my wild desire to be revenged on Perrin.

Thus, this little comedy turned to my profit. Not being able to die at
will, I faced about and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and active, to
the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had put up with me
only because they thought I would soon die, but who began to hate me as
soon as they acquired the conviction that I should perhaps live for a
long time. I will give only one example, related by Alexandre Dumas,
_fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate friend, Charles
Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die because I shall
hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the great Français” (Ferdinand de
Lesseps).

CHAPTER XVIII
A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES

But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort
of idleness to which Perrin condemned me. In fact, after _Zaïre_, I
remained months without anything of importance—playing here and there.
Then, discouraged and disgusted with the theater, I renewed my passion
for sculpture. After my ride I took a light repast and then fled to my
studio where I remained till the evening.

Friends came to see me, sat around me, played the piano, sang, warmly
discussed politics—for in this modest studio I received the most
illustrious men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which
was abominable and badly served; but I did not care about that. I was
absorbed by that admirable art. I saw nothing, or to speak more truly. I
_would not_ see anything.

At this time I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy
de X——. Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She
was a foreigner but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She
smoked a cigarette all the time and had a profound disdain for those who
did not understand her.

I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this
delicate spirit was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the
beyond, and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself:
“What would Emmy have done?... What would she have thought?...”

I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild,
who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work
immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had
nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried, nevertheless, and I
brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order of
which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on
the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave it up,
stammering idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model,
for he never returned to me. When we met, in our morning rides, he
saluted me with a cold and rather severe bow.

After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Mlle.
Multon, a delicious little American whom later on I came across in
Denmark, married and the mother of a family—but still as pretty as ever.
Then I made a bust of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was
keeper of the linen in the hospital cars during the war and who had so
efficiently helped me and my wounded at that time.

Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas, a
weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two
leonine eyes, shaded by long brown lashes—so long that they made a
shadow on her cheeks when she lowered them—a slender nose with delicate
nostrils, a tiny mouth, a willful chin and a pearly skin, crowned by
meshes of sun rays, for I have never seen hair so blond and so pale, so
bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without charm: the
expression was hard and the mouth without smile. I tried my best to
reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great artist
and I was only a humble amateur.

When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after
her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness full of false
hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little
_entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had
destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant
possessions. This apartment in the Rue de Rome was small. My bedroom was
very tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the
window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to learn my
parts. Therefore when I took my sister to my home I found it quite
natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was
to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed under
the lace hangings. She herself found it quite natural, also, for I would
not leave her at night and it was impossible to put another bed in this
room. Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin.

Three days after this new arrangement my manicure came into the room to
do my hands and my sister asked her to enter quietly because I was still
asleep. The woman turned her head, believing that I was asleep in the
armchair, but seeing me in my coffin she rushed away, shrieking wildly.
From that moment all Paris knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip
with its thistledown wings took flight in all directions.

I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written about me that I
did not trouble about this. But at the death of my poor little sister a
tragic-comic incident happened: when the undertaker’s men came to the
room to take away the body they found themselves confronted with two
coffins, and losing his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for
a second hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost
consciousness, and I got back just in time to prevent the black-clothed
men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent back, but the
papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed, criticised, etc.

After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended her day
and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering, made me
anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two months. I promised to go to
Mentone and I turned immediately toward Bretagne, the country of my
dreams. I had with me my little boy, my butler and his wife. My poor
Guérard, who had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with
phlebitis. I would have much liked to have had her with me.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN HER COFFIN.]

Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years ago Bretagne
was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than at
present, for it was not furrowed with roads, its green slopes were not
dotted with small white villas, its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed
in the abominable modern trousers, nor the women in the miserable little
hat and feathers. No, the Bretons proudly displayed their well-shaped
legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled shoes,
their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding any awkward
ears, and giving to the face a nobility which the modern style does not
admit of. The women, with their short skirts, which showed their slender
ankles in black stockings, and with their small heads under the wings of
the headdress, resembled seagulls. I am not speaking, of course, of the
inhabitants of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de Batz, who have entirely
different aspects.

I visited nearly the whole of Bretagne and stayed especially at
Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained twelve days at
Audierne, in the house of the Père Batifoulé, so big and so fat that
they had been obliged to cut a piece out of the table to take in his
immense abdomen. I set out every morning at ten o’clock. My butler
Claude himself prepared my lunch, which he packed up very carefully in
three little baskets; then climbing into the comical vehicle of the Père
Batifoulé, my little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés.
Ah, that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks, all
pale and sorrowful! The lighthouse keeper would be looking out for me
and would come to meet me. Claude gave him my provisions with a thousand
recommendations as to the manner of cooking the eggs, warming up the
lentils, and toasting the bread. He carried off everything, then
returned with two old sticks in which he had stuck nails to make them
into picks and we recommenced the terrifying ascension of the Pointe du
Raz, a kind of labyrinth full of disagreeable surprises; of _crevasses_
across which we had to jump, over the gaping and roaring abyss; of
arches and tunnels through which we had to crawl on all fours, having
overhead—touching even—a rock which had fallen there in unknown ages and
was only held in equilibrium by some inexplicable phenomena. Then, all
at once, the way became so narrow that it was impossible to walk
straight forward; we had to turn and put our backs against the rock and
advance with both arms spread out and fingers holding on to the few
projections of the rock.

When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for I have
always been and still am, subject to fits of dizziness. I went over this
path along a steep precipitous rock, thirty meters high, in the midst of
the infernal noise of the sea, at this place eternally furious and
raging fearfully against indestructible rock. And I must have taken a
mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished this journey five times in eleven
days.

After this challenge thrown down to reason, we descended and installed
ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath we had lunch and I
painted till sunset.

The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child came to
look at us. The third day about ten children stood around asking for
_sous_. I was foolish enough to give them some, and the following day
there was a crowd of twenty or thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to
eighteen years old.

I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse keeper and as
they took to throwing stones at us I pointed my gun at the little troop.
They fled howling. Only two boys, of six and ten years of age, stayed.
We did not take any notice of them and I installed myself a little
farther on, sheltered by a rock which kept the wind away. The two boys
followed. Claude and the lighthouse keeper were on the lookout to see
that the boys did not come back. They were stooping down over the
extreme point of the rock which was above our heads. They seemed
peaceful, when suddenly my young maid jumped up: “Horrors! Madame!
Horrors! They are throwing lice down on us!” And, in fact, the two
little good-for-nothings had been for the last hour searching for all
the vermin they could find on themselves and throwing them on us.

I had the two little beggars seized and they got a well-deserved
correction.

There was a _crevasse_ which was called the “Enfer du Plogoff.” I had a
wild desire to go down this _crevasse_, but the guardian dissuaded me,
constantly giving as objections the danger of slipping and his fear of
responsibility in case of accident. I persisted, nevertheless, in my
intention, and after a thousand promises, in addition to a certificate
to testify that notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and
the certainty of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same,
etc., and after having made a small present of ten _louis_ to the brave
man, I obtained the facilities for descending the “Enfer du
Plogoff”—that is to say a wide belt to which a strong rope was fastened.
I buckled this belt round my waist, which was then so slender
(forty-three centimeters) that it was necessary to make additional holes
in order to fasten it.

Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe, the sole of
which was bordered with big nails jutting out two centimeters. I stared
at these wooden shoes and asked for an explanation before putting them
on.

“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down, as you are no
fatter than a herringbone, you will get shaken about in the _crevasse_
and will risk breaking your bones; while if you have the _sabots_ on
your hands you can protect yourself against the walls by putting out
your arms to the right and the left, according as you are shaken up
against them. I do not say that you will not have a few—bangs—but that
is your own fault, you _will_ go. Now, listen, my little lady: when you
are at the bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for
that is the most dangerous of all; if you fell in the water I might pull
the rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that cursed
whirlpool of water you might be caught between two stones and it would
be no use for me to pull—I should break the rope and that would be all.”

Then the man grew pale and making the sign of the cross, he leaned
toward me, murmuring in a faint voice: “It is the shipwrecked ones who
are there, under the stones, down there. It is they who dance in the
moonlight on the shore of the dead (‘Trépassés’). It is they who put the
slippery seaweed on the little rock, down there, in order to make
travelers slip, and then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then,
looking me in the eyes, he said: “Will you go down all the same?”

“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas, I will go down at once.”

My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with Félicie.
Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word, knowing my unbridled
desire to meet danger. He looked to see if the belt was properly
fastened, and asked my permission to tie the tongue of the belt firmly,
then he passed a strong cord several times around to strengthen the
leather, and I was let down, suspended by the rope in the blackness of
the _crevasse_. I extended my arms to the right and the left, as the
guardian had told me to do, and even then I got my elbows scraped. At
first I thought that the noise I heard was the reverberation of the echo
of the blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the _crevasse_ but
suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive firings of cannon,
strident, ringing, crackings of a whip, plaintive howlings and repeated
monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing up a net filled with
fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises mingled under the mad
violence of the wind. I became furious with myself, for I was really
afraid. The lower I went, the louder the howlings became in my ears and
my brain; and my heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through
the narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my body, my
neck. A horrible fear took possession of me. I descended slowly and at
each little shock I felt that the four hands holding me above had come
to a knot. I tried to remember the number of knots, for it seemed to me
that I was making no progress. Then, filled with terror, I opened my
mouth to call out to be drawn up again, but the wind, which danced in
mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back the words. I was
nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and ceased to struggle. I would
not even put out my arms. A few moments after I pulled up my legs in
unspeakable terror. The sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace
which had wet me through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could
see clearly. I stretched out my legs and found myself upright on the
little rock. It is true it was very slippery. I took hold of a large
ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock and looked round. The
long and narrow _crevasse_ grew suddenly larger at its base and
terminated in a large grotto which looked out over the open sea; but the
entrance of this grotto was protected by a quantity of both large and
small rocks which could be seen for a distance of a league in front on
the surface of the water—which explains the terrible noise of the sea
dashing into the labyrinth and the possibility of standing upright on a
rock with the wild dance of the waves all around.

However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal in the
brutal whirl of waters which came rushing in from afar with dizzy speed
and broke against the insurmountable obstacle, and in receding dashed
against other waves which followed them. From this cause proceeded the
perpetual fusillade of waters which rushed into the _crevasse_ without
danger of drowning me.

The night commenced to fall, and I experienced a fearful anguish in
discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous eyes which looked
fixedly at me. Then a little farther, near a tuft of seaweed, two more
large, fixed eyes. I saw no body to these beings—nothing but the eyes. I
thought for a minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my tongue
till the blood came, then I pulled violently at the rope, as I had
agreed to do, in order to give the signal for being drawn up. I felt the
trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my feet lost their hold
as I was lifted up by my guardians. The eyes were lifted up also,
troubled to see me go. And while I mounted through the air I saw nothing
but eyes everywhere—eyes throwing out long feelers to reach me. I had
never seen an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of these
horrible beasts.

During the ascension, which seemed to me interminable, I imagined I saw
these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were chattering when I was
drawn on to the green hillock.

I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and he crossed
himself, saying: “Those were the eyes of the shipwrecked ones. No one
must stay there!”

I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked ones, but I
did not know what they were. For I thought I had seen some strange
beasts that no one had ever seen before.

It was only at the hotel, with Père Batifoulé, that I learned to know
the octopus.

Only five more days of holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the
Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named
“Sarah Bernhardt’s armchair.” Many tourists have sat there since, and
many have sent me verses.

I returned to Paris when my holiday was finished. But I was still very
weak and could not take up my work until toward the month of November. I
played all the pieces of my _répertoire_, and I was annoyed at not
having any new rôles.

One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio. He began to talk
at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion,
and asked me, incidentally, if I knew the rôle of _Phèdre_. Up to this
time I had played only _Aricie_, and the part of _Phèdre_ seemed
formidable to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure.

“Yes, I know the rôle of _Phèdre_. But I think if ever I had to play it
I should die of fright.”

He laughed with his silly little laugh and said to me, squeezing my hand
(for he was very gallant): “Work it up; I think that you will play it.”

In fact, eight days after I was called to the directorial office, and
Perrin told me that he had announced “Phèdre” for the 21st of December,
the fête of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of _Phèdre_.
I thought I should fall.

“Well, but what about Mlle. Rousseil?” I asked.

“Mlle. Rousseil wishes to have the Committee promise that she shall
become an Associate in the month of January, and the Committee, which
will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and
declares that this demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mlle. Rousseil
will change her plans, and in that case you will play _Aricie_ and I
will change the bill.”

Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Regnier. I told him of my
conversation with the director and of my fears.

“No, no,” said the great _artiste_ to me, “you must not be afraid! I see
very well what you are going to make of this rôle. But all you have to
do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the rôle sorrowful
rather than furious—it will be better for everyone—even Racine.”

Then, joining my hands, I said: “Dear M. Regnier, help me to work up
_Phèdre_ and I shall not be so much afraid.”

He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile
nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not
help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid.
Regnier accepted and gave me a rendezvous for the following morning at
nine o’clock.

Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the Committee, and “Phèdre”
was billed for the 21st of December, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the
first time in the rôle of _Phèdre_.

This caused quite a sensation in the artistic set and in the
theater-loving world. That evening over two hundred people were turned
away at the ticket office. And when I was told that I began to tremble
so much that my teeth chattered.

Regnier comforted me as best he could, saying: “Courage! Cheer up! Are
you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into
consideration your inexperience in important first parts, etc....”

These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt
stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to
encourage me.

I began to cry bitterly, like a child. Perrin was called and consoled me
as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face
so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.

Everybody in the theater knew about it and stood at the door of my
dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing
_Hippolyte_, told me that he had dreamed: “We were playing ‘Phèdre’ and
you were hissed, and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried,
“we shall have a tremendous success!”

But what put me completely in a good humor was the arrival of the worthy
Martel, who was playing _Théramène_, and who had come so quickly,
believing me ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The sight
of this gray face with a wide bar of red wax commencing between the two
eyebrows, coming down to half a centimeter below his nose and leaving
behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this face
was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that
Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change
shape at the second performance of “Zaïre,” under the tropical
depression of the atmosphere; but I had never realized how much he
lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gayety, and from
henceforth I was in full possession of my faculties.

The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in
praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was
on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over my
impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead
_artiste_; these are his own words, addressed to Girardin, who
immediately told me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had never
seen Rachel act, but I worshiped her talent, for I had surrounded myself
with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of comparing me
with their idol.

A few days after this performance of “Phèdre,” the new piece of Bornier
was read to us—“La Fille de Roland.” The part of _Berthe_ was confided
to me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, whose
verses were, nevertheless, a little flat, but which had a real breath of
patriotism. There was in this piece a terrible duel, which the public
did not see, but which was related by _Berthe_, the daughter of
_Roland_, while the incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy
girl, who, from a window of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes
of the encounter. This scene was the only important one of my much
sacrificed rôle.

The piece was ready to be passed when Bornier asked that his friend,
Emile Augier, should be present at a general rehearsal. When the play
was finished Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained
air. As to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome
manner. Emile Augier followed him. “Well,” he said to me. I looked
straight at him, feeling in this moment that he was my enemy. He stopped
short and scratched his head, then turned toward Augier and said:

“I beg you, _cher Maître_, explain to mademoiselle yourself.”

Emile Augier was a broad man with wide shoulders and a common
appearance, at this time rather fat. He was in very good repute at the
Théâtre Français, of which he was, for the moment, the successful
author. He came near me: “You managed the part at the window very well,
mademoiselle, but it is ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of
the author, who has written a most improbable scene. The public would
laugh immoderately; this scene must be taken out.”

I turned toward Perrin, who was listening silently: “Are you of the same
opinion, sir?”

“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author
is master of his work.”

Then addressing myself to Bornier, I said: “Well, my dear author, what
have you decided?”

Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching
and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene
which he prized, and of fear to vex an Academician just at the time when
he was hoping to become a member of the Academy.

“Cut it out! cut it out! or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier,
and turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome,
came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man
had a skin disease which itched terribly. He did not speak. He looked at
us questioningly. A poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin,
who had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking
place in the heart of the mild Bornier.

“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me.

I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene was
taken out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands
which he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he cried with comical
emphasis:

“But I cannot take it out! I cannot take it out! She will not play! And
the day after to-morrow the play is to be passed!” Then as Emile Augier
made a gesture, and would have spoken—“No! No! To put back my play eight
days would be to kill it! I cannot take it out! Oh, my God!” And he
cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and stamped with his
short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the
same time funny and pitiful. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on
me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:

“You will take the responsibility, mademoiselle, of the absurd window
scene at the first presentation?”

“Certainly, monsieur, and I even promise to make of this scene, which I
find very fine, an enormous success!”

He rudely shrugged his shoulders, muttering something very disagreeable
between his teeth.

When I left the theater I met poor Bornier quite transfigured. He
thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene,
but dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined
the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well brought
up, but a trifle Jesuitical.

The play was a big success. But the window scene on the night of the
first presentation was a veritable triumph.

It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained
frequent allusions to this, and, owing to the patriotism of the public,
had an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I had Emile
Augier called. He came into my dressing-room with a surly air and called
to me from the door:

“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is an
idiot to make a success of such vileness!” And he disappeared without
having even entered my dressing-room.

His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced
me repeatedly, I hugged myself in glee.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING, 1878–9.]

Two months later I played “Gabrielle,” by this same Augier, and I had
incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.
Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, had a grand success. As for
me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying much.

I had been admitted Associate in the month of January, and since then it
seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken the engagement
not to leave Molière’s Theater for several years. This idea made me sad.
It was Perrin who had instigated me to ask to become Associate, and now
I regretted it very much.

Almost all the latter part of the year I played only occasionally.

My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty
_hôtel_ which I was having constructed at the corner of the Avenue de
Villiers and the Rue Fontuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in
her will a nice legacy which I used to buy the ground. My great desire
was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then
realizing it. The son-in-law of M. Regnier, Félix Escalier, a
fashionable architect, was building me a ravishing _hôtel_! Nothing
amused me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished
house. Then afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on
the roofs. I forgot my worries of the theater in this new occupation.
The thing I most desired just now was to become an architect. Then, when
the building was finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent my
strength in helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings
in my bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall—Georges Clairin, the
architect Escalier, who was also a talented painter, Duez, Picard,
Butin, Jadin, Jourdain, and Parrot. I was deeply interested, and I
recollect a joke which I played on one of my relations. My Aunt Betsy
had come from Holland, her native country, to pass a few days in Paris.
She was staying with my mother. I invited her to lunch in my new,
unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends were working, some in
one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty scaffoldings were
erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more easily I was
wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus arrayed, was
horribly shocked and told me so. But I was preparing yet another
surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary house
painters and considered I was too familiar with them. But she nearly
fainted when midday came and I rushed to the piano to play “The
Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised
by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends.
When the song was finished I mounted into my bedroom and made myself
into a fine lady for lunch.

My aunt had followed me: “But, my dear,” said she, “you are mad to think
I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there
is no one but yourself who would do such a thing.”

“No, no, aunt, it is all right.”

And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was
the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to
my aunt, who did not recognize them at first, for they had changed their
working clothes and looked like five respectable young men of society.
Mme. Guérard lunched with us. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch, my aunt,
cried out: “But these are the workmen!” The five young men rose and
bowed low. Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself
in every possible manner, so confused was she.

CHAPTER XIX
BUSY DAYS

One day Alexandre Dumas, _fils_, was announced. He came to bring me the
good news that he had finished his play for the Comédie Française:
“L’Etrangère,” and that my rôle, the _Duchess de Septmonts_, had come
out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a fine success out of
it.” I expressed my gratitude to him.

A month after this visit we were convoked to the Comédie for the reading
of this piece.

The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my rôle:
_Catherine de Septmonts_. I also liked the rôle of Croizette: _Mistress
Clarkson_. Got gave us each our parts, and thinking that he had made a
mistake I passed on to Croizette the rôle of _l’Etrangère_, which he had
just given me, saying to her: “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your
rôle.”

“But he is not making any mistake, it is I who am to play the _Duchess
de Septmonts_.”

I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody
present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me why I was laughing like
that, I exclaimed:

“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette—and all of you who are in the
plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your cowardice.
Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play the
_Duchesse de Septmonts_, but I shall be ten times more delighted to play
the _Stranger_. And this time, my dear Sophie, I make no account of you;
you are not worth considering, for you have played me a little trick
which was quite unworthy of our friendship!”

The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm
partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so
much so that one day Croizette, out of all patience, burst out:

“Well, monsieur, you should have left the rôle to Sarah, she would have
taken the part in the love scenes as you wish; I cannot do any better.
You irritate me too much, I have had enough of it!” And she ran off,
sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of hysteria.
I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of
her tears she kissed me, murmuring: “It is true, it is they who
instigated me to do this nasty trick, and now they are bothering me.”
Croizette spoke broadly—very broadly—and sometimes she had quite a
provincial accent.

Then we made up our quarrel entirely.

A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter
informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change
the name of the piece. He wished—it goes without saying—to have the
piece called “La Duchesse de Septmonts.” I rushed off to the theater to
find Perrin at once. At the door I met Coquelin, who was taking the part
of the _Duc de Septmonts_, which he did marvelously well. I showed him
the letter. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is infamous! But why do you
take any notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!” We
were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.

“Here, show the letter to Perrin.” And he took it from my hands in order
to show it to him. Perrin reddened slightly.

“I know this writing,” he said. “It is some one from the theater who has
written this letter.”

I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is well informed,
and what he says is perhaps true, is it not so? Tell me, I have the
right to know.”

“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs with a slight
bow, without saying anything further.

“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much! Would you like me
to go to see Dumas? I will find out at once.”

“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head.” And shaking
hands with him I went off immediately to see Dumas, _fils_. He was just
going out.

“Well, well! What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!”

I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He
had kept his hat on and took it off to recover his self-possession.
Before he could speak a word I got furiously angry—one of those rages
which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of madness. With
all that I felt of bitterness toward this man, toward Perrin, toward all
this theatrical world who should have loved me and upheld me, and who
betrayed me on every occasion—all that I had been accumulating of hot
anger during the rehearsals, the cries of revolt against the perpetual
injustice of these two men, Perrin and Dumas—I burst out with
everything, in an avalanche of stinging words, which were both furious
and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made in former days; of his
visit to my _hôtel_ in the Avenue de Villiers; of the cowardly and
underhand manner in which he had written of me, at Perrin’s request, and
on the wishes of the friends of Sophie.... I spoke vehemently, without
allowing him to edge in a single word. And when, worn out, I was forced
to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue: “What—what—what have
you to say for yourself?”

“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had examined my own
conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to
me so eloquently. But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a
little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about your
theater; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your
court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all
that which I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have
touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title
of ‘L’Etrangère.’ And now, embrace me with a good grace, to show that
you are no longer angry with me.”

I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.

That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew
nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that.

The play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the
laurels of the day.

I had just commenced in my studio, in the Avenue de Clichy, a large
group, the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of
an old woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trépassés.
One day I went up to her wishing to speak to her, but I was so terrified
by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the guardian
told me her history. She was the mother of five sons—all sailors. Two
had been killed by the Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She
had brought up the little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him
far from the sea and teaching him to hate the water. She had never left
the little lad; but he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said
he was dying because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get
well,” said the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go and visit the sea
together.” Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left
the valley in the company of her little grandson to go and see the
ocean, the grave of her three sons.

It was a November day. A low sky hung over the sea limiting the horizon.
The child jumped with joy. He ran, gamboled, and sang for happiness when
he saw all this living water. The grandmother sat on the sand and hid
her tearful eyes in her two trembling hands; then, suddenly, struck by
the silence, she looked up in terror. There, in front of her she saw a
boat drifting, and in the boat her boy, her little lad of eight years
old, who was laughing right merrily, paddling as well as he could with
one oar that he could hardly hold, and crying out: “I am going to see
what there is behind the mist and I will come back.”

He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman
talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every
day to the water’s edge, throwing in the bread which kindly folk gave
her and saying to the waves: “You must carry that to the little lad.”

This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the
tall old woman with her brown cape and hood. I worked feverishly at the
group. It seemed to me now that I was destined to be a sculptor and I
began to despise my theater. I went there only when I was compelled by
my duties and I left it as soon as possible.

I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was
going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges
Clairin, who came to see me, begged me not to do so. And my good friend,
Mathieu Mensiner, who was a man of talent, also joined his voice against
the destruction of my design.

Excited by their encouragement I decided to push on with the work and to
make a large group. I asked Lourdier if he knew any tall, bony old
woman, and he sent me two, but neither of them suited me. Then I asked
all my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of
old and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a
charwoman who was about sixty years old. She was very tall and had very
sharply cut features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of
fear. The idea of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours
together made me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more
comfortable. Her timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy
young girl, contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When
I showed her the design she was stupefied: “Do you want me to have my
neck and shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that nobody ever
came in when I worked and I asked to see her neck immediately.

Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long,
emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh,
the Adam’s apple looked as if it would come through the skin. It was
just what I wanted. I went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What
a treasure I had found! the bones of the shoulder were entirely visible
under the skin and she had two immense “salt cellars.” The woman was
ideal for my work. She seemed destined for it. She blushed when I told
her so. I asked to see her feet. She took off her thick boots and showed
a dirty foot which had no character. “No,” I said, “thank you. Your feet
are too small, I will take only your head and shoulders.”

After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea
of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry
and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek
for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally
passed six months of the year in the country, at Sologne, near her
grandchildren.

Having found the grandmother I now needed the grandchild. I then had
passed in review before me a whole army of little Italians, professional
models. There were some lovely children, real little _Jupins_. The
mothers undressed their children in one moment and the children posed
quite naturally and took attitudes which showed off their muscles and
the development of the torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years,
but who looked more like nine. I had already had the workmen in to put
up the scaffolding required to make it sufficiently stable to sustain
the necessary weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into the plaster
by bolts, and pillars of wood and iron wherever needed. The skeleton of
a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put up to catch rats
and mice by the thousand.

I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance.
Nothing discouraged me. Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till
four o’clock in the morning. And as one, humble gas burner was totally
insufficient for working by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet
made, each bud of which was a candlestick with a candle burning, those
of the back row a little higher than those of the front; and with this
help I was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock
in the room, as I wished to ignore time altogether. Then my maid would
come to seek me. How many times I have gone without lunch or dinner!
Then I would perhaps faint and so be compelled to send for something to
eat to restore my strength.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT WORK ON HER “MÊDÉE.”]

I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the
hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on
her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked
in vain for the hands and the feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day
when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this
group which was much talked of, I had an inspiration: Martel was big,
and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my
work. He was looking at it as a connoisseur. But _I_ was looking at
_him_. Suddenly I said:

“My dear Martel, I beg you ... I beseech you ... to pose for the hands
and feet of my grandmother.”

He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace took off his shoes
and took the place of my model.

He came ten days running and gave me three hours each day. Thanks to him
I was able to finish my group. I had it molded and sent to the Salon
(1876) where it had a veritable success. Is there any need to say that I
was accused of having got some one else to make this group for me? I
asked one critic to meet me. This was no other than Jules Claretie, who
had declared that this work, which was very interesting, could not have
been done by me. Jules Claretie excused himself very politely and that
was the end of it.

The jury, after being fully informed on the subject, awarded me
“honorable mention,” and I was wild with joy.

I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the
criticisms were directed to the neck of my old Breton woman—that neck on
which I had worked with such eagerness.

The following is from an article by Réné Delorme:

“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The
head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it
bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as
nothing. The only reproach I have to bring against this artist is that
she has brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the
old grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with
herself for having studied anatomy so well and is not sorry for the
opportunity of showing it. It is,” etc., etc....

Certainly this gentleman was right—I had studied anatomy eagerly and in
a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot who was so
good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and
when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself,
putting my finger on some part of my body: “Now, then, what is that?” I
had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I
compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm
and did not sleep till this was done.

A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s play, “Rome
Vaincue,” at the Comédie Française. I refused the rôle of the young
vestal _Opïmia_, which had been allotted to me, and energetically
demanded that of _Posthumia_, an old blind Roman woman with a superb and
noble face. No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old
Breton weeping over her son, and the august patrician claiming pardon
for her granddaughter.

Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But
his order-loving mind, and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about
Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to
seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the
two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be
the two ... together? Eureka! There was in the play an old idiot named
_Vastaepor_, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the piece, but
had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried the director of
the Comédie, “Mounet-Sully shall play _Vestaepor_!” Equilibrium was
restored. The God of the _bourgeois_ was content.

The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a big success at
the first presentation (27th September, 1876), and personally I was very
successful in the fourth act. The crowd was decidedly in my favor in
spite of everything and everybody.

The performance of “Hernani” made me more the favorite of the public
than ever. I had already gone through it with Victor Hugo and it was a
real pleasure to me to visit the great poet each day. I had never
discontinued my visits to him, but I was never able to have any
conversation with him in his own house. There were always men in red
ties gesticulating, or women in tears reciting. He was very good; he
listened to me with half-closed eyes and I thought he was asleep. Then
when I stopped he roused up at the silence and said a consoling word,
for Victor Hugo would not have promised to hear me without keeping his
word. He was not like me; I promise everything with the firm intention
of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten all about
them. If anybody reminds me of what I have promised I tear my hair and
to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy presents, in fact
I complicate my life with useless worries. It has always been so and
always will.

As I was grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a
chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after
lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to
which Paul Maurice the poet, Léon Gladel, Gustave Doré and the Cummunard
X— (a Russian lady whose name I do not remember) were also invited. In
front of Victor Hugo sat Mme. Drouet, the friend of his unlucky days.
But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My
feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted
badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table.
Near me was Mr. X——, the German architect, who is to-day a very
successful man. This man had such dirty hands and ate so badly that he
made me feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean
and proper, and I believe an Imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling
this uncongenial neighbor inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on
my feet, the boredom I was afflicted with—all reduced me to a state of
positive suffering and I lost consciousness. When I recovered I found
myself on a couch, my hand in that of Mme. Drouet and in front of me,
sketching me, Gustave Doré.

“Oh, don’t move,” he cried, “you are so pretty like that!” These words,
though they were so inappropriate, pleased me, nevertheless, and I
complied with the wish of the great artist. From that day we were the
best of friends.

I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-by to him, a trifle
ashamed of myself. The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale
to account for my illness and I saw no more of him except at the
rehearsals of “Hernani.”

The first performance of “Hernani” took place on the 21st November,
1877. It was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. “Hernani”
had already been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took
the part of _Hernani_, was the exact contrary of what this part should
have been. He was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the
style of these grand times. He was charming, gracious, and with a
perpetual smile, of middle height, with studied movements, ideal in
Musset, perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in
Victor Hugo.

Bressant, who took the part of _Charles-Quint_, was worst of all. His
amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively
prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden
under his trousers, took on immense proportions. I could see nothing
else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes.
They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the
admirable couplet of _Charles-Quint_ to the shade of Charlemagne! It was
absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the
whole thing painful and ridiculous.

In our performance (in 1877) it was Mounet-Sully in all the splendor of
his talent who played _Hernani_. And it was Worms, that admirable
_artiste_ who played _Charles-Quint_—and how well he took the part! How
he rolled out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This
performance of the 21st of November, 1877, was a triumph. The public
received me very well in my rôle. I played _Doña Sol_. Victor Hugo sent
me this letter:

MADAME: You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me, the
old man, and at one part, while the public whom you had enchanted
cheered you, I wept. This tear which I shed for you, and through you,
is at your feet, where I place myself.

VICTOR HUGO.

With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from
which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the rich nabob’s,
Alfred Sassoon. He would have given me another, but I refused. He could
not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo.

My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a
spoiled child. My friends were a little jealous of me. Perrin made
trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship for me, but he
could not believe that I could get on without him, and as he always
refused to do as I wanted I did not go to him for anything. I sent a
letter to the Ministère and I always won my cause.

CHAPTER XX
A BALLOON ASCENSION

As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at
painting. I knew how to draw a little and had a well-developed sense of
color. I first did two or three small pictures—then I undertook the
portrait of my dear Guérard. Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously
done, and Georges Clairin encouraged me to continue with painting. Then
I launched out courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly
two meters in size: “The Young Girl and Death.”

Then there was a cry of indignation against me.

Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career?

Why did I always want to be before the public?

Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach.
“You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in
for sculpture, painting, etc.? Is it to prove that you can do it?”

“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for
staying here!”

“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively.

“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something
else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours
and trees that are bigger; something different, in short. I have
therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my
chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things
in the world would win the day and I should do something foolish.”

This conversation was destined to go against me some years later when
the Comédie brought an action against me.

The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of
exasperation that Perrin and some of the _artistes_ of the theater were
in with regard to me. They blamed me for everything, for my painting, my
sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin and it was
the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other
again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards.

The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still
adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon.
This persistency had struck the _savant_ and he asked a mutual friend to
introduce him.

“Oh, M. Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon that
is not captive!”

“Well, mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very
kindly.

“When?” I asked.

“Any day you like.”

I should have liked to start immediately, but as he pointed out he would
have to fit the balloon up and it was a great responsibility for him to
undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a week
from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the
newspapers should get hold of this piece of news, my terrified family
would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was
doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in an aërial accident, promised to
accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me,
and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the
_Doña Sol_—a beautiful orange-colored balloon specially prepared for my
expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when
Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and
rather clumsy and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite
of his marvelous wit, for he was spiteful and rather delighted when he
could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III, whom I liked very
much.

We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumor of our
journey had nevertheless spread, but too late for the Press to get hold
of it. I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my
friends, Count de M——, met Perrin on the Pont des Saints-Pères.

“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky! There is your star shooting
away.”

Perrin looked up, and pointing to the balloon which was rising he asked:
“Who is in that?”

“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple,
and clenching his teeth, he murmured: “That’s another of her freaks, but
she will pay for this.”

He hurried away without even saying good-by to my young friend, who
stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger.

And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus traveling through the
air, Perrin would have suffered still more.

Ah, our departure! It was half past five. I shook hands with a few
friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was
not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when after the words “Loose
all” I found myself in one instant fifty yards above the earth. I still
heard a few cries: “Attention! Come back! Don’t let her be killed!” And
then nothing more.... Nothing.... There was the sky above and the earth
beneath.... Then, suddenly, I was in the clouds. I had left a misty
Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us
were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon
plunged into a milky vapor all warm with the sun. It was splendid! It
was stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely
moving at all. It was only toward six o’clock that the currents of air
caught us and we took our flight toward the East. We were at an altitude
of about 1,700 yards. The spectacle became fairylike. Large fleecy
clouds were spread below us. Large orange curtains fringed with violet
came down from the sun to lose themselves in our cloudy carpet.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY PARROTT, 1875, IN THE
COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE, PARIS.]

At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2,500 yards above the earth,
and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.

The dinner was copious—we had _foie gras_—fresh bread and oranges. The
cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft
noise. We raised our glasses in honor of M. Giffard.

We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle.
It became very cold. We were then at 2,600 meters and I had a singing in
my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable and began to
feel drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got
anxious and young Godard cried out loudly—to wake me up, no
doubt—“Alloa! Alloa! we shall have to go down. Let us throw out the
guide rope!” This cry woke me up properly. I wanted to know what was the
guide rope. I got up feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me
Godard put the guide rope into my hands. It was a strong rope, about 130
meters long, to which were attached at certain distances little iron
hooks. Clairin and I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard bending
over the side of the car was looking through a field glass.

“Stop!” cried he suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”

In fact, we were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us
there was a little open ground suitable for our descent.

“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard, “if we miss this plain we
shall come down in the black night in the wood of Ferrières, and that
would be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said,
“open the valve?”

I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison, whistling a
mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aëronaut, and we
descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the
sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of
his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn, on which
he blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 meters
below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As
we were very close to a little station we easily guessed that this man
was the station master.

“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard, with his horn.

“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master. It was impossible to
understand.

“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.

“At—in—in—ille,” shouted the station master with his hand curved round
his mouth.

“Where are we?” called I in my most crystalline accents.

“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master—and his porters.

It was impossible to find out anything. We had to lower the balloon. At
first we descended rather too quickly and the wind blew us toward the
wood. We had to mount again. But ten minutes later we opened the valve
again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right of the
station, and far from the amiable station master.

“Throw out the anchor!” cried in a commanding tone young Godard. And
helped by Georges Clairin he threw out into space another rope, to the
end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 meters
long.

Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever
since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 yards from
the earth, Godard called out to them: “Where are we?”

“At Vachère!”

None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.

“Alloa! You down below there—take hold of the guide rope,” cried the
aëronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous men seized
hold of the rope. We were 130 meters from the ground, and the spectacle
became interesting. The night began to blot out everything. I raised my
head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with
astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was
overhanging its base all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.

We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I hoped would
happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.

It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.

The young owner of a neighboring _château_ ran up, like the peasants, to
see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.

“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet! I pass between the drops.”

The word was repeated, and has become almost a proverb.

“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.

“Oh, you have plenty of time!” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You
cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here,
and in such weather it will take the young lady two hours to walk
there.”

I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella,
which I could have used as a walking stick, as neither Clairin nor
Godard had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving
us, he jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.

“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and
another for the body of the balloon.”

“_Ma foi!_ You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it
appears the roads are in a very bad state.”

“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of
Parisians to walk even half the distance.”

Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.

Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of
Emerainville. The station master, learning who we were, received us in a
very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we
called out. He had a frugal meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before
us. I have always detested cheese, and would never eat it—there is
nothing poetical about it—but I was dying with hunger.

“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin.

I bit a morsel off and found it excellent.

We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my
household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends, who had come to
hear news of us, had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat
annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue.

I sent everybody away rather sharply and went up to my room. As my maid
was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from
the Comédie Française several times.

“Oh, _mon Dieu_!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece have been
changed?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears that M. Perrin is
furious, and that they are all against you. There is the note which was
left for you.”

I opened the letter. I was requested to appear before the Administration
the following day at two o’clock.

On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed, I was received with an
exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity.

Then commenced a series of onslaughts on my fits of ill temper, my
caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying that I
had incurred a fine of £40 for traveling without the consent of the
manager.

I burst out laughing: “The case of a balloon has not been foreseen,” I
said, “and I can promise you I shall pay no fine. Outside the theater I
do as I please, and that is no business of yours, my dear M. Perrin, so
long as I am not doing anything that would injure my theatrical work!
And, besides—you bore me to death!—I will resign!—Be happy!”

I left him ashamed and anxious.

The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and shortly
afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I
refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin
had gone further than he had any right, that the fine was remitted, and
that I must take back my resignation. So I did.

But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my
enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at this
time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract
attention; but my fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my
particular way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in
all respects, made me a being set apart. I did not recognize this fact.

I did not read—I never read—the newspapers. So I did not know what was
said about me, either favorable or unfavorable. Surrounded by a court of
adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream. All the royal
personages and the notabilities who were the guests of France during the
Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant source of
pleasure to me.

The Comédie was the first theatrical stage of all these illustrious
visitors, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I was
playing _Amphytrion_ I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the South.

I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin
my headquarters. I had a tent put up on the spot that the Empress
Eugénie afterwards selected to build her villa. I did not want to see
anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent, so far from the town, I
should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I
was having lunch with my little boy, I heard the bells of two horses
which had come with a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was
half hidden by the bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not
recognize, cried in the emphatic tone of a herald:

“Does Sarah Bernhardt, Associate of the Comédie Française, live here?”

We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was
silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were
pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the teasing voice
recommenced.

We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed I came out. I saw before me a man
with a large tussore cloak on, a field glass strapped on his shoulders,
a gray bowler hat, and a red, happy face with a little pointed beard. I
glanced at this commonplace-looking individual with anything but favor.
He lifted his hat:

“Mme. Sarah Bernhardt is here?”

“What do you want with me, sir?”

“Here is my card, madame.”

I read: “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with
astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did
not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.

“Well, you see, madame, I come to ask you to sell us your group, ‘After
the Tempest.’”

I began to laugh.

“_Ma foi_, monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and
they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten, you may have it.”

“Quite right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said he, “allow me.” And he produced a little case in which there
was pen and ink.

I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to go and take the group
at Paris, in my studio. He went away, and I heard the bells of the
horses ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was
often invited to the house of this original person, who was one of the
negro kings of Nice.

Shortly after I came back to Paris. At the theater they were preparing
for the benefit night of Bressant, who was about to leave the stage. It
was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from “Othello,” by
Jean Aicard. The theater was well filled, and the audience in a good
humor. After the song of _Saule_, I was in bed as _Desdemona_, when
suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then
irrepressibly. _Othello_ had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt
or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door
hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has no
hesitation in taking part in a manifestation of unseemly mirth that each
member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed
to admit. But the ridicule thrown on this act by the exaggerated
pantomime of the actor prevented the play being staged again, and it was
only twenty years later that “Othello,” as an entire play, was produced
at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer there.

After having played _Berenice_, in “Mithridate,” successfully, I took up
again my rôle of the _Queen_ in “Ruy Blas.” The play was as successful
at the Théâtre Français as at the Odéon, and the public was, if
anything, still more favorable to me. Mounet-Sully played _Ruy Blas_. He
took the part admirably, and was infinitely better than Lafontaine, who
played it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well dressed, represented
his part very well, but he was not so good as Geffroy, who was the most
distinguished and the most frightful _Don Salluste_ that could be
imagined.

My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.

He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theater; he
was happy at the magnificent receipts of “Ruy Blas”; but he would have
much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the
applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance,
annoyed him vastly.

One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking
to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me,
though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed.

“Send him away and let me work in peace.”

I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It
represented a little girl on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm. The
little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years old.
Suddenly she said to me:

“He’s quarreling—that Englishman!”

As a matter of fact, in the anteroom there was a noise of voices rising
higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand,
resolved to make the intruder flee. But just at the moment when I opened
the door of my studio, a tall man came so close to me that I drew back,
and he came into my hall. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair
silvery white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very
politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my hall—and this while I
was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I
begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his
visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:

“I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you
come to America?”

“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”

“Oh, well, don’t get angry! Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then, at
the moment he took leave, he said:

“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like
to earn a lot of money in London?”

“Yes. How?”

“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make you a small fortune.”

“Oh, I would be pleased to do that—that is, if I go to London, for I
have not yet decided.”

“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional
clause?”

And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence
at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed.

The Committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John
Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theater, in London. Nobody had been
consulted and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when
they told me about this agreement, I said nothing. Perrin rather
anxiously took me aside:

“What are you turning over in your mind?”

“I am turning over this: that I will not go to London in a situation
inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be
Associate _à part entière_ (with full benefit).”

This intention excited the Committee highly. And the next day Perrin
told me that my proposal was rejected.

“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract
obliges me to go.”

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY CLAIRIN.]

The Committee met again, and Got cried out: “Well, let her stay away!
She is a regular nuisance!”

It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But
Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see it in this light, and
they declared that the contract would not be binding if either
Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.

The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’ worth of tickets
beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we
did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair and told me all
about it.

“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie if you don’t
come,” he said, “for the business cannot go through.”

Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to see Perrin,
and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer, I
understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Théâtre
Français and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any
conditions.

The Committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait and shortly
after he returned: Croizette and I had been appointed Associates with
full benefit (_Sociétaires à part entière_), not only for London, but
for always.

Everybody had done his duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my
hands and drew me to him:

“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!”

We embraced and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not
last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o’clock
in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had company for
dinner. Nevertheless, I was about to receive him in the hall. He held
out to me a paper.

“Read that,” said he.

And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph:

“_Drawing-room Comedies of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, under the management
of Sir Benedict:_

“The _répertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is composed of comedies,
proverbs, one-act plays and monologues, written especially for her and
one or two _artistes_ of the Comédie Française. These comedies are
played without accessories or scenery, and can be adapted both in London
and Paris to the _matinées_ and _soirées_ of the best society. For all
details and conditions please communicate with Mr. Jarrett (Secretary of
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at His Majesty’s Theatre.”

As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning
that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I
frankly explained this to Perrin.

“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use of my evenings to
earn money, as the thing has been offered me?”

“That has nothing to do with me—it is the business of the Committee.”

“That is too much!” I cried, and calling for my secretary I said: “Give
me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.”

He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin
to read:

Would you care to come and play “La Nuit d’Octobre” at Lady Dudley’s
on Thursday, June 5th? They will give us each 5,000 francs. Kind
regards,

DELAUNAY.

“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed.

“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I have told you of his
offer.”

For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the
scandalous announcement of the _Times_. The French were then almost
entirely ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all
this talk annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the
following day there appeared in the _National_ of the 29th of May:

“_Much Ado About Nothing._ In friendly discussion it has been decided
that outside the rehearsals and the performances of the Comédie
Française, each artist is free to employ his time as he sees fit. There
is therefore absolutely no truth at all in the pretended quarrel between
the Comédie Française and Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This _artiste_ has only
acted strictly within her rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and
all our _artistes_ intend to benefit in the same manner. The manager of
the Comédie Française asks only that the _artistes_ who form this
‘corps’ do not give performances in a body.”

This article came from the Comédie, and the members of the Committee had
taken advantage of it to advertise a little for themselves, announcing
that they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was
sent to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English
papers. It was Mayer himself who told me this.

All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for
departure.

CHAPTER XXI
MY LONDON DÉBUT

I had never been on the sea when it was decided that the _artistes_ of
the Comédie Française should go to London. The determined ignorance of
the French concerning all things foreign was much more pronounced in
those days than it is at present. As for me, my ignorance was quite
pathetic. I had a very warm cloak made, as I had been assured that the
crossing was icy cold, even in the very middle of summer, and I believed
this. On every side I was besieged with lozenges for seasickness,
sedative for headache, tissue paper to put down my back, little compress
plasters to put on my diaphragm, and waterproof cork soles for my shoes,
for it appeared that above all things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how
droll and amusing it all was! I took everything, paid attention to all
the recommendations and believed everything I was told.

The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five
minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very
light and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable
individual, with all the crosses, all the honors, an immense fortune,
and the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a shy inventor,
young, poor, and sad; he was always buried in books which treated of
abstract questions, while of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a
great admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court
had surnamed him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colorless, and
really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_.

He came up to me, his face more wan looking even than usual. The boat
was moving a little, my departure terrified him, and the wind caused him
to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to me and I
followed him, accompanied by _ma petite dame_ and leaving my friends,
who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated, he opened
the case and took out an enormous life belt invented by himself. I was
perfectly astounded, for I was unused to sea voyages, and the idea had
never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one hour’s
crossing. “La Quenelle” was by no means disconcerted, and he put the
belt on himself in order to show me how it was used.

Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man with his sad,
serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized
bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and
contained a lump of sugar each. In the twelfth, a very small bladder,
were ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion
with a few pins on it.

“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water _paff_—you stay
like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with
the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the
imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order
to keep his head above water.

“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,” he explained,
“and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an
egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it, that is as good
as a quarter of a pound of meat.” He then threw the broken bladder
overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he
fastened to the life belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was
petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping
for one of “La Quenelle’s” mad freaks, but they had never expected
anything like this one.

M. Mayer, one of our _impresarios_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a
kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know
whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one
of my friends roused my pity for this poor “Quenelle.” I thought of the
hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his
ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had
prompted the invention of this life-saving apparatus, and I held out my
hand to my poor “Quenelle,” saying: “Be off, now, quickly, the boat is
just going to start.”

He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I
then called my steward Claude, and I said, “As soon as we are out of
sight of land throw that case and all it contains into the sea.”

The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah! _Au
revoir!_ Success! Good luck!” There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs
floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to everyone.

But what was really fine and a sight I shall never forget, was our
landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was
the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”

I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of
_Hamlet_. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him
later on as _Hamlet_. He was Forbes-Robertson. We passed on through a
crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was
more favored than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was
delighted all the same. One of my comrades, who was just near, and with
whom I was not a favorite, said to me, in a spiteful tone: “They’ll make
you a carpet of flowers soon.”

“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on
the ground in front of me. I stopped short, rather confused, not daring
to walk on these white flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind
compelled me to advance, and the poor lilies had to be trodden under
foot.

“Hip, hip, hurrah! a cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent
young man. His head was above all the other heads, he had luminous eyes
and long hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet,
though, and one of the greatest of this century, a poet who was a
genius, but who was, alas! tortured and finally vanquished by madness.
It was Oscar Wilde. The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached
our train amid shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah, for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip,
hip, hurrah, for the French _artistes_!”

When the train arrived at Charing Cross toward nine o’clock, we were
nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was
gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again upon
our arrival in London with more “hurrahs!...” There were plenty of
people, crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.

On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet
laid down and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything,
as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however,
had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the
Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.

This news disappointed me and even annoyed me personally. I had been
told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of
the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely
indifferent. The crowd was large and very compact, but cold.

“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.

“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,”
he replied.

“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.

“No, the Prince has taken a box for the season for which he has paid
four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”

I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I
felt that everything was going wrong.

A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a
heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the
house—77, Chester Square—I did not want to get out of my carriage.

The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly
lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth
arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the
carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six
weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.

“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my
manservant.

“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are
from Paris, from madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet
from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it, I
read the words: “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”

I went all through the house and it seemed to me very dismal looking. I
visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth
chattered when I came in again. That night, when I went to sleep, my
heart was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some
misfortune.

The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see
them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. The man was
a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He had
made me some very good offers for America, and although I had refused
them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account of his
intelligence, his comic humor, and my need of being piloted in this new
country.

“No,” he said, “if you receive them all together, they will all be
furious, and you will get some wretched articles; you must receive them
one after the other.”

Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my
seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation
when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of
the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them.
I remember perfectly well that all of them began with: “Well,
mademoiselle, what do you think of London?”

I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of
these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had
drawn my curtain back on getting up, and all I knew of London was
Chester Square, a small square of somber verdure, in the midst of which
was a black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.

I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared
for this, and I learned the following morning that “I was most
enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a
number of the public buildings,” etc., etc.

Toward five o’clock, Hortense Damian arrived. She was a charming woman,
and a favorite in London society. She had come to inform me that the
Duchess of —— and Lady R—— would call on me at half past five.

“Oh, stay with me, then!” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am;
I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”

At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I
had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I
have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.

Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so
distinguished and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.

A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had
been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends.
He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and
said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I
thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.

At seven o’clock Hortense Damian came to fetch me to dine with her at
the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice home in Prince’s
Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter, Millais.
I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I
thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold
and sedate. I found them charming and full of humor. Everyone spoke
French very well and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English
language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched
by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to say any
poetry.

I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found
myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young
girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account and enjoying
themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a husband. What
surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who were getting on
in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I spoke of this to
Hortense Damian.

“It’s frightful!” I said.

“Yes, but it’s _chic_!”

She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about
nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few
days before I left Paris.

Chester Square, tu habiteras.
Rotten Row, tu monteras.
Le Parlement visiteras.
Garden-parties fréquenteras.
Chaque visite, tu rendras.
A chaque lettre, tu repondras.
Photographies, tu signeras.
Hortense Damain, tu écouteras,
Et tous ses conseils, les suivras.

(In Chester Square thou shalt live.
In Rotten Row thou shalt ride.
Parliament thou shalt visit.
Garden parties thou shalt frequent.
Every visit thou shalt return.
Every letter thou shalt answer.
Photographs thou shalt sign.
To Hortense Damian thou shalt listen,
And all her counsels thou shalt follow.)

I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realized that, under this
jocular form, she considered them as very serious and important. Alas!
my poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I
detested paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or
following anyone’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I
detest going to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them,
commenting on them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and
driving in frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary
places. I adore giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never
follow at once any wise advice that is given me. It always requires an
effort of my will to recognize the justice of any counsel, and then an
effort of my intellect to be grateful for it; at first it simply annoys
me. Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damian’s counsels, nor
yet to Jarrett’s, and in this I made a great mistake, for many people
were vexed with me—and, in any other country, I should have made
enemies. On that first visit to London what a quantity of letters of
invitation I received to which I never replied! How many charming women
called upon me and I never returned their calls! Then, too, how many
times I accepted invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did
I even send a line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know, and yet I
always accept with pleasure and intend to go; but when the day comes I
am tired, perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any
obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time
has gone by, and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so
I stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with everyone else, and with
everything.

Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique
grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on
earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an
Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He
excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this
broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved
and pampered _artiste_.

I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home
very gay and very much “anglomaniaized.” I found some of my friends
there—Parisians who had just arrived, and they were furious. My
enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the
morning.

The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde
Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower
beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners, then there were the clusters
of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the
light hats covered with flowers, under which shone the pretty faces of
babies and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop of
graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen,
slender, supple, and courageous; there were men and children, the latter
mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too, galloping
along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, and the children’s hair
and the manes of the horses blew about with the wind caused by the ride.

The carriage road between the riding track and the foot passengers was
filled with dogcarts, open carriages of various kinds, mail coaches, and
very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with
flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All
this elegance, this essence of luxury and this joy of life, brought back
to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so
animated a few years before, when Napoleon III used to drive through in
his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those
days—our Bois de Boulogne! with the officers caracoling in the Avenue
des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!

The joy of life was everywhere—the love of Love enveloping life with an
infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the
awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle
Emperor with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed
by fortune, crushed with grief!

The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its
intenseness; but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still
shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had
struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory.
Three presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little
Thiers, with his perverse, _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with
nibbling at every kind of government: royalty under Louis Philippe,
empire under Napoleon III, and the executive power of the French
Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up
again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had
been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had
succeeded the marshal, but he was miserly and considered all outlay
unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so
Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had
communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de
Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the National Defense
had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.

I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their
mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which
surrounded me.

I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the
first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were
several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not
want to see anyone. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theater,
where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew
already that I had been elected the favorite, and the idea of this
chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am
subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I
first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I
used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some
spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent
people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I found no
feeling of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_
or stage fright, was in the month of January, 1869, at the seventh or
perhaps the eighth performance of “Le Passant.” The success of this
little masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part
of _Zanetto_ had delighted the public, and particularly the students.
When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole
house. I turned toward the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had
just entered. But no, the box was empty, and I realized then that all
the bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling,
and my eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I were
called back five times and, on leaving the theater, the students ranged
on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into
the arms of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.

“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.

“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said, “they want to make a
‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll
drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”

My grandmother took my head in her hands and I met the vacant look in
her large, light eyes fixed on me. “You told me, my child, that you
wanted to be the first in your profession, and when the opportunity
comes to you, why, you are frightened. It seems to me that you are a
very bad soldier.”

I drove back my tears and declared that I would bear up courageously
against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity,
my heedlessness and my “don’t-careism.” But, from that time forth, fear
took possession of me, and stage fright martyrized me.

It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of
“Phèdre,” in which I was to appear for the first time before the English
public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes,
and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I
looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not as
tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is _le
bal_, which I pronounced low down with the open a, _le bâââl_, or that I
take high by dwelling on the l—_le balll_. Ah! but there was no doubt
about it, my _le bal_ neither sounded high nor low, my voice was hoarse
in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, and
just then I was informed that the second act of “Phèdre” was about to
commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my
cameo belt was not fastened.

I began to murmur:

“Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.
J’oublie en le voyant....”

That word _j’oublie_ struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget the
words I had to say? Why, yes.... What was it I had to say? I did not
know.... I could not remember.... What was I to say after _en le
voyant_...?

No one answered me. Everyone was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard
Got mumble, “She’s going mad!” Mlle. Thénard, who was playing _Œnone_,
my old nurse, said to me: “Calm yourself, all the English have gone to
Paris, there’s no one in the house but Belgians.”

This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction.
“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at
Brussels!”

“Oh, all for nothing!” she answered calmly. “There were only English
people in the theater that day.”

I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but
she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but
not the fright that paralyzes, only the kind that drives one wild. This
is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do
too much, but at any rate, one does something.

The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds,
and as I bent my head in acknowledgment, I said within myself: “Yes ...
yes ... you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood ... my life
itself ... my soul....”

When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on
rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get
lower again, I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I
cried out, and it was all real. My suffering was horrible, my tears were
flowing—scorching and bitter. I implored _Hippolyte_ for the love which
was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms
of _Phèdre_ writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace.... God was
within me——

When the curtain fell, Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried
me to my dressing-room.

The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and
bow. I, too, wanted to return and thank the public for its attention,
its kindliness, and its emotion.

I went back, and the following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_
of June 5, 1879:

“When recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by
her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully; she received an ovation
which I think is unique in the annals of the theater in England.”

The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable
criticism with these lines:

“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fiber and her
passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when after a
recall that could not be resisted the curtain drew up, Mr.
Mounet-Sully was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress,
who had won her triumph only after tremendous physical exertion, and
triumph it was, however short and sudden.”

The _Standard_ finished its article with these words:

“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst
its bonds, and the despairing, heartbroken woman is revealed to
_Hippolyte_, was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of
enthusiasm such as is rarely witnessed in a theater followed the fall
of the curtain. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, in the few minutes she was upon
the stage (and coming on it must be remembered to plunge into the
middle of a stirring tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression
which will not soon be effaced from those who were present.”

The _Morning Post_ said:

“Very brief are the words spoken before _Phèdre_ rushes into the room
to commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and
tear and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her
passion mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature,
the woman sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a
panther, striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart
which stifled her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when,
terrified at the horror her breathings have provoked in _Hippolyte_,
she strove to pull his sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own
breast, she fell back in complete and absolute collapse. This
exhibition, marvelous in beauty of pose, in febrile force, in
intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the more remarkable as the
passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a bound, no performance of
the first act having roused the actress to the requisite heat. It
proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her reputation, and shows what
may be expected from her by the public which has eagerly expected her
coming.”

This London first night was definitive for my future.

CHAPTER XXII
MY STAY IN ENGLAND

My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to
overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance and
had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was that in the
night I vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was
despatched to the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras,
who was at the head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on
my bed, exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I
should not recover and requested that my family be sent for. I made a
gesture with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could
not speak, I wrote down with a pencil: “Send for Dr. Parrot.”

Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice
between my lips every five minutes. At length toward five in the morning
the blood vomiting ceased, and thanks to a potion that the doctor gave
me, I fell asleep.

We were to play “L’Etrangère” that night at the Gaiety and, as my rôle
was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand-même_.

Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat and refused categorically to
give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt
much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but
to this Dr. Parrot objected.

Presently, Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the _impresario_ of the Comédie
Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety
Theater, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was
going to play in “L’Etrangère,” the piece announced on the bills. I
asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room and I gave
instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room.

“I feel much better,” I said to him, very quickly. “I’m very weak still,
but I will play. Ssh! ... don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead and
wait for me in the smoking room, but don’t let anyone else know.”

I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me and, as she
had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused.

Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in
the smoking room and then we both got into his hansom.

“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid.

“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.

“To the theater ... quick ... quick...!” I answered.

The cab started and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at
home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have let me act upon any
account.

“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.”

When once I was at the theater I took refuge in the manager’s private
office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him and
I knew how wrongly I was acting toward him, considering the
inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey
specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how
impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt
really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking
what was my own to dispose of as I pleased.

Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from
Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with
a prescription, in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later and
would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though,
that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to
prepare for my rôle in “L’Etrangère.” While dressing, I fainted three
times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_.

The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I
arrived on the stage in a semiconscious state, delighted with the
applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream and
could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I saw only
through a luminous mist. My feet glided along on the carpet without any
effort, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in
that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine,
opium, or hasheesh.

The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was
to tell the _Duchess de Septmonts_ (Croizette) all the troubles that I,
_Mrs. Clarkson_, had gone through during my life, just as I should have
commenced my interminable story I could not remember anything. Croizette
murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips move
without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly:

“The reason I sent for you here, madame, is because I wanted to tell you
my reasons for acting as I have done, but I have thought it over and
have decided not to tell you them to-day.”

Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes, she then
rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me
all the time.

“What’s the matter?” everyone asked when she sank almost breathless into
an armchair.

“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite
mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.”

“But how?” everyone asked.

“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.

“But what for?” was the eager question.

“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”

The whole of this conversation which was repeated to me later on took
much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been told
and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain fell. I
was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that people told
me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed to me that
I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really under the
influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in the fifth
act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day the
accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company but the piece
itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary
omission of the important part in the third act was one of the causes of
the severity of the press. This was not so, though, as all the critics
had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself, and did
not mention my slip of memory.

The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humor with me just then, had an
article from which I quote the following extract:

“‘L’Etrangère’ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste.
Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically and so were
Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her
memory.”

He knew perfectly well, worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill. He
had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot, consequently he was aware that
I was acting in spite of the faculty in the interests of the Comédie
Française. The English public had given me such proofs of appreciation
that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the _Figaro_, which was
at that time the organ of the Théâtre Française, requested Johnson to
modify his praises of me. This he did the whole time that we were in
London.

Footnote 3:

T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.

My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an
unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how
unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of
their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the
reasons which caused _Mrs. Clarkson_ to act as strangely as she did. He
had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as
the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act,
by the lines which _Mrs. Clarkson_ says to _Mme. de Septmonts_. “I
should be very glad, madame, if you would call on me. We could talk
about one of your friends, M. Gérard, whom I love perhaps, as much as
you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.”

That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was
the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between Vice and
Virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient
history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to
arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained
was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been
a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas,
and the brutality of his humor sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas,
which, in reality, are the eternal basis of all tragedies, comedies,
novels, pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was Love between Vice and
Virtue. Among the spectators who saw the first performance of
“L’Etrangère” in London, and there were quite as many French as English
present, not one remarked that there was something wanting, and not one
of them said that he had not understood the character.

I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.

“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied.

“In my big scene with Croizette?”

“No.”

“Well, then, read what I left out,” I insisted.

When he had read this he exclaimed: “So much the better. It’s very dull,
all that story, and quite useless. I understand the character without
all that rigmarole and that romantic history.”

Later on, when I apologized to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had
cut down his play, he answered: “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play
I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when
any anyone tells it to me, I think it is perfect, as the person always
forgets half of it.”

The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to
the Gaiety Theater, and I remained the favorite. I mention this now with
pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my
success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and
hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.

Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able
to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had,
therefore, taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I
had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a
hundred in all.

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, let me know that he would come
with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities
of London came to the inauguration. I had sent out only a hundred
invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived, and were introduced to
me. I was delighted and enjoyed it all immensely.

Mr. Gladstone did me the great honor of talking to me for about ten
minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly
gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain
clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of
dramatic _artistes_, had made on me. I answered that I considered our
art quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and
Protestant preachers.

“But will you tell me, mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson
you can draw from ‘Phèdre’?”

“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me! ‘Phèdre’ is an ancient
tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to a perspective
quite different from ours, and different from the morality of our
present society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old
nurse _Œnone_, who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent
person. The love of _Phèdre_ is excusable on account of the fatality
which hangs over her family, and descends pitilessly upon her. In our
times we should call that fatality atavism, for _Phèdre_ was the
daughter of _Minos_ and _Pasiphæ_. As to _Theseus_, his verdict, against
which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and
was punished by the death of that beloved son of his who was the sole
and last hope of his life. We ought never to cause what is irreparable.”

“Ah!” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”

“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”

“And quite right, mademoiselle.”

Frederic Leighton then joined us and with great kindness complimented me
on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms.
This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.

My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it
was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side
thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française.

I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptor, and I exhibited
my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two little
lions and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what they were
worth, that is to say, at very modest prices.

Lady H—— bought my group “After the Storm.” It was smaller than the
large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and
for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I
had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160,
but Lady H—— sent me £400 together with a charming note, which I venture
to quote. It ran as follows:

Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your
admirable group “After the Storm.” Will you also do me the honour of
coming to lunch with me and afterwards you shall choose for yourself
the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.

ETHEL H——.

This was Tuesday and I was playing in “Zaïre” that evening, but
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now
to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theater, I started for
Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that
I should find some lions for sale.

The journey was most amusing, as although I was traveling incognito, I
was recognized all along the route and was made a great deal of.

Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a
very lively little trip. I know that I was not shirking my duties at the
Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only
Wednesday.

We started in the morning at 10.30 A.M. and arrived in Liverpool about
2.30. We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the
house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed
to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we
could not believe that was the entrance.

I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we
were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking
room, where we found a little man.

“Mr. Cross?” we said.

“That’s my name,” he replied.

“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.

He began to laugh, and he asked,

“Do you really, mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to
London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in
‘Hernani’ ...”

“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I liked animals?” I said to
him.

“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me; he
said you had bought two dogs from him and that if it had not been for
the gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.”

He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humor.

“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”

“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the
courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures
they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and
powerful-looking tails which were beating the air. They had only just
arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for
rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating
stigma of civilized beings.

“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big, I want some young lions.”

“I haven’t any, mademoiselle.”

“Well, then, show me all your animals.”

I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the chetahs, and the pumas,
and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I
should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of
my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realize it.

Cross had not any, though, so I bought a chetah. It was quite young and
very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages.
I also bought a dog wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and
spearlike teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a
present of six chameleons which belonged to a small race and looked like
lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, fabulous
sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity and changed color
from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and long like a
lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set like a toad.
Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite independent of
each other. With its right eye it would look ahead, and with its left
eye it looked backward. I was delighted and quite enthusiastic over this
present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross-ça,” in honor of Mr.
Cross.

We returned to London with the chetah in a cage, the dog wolf in a
leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and “Cross-ci Cross-ça” on my
shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweler’s. I had
not found any lions but I was delighted all the same. My domestics were
not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs in the house:
Minniccio who had accompanied me from Paris, Bull and Fly, bought in
London. Then there was my parrot, Bizibouzon, and my monkey, Darwin.

Mme. Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My butler
hesitated to approach the dog wolf, and it was all in vain that I
assured them that my chetah was not dangerous. No one would open the
cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in
order to open the door of the cage that had been nailed down, thus
keeping the poor chetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for
the hammer, they decided to open it themselves. Mme. Guérard and the
women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open,
and the chetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his
cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees, made straight for the
dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was excited,
and uttered shrill cries and the monkey, shaking his cage about, gnashed
his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent square made the
most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened and more than twenty
faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them inquisitive, alarmed,
or furious. I was seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and my
friend Louise Abbéma; Nittis, the painter, who had come to call on me,
was in the same state, and Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me
ever since two o’clock. Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician, with a
great deal of talent, tried to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony,
while my friend, Georges Clairin, his back shaking with laughter,
sketched the never-to-be-forgotten scene.

The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam
that had been let loose at 77, Chester Square. So much was made of it
that our dean, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as it
reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence and
when he had finished I took his hands.

“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I conducted him
into the garden.

“Let the chetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain
ordering his men to take in a reef.

When the chetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the
previous day.

“You see, M. le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.”

“You are mad,” he said, kissing me, “but it certainly is irresistibly
comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads
appearing above the garden wall.

The hostilities continued, though by means of scraps of gossip retailed
by one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press
took it up and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy
disposition and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel
irritated. Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was
certainly having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched
and blamed.

One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved
dearly. That adorable _artiste_ took my face in her hands, and looking
into my eyes, said: “My poor dear, you can’t do anything to prevent it.
You are original without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of
hair that is naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is
exaggerated, you have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes
of you a creature apart, which is a crime of high treason against all
that is commonplace. That is what is the matter with you physically. Now
for your moral defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop
to anything, you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself
to any hypocrisy, and all that is a crime of high treason against
society. How can you expect under these conditions not to arouse
jealousy, not to wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them
spiteful? If you are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be
all over with you, as you will have no strength left to withstand them.
In that case I advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so
make it lie as sleek as that of the famous Corsican, but even that would
never do, for Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original.
Well, you might try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then
there would be no risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to
get a little stouter and to let your voice break occasionally, then you
would not annoy anyone. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear,
prepare to mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal,
injustice, adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon
it, though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work,
and your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally
provided the first materials for the edifice will kick it, then, in
hopes of destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if
you choose to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my
dear Sarah, as you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot
understand that, myself, as I like only rest and shade.”

Footnote 4:

Prudhon was one of the _artistes_ of the Théâtre Français.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, FROM AN OIL PAINTING BY MLLE. LOUISE
ABBÉMA.]

I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful with her liquid eyes,
her face with its pure, restful lines and her weary smile. I wondered in
an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity, in
the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I
wanted to know, and she told me that the theater bored her, that she had
had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her
marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her
love affairs had left her affections crushed and physically disabled.
The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her legs were
swollen, and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in the same
calm, half weary tone.

What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart
now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes
and her legs, and her delight in the shade was only the love of that
peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she
had lived.

The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than
ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed
myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle
rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made
up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and
not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on
the defensive and very soon an occasion presented itself.

“L’Etrangère” was to be played for the second time at a matinée, June
21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well
and that as I was playing in “Hernani” at night, I should be glad if he
could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The
receipts, however, were more than £400 and the Committee would not hear
of it.

“Oh, well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the rôle to some one
else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine
Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, hang it all, it
seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mlle. Bernhardt.”

Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played
this rôle at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake
it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and
“Tartuffe” was given instead of “L’Etrangère.” Nearly all of the public,
however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which
would have been about £500, only amounted to £84.

All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the
Comédie, more particularly the men, with the exception of Mr. Worms,
started a campaign against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum major, beat
the measure with his terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish,
slanderous, and stupid inventions and the most odious lies took their
flight like a cloud of wild ducks and swooped suddenly down upon all the
newspapers that were against me. It was said that for a shilling anyone
might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge cigars leaning on the
balcony of my house; that at the various receptions where I gave one-act
plays, I took my maid with me for the dialogue; that I practiced fencing
in my garden, dressed as a _pierrot_ in white, and that when taking
boxing lessons, I had broken two teeth for my unfortunate professor.

Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes,
assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were
mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about
anyone, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon
had a proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the
French papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I
would consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine
attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was
willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was
quite an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes
of cigars, and the boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their
services gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I
resolved to put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris
_Figaro_ caused me to take steps to cut matters short.

And I wrote in reply to it as follows:

ALBERT WOLFF, FIGARO, PARIS:

And you, too, my dear M. Wolff—you believe in such insanities? Who can
have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my friend,
though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told you have
still a little indulgence left. Well, then, I give you my word of
honor that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not
even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic
denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition
which I organized, and that was on the opening day, for which I had
only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a
shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private
engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the most poorly paid
members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the right,
therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten pictures and
eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is quite true, but
as I brought them over here to sell I really must show them. As to the
respect due to the House of Molière, dear M. Wolff, I lay claim to
keeping that in mind more than anyone else, for I am absolutely
incapable of inventing such calumnies for the sake of slaying one of
its standard-bearers. And now, if the stupidities invented about me
have annoyed the Parisians and if they have decided to receive me
ungraciously on my return, I do not wish anyone to be guilty of such
baseness on my account, so I will send in my resignation to the
Comédie Française. If the London public is tired of all this fuss and
should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of the indulgence
hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow me to leave
England in order to spare our company the annoyance of seeing one of
its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this letter by
wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives me the
right to commit such folly, and I beg you, dear M. Wolff, to accord to
my letter the same honor as you did to the calumnies of my enemies.

With very kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
SARAH BERNHARDT.

This telegram caused much ink to flow. While treating me as a spoiled
child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was
most amiable, Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter
begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were
most friendly. Croizette came to see me and putting her arms round me
said: “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child. You
won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place it would not
be accepted, I can answer for that.”

Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech
savored of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his
family and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father
Candor, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had
made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a ministry; that there
was the minister, the secretary, the subchiefs and the employés, and
that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his share either of
talent or work, and so on and so on.... I saw Coquelin at the theater in
the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands.

“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but
fortunately we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good
fortune and the honor of belonging to the Comédie Française one must
remain there until the end of one’s career.”

Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie
because it would save money for me and I was quite incapable of doing
that myself.

“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave,
it means our bread provided for us later on.”

Got, our dean, then approached me.

“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he
asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Deserting.”

“You are mistaken,” I answered, “I am not deserting; I am changing
barracks.”

Others then came to me and they all gave me advice tinged by their own
personality, Mounet, as a seer or believer, Delaunay prompted by his
bureaucratic soul, Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s
idea now, but extolling it later on and putting it into practice for his
own profit—Febvre, a lover of respectability—Got, as a selfish old
growler, understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and
advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his
melancholy way:

“Will people be better elsewhere?”

Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward
character of any member of our illustrious company. I liked him
immensely.

We were about to return to Paris and I wanted to forget all these things
for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a definite
decision.

CHAPTER XXIII
I AGAIN LEAVE THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

The stir that had been made about me, the good that had been said in my
favor, and the bad things written against me, all this combined had
created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle. When on the point
of leaving for Paris, some of my friends felt very anxious about the
reception which I should get there. The public is very much mistaken in
imagining that the agitation made about celebrated _artistes_ is in
reality instigated by the persons concerned and that they do it
purposely. Irritated at seeing the same name constantly appearing on
every occasion the public declares that the _artiste_ who is either
being slandered or pampered is an ardent lover of publicity. Alas! three
times over alas! We are victims of the said advertisement. Those who
know the joys and miseries of celebrity when they have passed the age of
forty know how to defend themselves. They are at the beginning of a
series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden under flowers, but they
know how to hold in check that monster advertisement. It is a sort of
octopus with innumerable tentacles. It throws out its clammy arms on the
right and on the left, in front and behind, and gathers in through its
thousand little inhaling organs, all the gossip and slander and praise
afloat to spit out again at the public when it is vomiting its black
gall. But those who are caught in the clutches of celebrity at the age
of twenty know nothing. I remember that the first time a reporter came
to me I drew myself up straight and was as red as a coxcomb with joy. I
was just seventeen years old—I had been acting in a private house and
had taken the part of _Richelieu_ with immense success. This gentleman
came to call on me at home and asked me first one question and then
another, and then another—I answered and chattered and was wild with
pride and excitement. He took notes and I kept looking at my mother. It
seemed to me that I was getting taller. I had to kiss my mother by way
of keeping my composure and I hid my face on her shoulder to hide my
delight. Finally, the gentleman rose, shook hands with me, and then took
his departure. I skipped about in the room and began to turn round
singing, “_Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle_,” when suddenly the
door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh, madame, I forgot, this
is the receipt for the subscription to the journal! It is a mere
nothing, only sixteen francs a year.” Mamma did not understand at first.
As for me, I stood still with my mouth open, unable to digest my _petits
pâtés_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs and in her pity for me, as I
was crying by that time, she stroked my hair gently. Since then I have
been delivered over to the monster, bound hand and foot, and I have been
and still am accused of adoring advertisement. And to think that my
first claims to celebrity were my extraordinary thinness and delicate
health. I had scarcely made my début when epigrams, puns, jokes, and
caricatures concerning me were indulged in by everyone to their heart’s
content. Was it really for the sake of advertising myself that I was so
thin, so small, so weak, and was it for this, too, that I remained in
bed six months of the year, laid low by illness? My name became
celebrated before I was, myself. At the first night of Louis Bouilhet’s
piece “Mlle. Aïssé” at the Odéon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend
of the author, introduced an attaché of the British Embassy to me.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE _DUC DE RICHELIEU_.]

“Oh, I have known you for some time, mademoiselle,” he said, “you are
the little stick with the sponge on the top!”

This caricature of me had just appeared and had been the delight of idle
folks. I was quite a young girl at that time and nothing of that kind
hurt me or troubled me. In the first place all the doctors had given me
up, so that I was indifferent about things, but all the doctors were
mistaken and twenty years later I had to fight against the monster.

The return of the Comédie to their homes was an event, but an event that
was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had been very lively and gay
and quite a public event. Our return was clandestine for many of the
members, and for me among the number. It was a doleful return for those
who had not been appreciated and those who had been failures were
furious. I had not been back home an hour when Perrin, the manager, was
announced. He began to reproach me gently about the little care I took
of my health. He said I caused too much fuss to be made about me.

“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am thin? Is it my fault, too,
that my hair is too curly and that I don’t think just as other people
do? Supposing that I took arsenic enough, for a whole month, to make me
swell out like a barrel and supposing I were to shave my head like an
Arab and only answer ‘Yes’ to everything you said. People would declare
I did it for advertisement.”

“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people who are neither
fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with shocks of hair, and who
answer yes and no.”

I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of the remark and I
understand the “because” of all the “whys” I had been asking myself for
some years. There was no happy medium about me. I was “too much” and
“too little” and I felt that there was nothing to be done for it. I
owned it to Perrin and told him that he was quite right. He took
advantage of my mood for lecturing me and for advising me not to put in
an appearance at the opening ceremony that was to take place at the
Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. “Some people were rather excited,
rightly or wrongly, a little of both,” he added, in that shrewd and
courteous way which was peculiar to him. I listened to him without
interrupting, which slightly embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer
but not an orator.

When he had finished I said: “You have told me too many things that
excite me, M. Perrin. I love a battle and I shall appear at the
ceremony. You see I have already been warned about it. Here are three
anonymous letters. Read this one, it is the nicest.”

He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber, and read as
follows:

My poor skeleton, you will do well not to show your horrible Jewish
nose at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it
would serve as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked
specially for you in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put
in the papers to the effect that you have been spitting blood and
remain in bed and think over the consequences of excessive
advertisement.

A SUBSCRIBER

Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust.

“Here are two more,” I said, “but they are so coarse that I will spare
you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.”

“Good!” replied Perrin. “They are rehearsing to-morrow, shall you come?”

“I shall come,” I answered.

The next day at the rehearsal the _artistes_, men and women, did not
care about going on to the stage to make their bow with me. I must say,
though, that they all nevertheless showed much good grace. But I
declared that I wished to go on alone, although it was against the rule,
but I thought I ought to face the ill humor and the cabal alone.

The house was crowded when the curtain rose. The ceremony commenced in
the midst of “Bravos!” The public was delighted to see its beloved
_artistes_ again. They advanced two by two, one on the right and the
other on the left, holding the palm and the crown to place on the
pedestal of Molière’s bust. My turn came and I advanced alone. I felt
that I was pale and then livid, with a will that was determined to
conquer. I went forward slowly toward the footlights, but instead of
bowing as my comrades had done I stood up erect and gazed with my two
eyes into all the eyes turning toward me. I had been warned of the
battle and did not wish to provoke it, but I would not fly from it. I
waited a second and felt the thrill and the emotion that ran through the
house, and then, suddenly stirred by an impulse of generous kindliness,
the whole house burst into wild applause and shouts. The public, so
beloved and so loving, was intoxicated with joy. That was certainly one
of the finest triumphs of my whole career. Some of the _artistes_ were
very delighted, especially the women, for there is one thing to remark
with regard to our art, the men are more jealous of the women than the
women are among themselves. I have met with many enemies among the men
comedians and with very few among the women. I think that the dramatic
art is essentially feminine. To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real
feelings, to try to please and to endeavor to attract attention, these
are all faults for which we blame women and for which great indulgence
is shown. These same defects seem odious in a man. And yet the actor
must endeavor to be as attractive as possible, even if he is obliged to
have recourse to paint and to false beard and hair. He may be a
Republican and he must uphold with warmth and conviction royalist
theories. He may be a Conservative and must maintain anarchist
principles, if such be the good pleasure of the author.

At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced Radical and his
stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings,
emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on, Charlemagne or
Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and
claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this
struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual
abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature.
However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the
actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the
footlights, and the comedian, who in private life would render a service
to a woman in any difficulty, will pick a quarrel with her on the stage.
He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the
railway, or on a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do
anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or
if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her—I am
going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have
performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad
tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable and
who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms,
and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly
and protecting courtesy toward the woman comedian. I have played in a
number of pieces with each of them and, subject as I am to stage fright,
I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these three
_artistes_. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that
they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for
any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of
them very great _artistes_, left the stage in full artistic vigor and
vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and
Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he
is now the first _artiste_ on the French stage, for he is an admirable
comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing in a man. I
know very few _artistes_ in France or in other countries with these two
qualities combined. Henry Irving is an admirable _artiste_ but not a
comedian; Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an _artiste_.
Mounet-Sully has genius which he sometimes places at the service of the
_artiste_ and sometimes at the service of the comedian, but on the other
hand, he sometimes gives us exaggerations as _artiste_ and comedian
which make lovers of Beauty and Truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a
perfect _comedienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the
most comedian of comedians and an _artiste_ when she wishes to be.
Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an _artiste_. She walks in paths
that have been traced out by others. She does not imitate them,
certainly not, for she plants flowers where there were trees and trees
where there were flowers, but she has never by her art made a single
personage stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being
or a vision which reminds one of herself. She has put on other people’s
gloves, but she has put them on inside out. And all this she has done
with infinite grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great
comedienne, a very great comedienne, but not a great _artiste_. Novelli
is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about the
artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick
Campbell is especially an _artiste_ and her talent is that of charm and
thought; she execrates beaten paths, she wants to create and she
creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is
heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is
therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an _artiste_
without equal and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the
direction of truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the woman comedian.

The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were
very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me and he tortured me
with a thousand little pin pricks which were much more painful for a
nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. I became irritable,
bad tempered, on the slightest provocation and was, in fact, ill. I had
always been gay and now I was sad. My health, which had ever been
feeble, was endangered by this state of chaos.

Perrin gave me the rôle of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the
piece and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of
“L’Aventurière” very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in
a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged
himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that
presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with
the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of
“L’Aventurière” on Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my
part and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin, April 14,
1880.

I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin, but I have such a sore
throat that I cannot speak and am obliged to stay in bed. Will you
kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I took cold
on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause you
inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever happens.
A thousand excuses and kind regards.

SARAH BERNHARDT.

I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had
not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had
not been able to try on my costumes, either, as I had been in bed all
the time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of
“L’Aventurière” until the next week. He replied that it was impossible,
that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the
following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded
to act, as I had confidence in my star.

“Oh!” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.”

I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very
badly. My costume was a failure: it did not fit me. They had always
jeered at me for my thinness and in this dress I looked like an English
teapot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted
me. I played the first part of the rôle very badly and the second part
rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I was
standing up, resting my two hands on the table on which there was a
lighted candelabrum. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair
was very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said
that, as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on
fire so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely.
That was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The press did not
praise me and the press was quite right. I had played badly, looked
ugly, and been in a bad temper, but I considered that there was
nevertheless a want of courtesy and indulgence toward me. Auguste Vitu,
in the _Figaro_ of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase:
“The new _Clorinde_ (the _Adventuress_) in the last two acts made some
gestures with her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to
see taken from _Virginie_ of “L’Assommoir” and introduced at the Comédie
Française.”

The only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is
vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my
feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of
attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads.
All the low-down little viper world was crawling about under my flowers
and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and
sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the
enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together and so I threw my laurels
and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I
broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through
that to Paris.

I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with
myself, I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore
wrote to M. Perrin, this letter:

TO THE DIRECTOR:

You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have accorded
me only eight rehearsals on the stage and the play has been rehearsed
entirely only three times. I was very unwilling to appear before the
public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has happened. The
result of the performance has surpassed my anticipations. A critic
pretended that I played _Virginie de l’Assommoir_ instead of _Doña
Clorinde de “l’Aventurière.”_ May Emile Augier and Zola absolve me! It
is my first rebuff at the Comédie and shall be my last. I warned you
the day of the general rehearsal. You have gone too far. I keep my
word. By the time you receive this letter I shall have left Paris.
Will you kindly accept my immediate resignation and believe me, yours
sincerely,

SARAH BERNHARDT.

In order that this resignation might not be refused at the Committee
meeting I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_,
and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it.

Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once,
with my maid, for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told
where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict
incognito. But the next morning I was recognized and telegrams were sent
to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters.

I took refuge at La Hêve where I spent the whole day on the beach in
spite of the cold rain which fell without ceasing.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, 1879.]

I went back to the Hotel Frascati, frozen, and in the night I was so
feverish that the doctor was summoned. Mme. Guérard, who was sent for by
my alarmed maid, came at once, and I was feverish for two days. During
this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on paper.
This turned to bitterness and I was accused of the worst misdeeds. The
Committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers, and
this man declared that after having knocked three times at the door and
having received no answer he had left copy, etc., etc....

The man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my
steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchenmaid,
the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I
protested against the minion of the law; it was useless.

The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses; this
was not done and a lawsuit was commenced against me. It was lost in
advance.

Maître Allon, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked
little histories about me. He took a pleasure in trying to make me
ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters
which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them
all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters to
myself from Perrin which have been published were given by him from his
letter-copy book. Of course he gave only those which could inspire the
public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me etc., etc....

The pleading of Maître Allon was very successful; he claimed three
hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the
benefit of the Comédie Française, of the 43,000 francs which that
theater owed me.

Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He
defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred
thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the 43,000 francs
which I had left with the management. I may say that I did not trouble
much about this law suit.

Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to
me for the third time to make a contract for America. This time I lent
an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about prices and this is
what he proposed:

Five thousand francs for each performance and the half of the takings
above 15,000 francs; that is to say, if the day the receipts reached the
sum of 20,000 francs, I should receive 7,500 francs. In addition: 1,000
francs per week for my hotel bill; also, a special Pullman for my
journeys, containing my bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds
for my staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was
to have ten per cent. on all sums received by me.

I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately
sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he
landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by
Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.

I was given, on signing the contract, 100,000 francs as advance payment
for the expenses of departure. I was to play eight pieces: “Hernani,”
“Phèdre,” “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le
Sphinx,” “L’Etrangère,” and “La Princesse George.”

I ordered twenty-five costumes for town wear at Laferrière’s, with whom
I then dealt.

At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” and four
costumes for “Hernani.” I ordered from a young theater _costumier_ named
Lepaul, my costume for “Phèdre.” These thirty-six costumes cost me
61,000 francs; but out of this my costume for “Phèdre” alone cost 4,000
francs. The poor _artiste-costumier_ had embroidered it himself. It was
a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my departure and I cannot
think of this moment without emotion. Irritated by long waiting, I was
writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when he was announced. At
first I received him very badly, but I found him looking so ill, the
poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how he came to be so ill.

“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice, that I was
quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress and I have worked at it
three days and nights. But look how nice it is, your costume!” And he
spread it out with loving respect before me.

“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”

“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor _artiste_ quickly.

But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his
lips. He wiped it quickly away so that it should not fall on the pretty
costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the _artiste_ the
4,000 francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some
unintelligible words and withdrew.

“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to my _petite dame_ and
my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccough all the evening.
Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for
having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the
force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the
chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of
twenty-two—this _artiste_ with a future before him.

I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box yellowed with
age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of
blood has slightly reddened the stuff. As to the poor _artiste_, I
learned of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for
before leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the
_impresarios_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from the
24th May to the 24th June (1880).

It was during this period that the lawsuit which the Comédie Française
brought against me was judged.

Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in
London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated
the Committee, the press, and the public.

Maître Allon, in his pleadings, pretended that the London public, which
was quickly tired of me, would not now come to those performances of the
Comédie in which I appeared.

The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of
Maître Allon:

_Performances given by the Comédie Française at the Gaiety Theatre. The
crosses indicate the pieces in which I appeared._

1879 PLAYS Receipts
in
francs

June 2 Prologue “Le Misanthrope;” “Phèdre,” Acte II
of

“Les Précieuses Ridicules” X 13.080

„ 3 “L’Etrangère” X 12.565

„ 4 “Le Fils Naturel” 9.300

„ 5 “Les Caprices de Marianne”

“La Joie Fait Peur” 10.100

„ 6 “Le Menteur”

“Le Médecin Malgré Lui” 9.530

„ 7 “Le Marquis de Ville Mer” 9.960

„ 7 (Matinée) “Tartuffe”

“La Joie Fait Peur” 8.700

„ 9 “Hernani” X 13.600

„ 10 “Le Demi-monde” 11.425

„ 11 “Mlle. de Belle Isle”

“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou
Fermée” 10.420

„ 12 “Le Post-scriptum”

“Le Gendre de M. Poirier” 10.445

„ 13 “Phèdre” 13.920

„ 14 “Le Luthier de Crémône”

“Le Sphinx” X 13.350

„ 14 (Matinée) “Le Misanthrope”

“Les Plaideurs” 8.800

„ 16 “L’ami Fritz” 9.375

„ 17 “Zaïre”

“Les Précieuses Ridicules” X 13.075

„ 18 (Matinée) “Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard”

“Il ne Faut Jurer de Rien” 11.550

„ 18 “Le Demi-monde” 12.160

„ 20 “Les Fourchambault” 11.200

„ 21 “Hernani” X 13.375

„ 21 (Matinée) “Tartuffe”

“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou
Fermée” 2.115

„ 23 “Gringoire”

“On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour” 11.080

„ 24 “Chez l’Avocat”

“Mlle. de la Seiglière” 9.660

„ 25 (Matinée) “L’Etrangère” X 11.710

„ 25 “Le Barbier de Seville” 9.180

„ 26 “Andromaque”

“Les Plaideurs” X 13.350

„ 27 “L’Avare”

“L’Etincelle” 11.775

„ 28 “Le Sphinx”

“Le Dépit Amoureux” X 12.860

„ 28 (Matinée) “Hernani” X 13.730

„ 30 “Ruy Blas” X 13.660

July 1 “Mercadet”

“L’été de la St. Martin” 9.850

„ 2 “Ruy Blas” X 13.160

„ 3 “Le Mariage de Victorine”

“Les Fourberies de Scapin” 10.165

„ 4 “Les Femmes Savantes;”

“L’Etincelle” 11.960

„ 5 “Les Fourchambault” 10.700

„ 5 (Matinée) “Phèdre;”

“La Joie Fait Peur” X 14.265

„ 7 “Le Marquis de Villemer” 10.565

„ 8 “L’ami Fritz” 11.005

„ 9 “Hernani” X 14.275

„ 10 “Le Sphinx” X 13.775

„ 11 “Philiberte”

“L’Etourdi” 11.500

„ 12 “Ruy Blas” X 12.660

„ 12 (Matinée) “Gringoire”

“Hernani,” Acte V

“La Bénédiction”

“Davenant”

“L’Etincelle” X 13.725

———————

Total receipts in francs 492.150

The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show
that out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie Française,
the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an average of 13,350
francs each; while the twenty-five other performances gave an average of
10,000 francs.

* * * * *

While I was in London I learned that I had lost my lawsuit, with its ...
“Inasmuch as” ... “Nevertheless” ... etc. ... “declares hereby that
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages
resulting to her profit, from the engagement which she contracted with
the company, by authentic decree of the 24th March, 1875, which condemns
her to pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality, the sum of 100,000
francs damages....”

I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers
published the result of this unjust verdict. I was applauded and the
public overwhelmed me with flowers.

I had taken with me, as _artistes_, Mme. Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my
sister Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonné—all _artistes_ of
worth. I played all the pieces which I was to play in America.

Vitu, Sarcey, and Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was
stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be
present at my performances. I did not understand it at all. I thought
that the Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here
were my worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps
they were hoping, like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer, to
see him devoured by his lions.

Vitu, in the _Figaro_, had finished one of his bitter articles in these
words:

“But we have heard enough surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt!

Let her go abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal
fantasies!
Here, we have nothing new to learn from her talents or her
caprices ...”

Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, apropos of my resignation at the
Comédie, finished with these words:

“... There comes a time when naughty children must go to bed ...”

[Illustration: THE CELEBRATED PORTRAIT OF SARAH BERNHARDT, PAINTED BY
JULES BASTIEN-LEPAGE.]

As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all
the rumors that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he had
no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in venom
and he had cried: “Pleasant journey!” And here they all came, these
three, and others with them.... And the day following my first
performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the
_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,
regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had
never seen. And he finished his article with these words:

“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in
the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a
force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long
and cruel scene in which _Adrienne_, poisoned by the _Duchesse de
Bouillon_, struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with
immense talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she
has never revealed. If the Parisian public had heard ... or ever
hears, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which
she put into her words that evening: ‘I will not die, I will not die!’
it would weep with her.”

Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:

“She is prodigious!...”

And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable, begged me to go back
to the Comédie which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted
calf on the return of its prodigal child.

Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of
praises to me and finished his article with these words:

“Nothing—nothing can ever take the place of this last act of ‘Adrienne
Lecouvreur’ at the Comédie. Ah, she should have stayed at the Comédie!
Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much
as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us.
Oh, she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it—What a pity!
What a pity!”

And eight days after, on the 7th June, he wrote in his theatrical
chronicle, on the first performance of “Froufrou”:

“I do not think that the emotion at the theater has ever been so
profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the
_artistes_ are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves
and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon,’ (_I_ should have said god,)
who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses.

“‘Well,’ said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play, ‘this is an
evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie
Française!’ ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she to me! We will not speak of
it. But what a pity! What a pity!”

CHAPTER XXIV
PREPARATIONS FOR AMERICA

My success in “Froufrou” was so marked that it filled the void left by
Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with
Messrs. Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his
engagements. It was a nasty trick of Jarnac’s by which Perrin hoped to
injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask
officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be
permitted to make my American tour and that everything would be arranged
on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have sent Worms
or _Le petit père Franchise_—Delaunay. The one might have persuaded me
by his affectionate reasoning, and the other by the falsity of arguments
presented with such grace that it would have been difficult to refuse.

Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie
on my return from America; “for you know,” he added, “you know, my
little one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you
will perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for
you will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before
you are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit
by that, but you!”

“I thank you,” answered I, “but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on
my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace.” I fancy I said:
“Get out!”

That evening he was present at a performance of “Froufrou” and came to
my dressing-room and said:

“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with
‘Froufrou’! I will promise you a happy return!”

I refused and finished my performances in London without Coquelin.

The average of the receipts was 9,000 francs, and I left London with
regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But
London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first
impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal
_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those
ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime, and black with
greasy dirt; those flower sellers at the corners of all the streets with
faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and
lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the
funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunk; the
wild dancing of disheveled children round the street organs, as numerous
as the omnibuses—all that caused, twenty-five years ago, an indefinite
suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that the
profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of the
aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower sellers.

The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills
the heart with gayety. The broad English hospitality which was
manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of
the men, which compares favorably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their
gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left
no regrets in me for French gallantry.

But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud; and our windows
opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that
nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two
nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide, the sun enters
into our houses even to the heart of the dwelling, the air sweeps away
all the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply,
as they open.

English windows open only halfway, either the top half or the bottom
half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top
and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot
enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious
character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London, and—is
there any need to add?—its inhabitants. Since my first visit I have
returned there twenty-one times, and the public has always remained
faithful and affectionate.

After this first test of my freedom, I felt more sure of life than
before. Although I was very weakly of constitution, the possibility of
doing as I wanted without let or hindrance and without control, calmed
my nerves; and with a strengthened nervous system, my health, which had
been weakened by perpetual irritations and by excessive work, recovered
its tone. I reposed on the laurels which I had gathered myself—and I
slept better. Sleeping better I commenced to eat better. And great was
the astonishment of my little court when they saw their idol come back
from London round and rosy.

I remained several days in Paris, then I set out for Brussels, where I
was to play “Adrienne Lecouvreur” and “Froufrou.”

The Belgian public—by which I mean the Brussels public—is the most like
our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country. Our
language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages are
always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own
fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in
Paris; the cab horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful.
Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.

I played, for the first time, at the Monnaie and I felt uncomfortable in
this immense and frigid theater. But the benevolent enthusiasm of the
public soon warmed me and I shall never forget the four evenings I gave
there.

Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at
the Theater Royal.

Our arrival, which was anxiously expected, doubtless, really frightened
me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station
when the train came in, gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know
what was happening. But when M. De Fallesen, manager of the Theater
Royal, and the first chamberlain of the king, entered my compartment and
begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the
public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful
anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to
what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in
those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped
out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of
being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive
to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a large way for my
carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic
sightseers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to me.
I have had afterwards, in the course of my long career, many triumphs,
receptions and ovations; but my reception by the Danish people remains
one of my most cherished souvenirs. The living hedge lasted till we
reached the Hotel d’Angleterre where I went in, after once more thanking
the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

In the evening, the King and Queen and their daughter, the Princess of
Wales, were present at the first performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.”

This is what the _Figaro_ of the 16th August, 1880, said:

“Sarah Bernhardt has played ‘Adrienne Lecouvreur’ with a tremendous
success before a magnificent public. The royal family, the King and
the Queen of the Hellènes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were
present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the
French artiste, midst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The
public was delirious. To-morrow ‘Froufrou’ will be played.”

The performances of “Froufrou” were equally successful. But as I was
playing only every other day I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed
the royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.

I had invited all my company.

M. De Fallesen, the first chamberlain and manager of the Theater Royal,
caused a magnificent lunch to be served for us, and accompanied by the
principal notabilities of Denmark we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the Spring
of Ophelia, and the Castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the Castle
of Cronburg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come
up to the expectation. The so-called Tomb of Hamlet is represented by a
small column, ugly and mournful looking; there is little verdure and the
desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little water
from the Spring of Ophelia to drink and the Baron de Fallesen broke the
glass without allowing anyone else to drink from the spring.

I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning
against the side of the vessel I watched the water gliding past, when I
noticed a few rose petals emerge, which carried by an invisible current
were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals increased to
thousands and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious chant of the
sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on the water by
the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails: a score of
young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which were
carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvelous legends
of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all that
love, all that musical poetry. And the setting sun—it was also for me.
And in this fleeting moment which brought near me all the beauty of
life, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King had called
me before him into the royal box and he decorated me with a very pretty
Order of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box
asking me about a lot of things. I was presented to the Queen and I
noticed immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather
embarrassed, but the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was
beautiful, but much less so than her lovely sister, the Princess of
Wales. Oh, that adorable and seductive face! with the eyes of a child of
the North and classic features of virginal purity, a long supple neck
that seemed made for queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The
indefinable charm of this princess made her so radiant that I saw
nothing but her, and I left the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a
doubtful opinion of my intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark
and Greece.

The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper.
Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very well-turned manner for
the French week which we had given in Denmark.

Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the Press, very
short but very sympathetic. Our ambassador, in a few courteous words,
thanked Robert Walt, and then to the general surprise, Baron Magnus, the
Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he said: “I
drink to France, which gives us such great _artistes_! to France, _la
belle France_, whom we all love so much!”

Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women
were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.

Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had, from the time of
my arrival in Copenhagen, sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back
the flowers and begged an attaché of the English Embassy, Sir Francis, I
believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The baron
laughed good-naturedly and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He
came to me with outstretched hands and spoke kindly and reasonable
words. Everybody was looking at us and I was embarrassed. It was evident
that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of myself, by
his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I really felt.
Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but only bowed as
I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity of this
amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw him take
the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had barely
finished his little speech, when I jumped to my feet and cried: “Let us
drink to France—but to the whole of France, _Monsieur l’Embassadeur de
Prusse_!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical, without intending
it.

It was like a bolt from the blue.

The orchestra of the court which was placed in the upper gallery began
playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans.
The supper room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.

I went up to my rooms not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far.
Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve
this tirade. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to follow. I
went to bed angry with myself, with the baron, and with all the world.

About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was
awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at
the door of the salon. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he
went to open the door. An attaché from the French Embassy was waiting to
speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea gown and went to
see the visitor.

“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately, to explain that the
words you said were not meant.... The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect,
is in a very awkward situation and we are all unhappy about it. Prince
Bismarck is not to be trifled with and it may be very serious for the
baron.”

“Oh! I assure you, monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it
than you, for the baron is a good and charming man; he is short of
political tact, and in this case it is excusable because I am not a
woman of politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand
to repair the ill.”

“We don’t ask you for so much as that. And that would spoil the beauty
of your gestures!” (He was French, you see). “Here is the rough copy of
a letter; will you take it, rewrite it, sign it and everything will be
at an end.”

But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and
rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it and after several attempts
to rewrite it, I gave up in despair and did nothing.

Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the
royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but
awkward speech of the baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The
public and the Press had all been witnesses of my tirade; we were the
victims of our own foolishness, the baron and myself. If such a thing
were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for public
opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in order
to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was very
nervous, and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I thought I
was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that if one
has to be famous it can only be after Death has set his seal to life.
To-day I am going down the hill of life and I regard gaily all the
pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many of
them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had raised
them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life, happy
with the past and expectant of the future.

My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant me well, and this incident
has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.

I left Copenhagen in the midst of applause and repeated cries of _Vive
la France_! From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the
breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_
Germany—I was sure of it.

Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united and I am not
certain that several Danes do not still bear me malice because of this
incident of the Baron Magnus.

I came back to Paris to make my final preparations for my journey to
America. I was to set sail the 15th of October.

One day in August, I was having a reception of all my friends, who came
to see me in full force because I was about to set out for a long
journey.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER COMPANY OUT SHOOTING.]

Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert,
Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes,
Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskyjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I
chatted gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many tender and intellectual
friends. Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this
journey to America. He had been the friend of Rachel and told me the sad
end of her journey. Arthur Mayer was of opinion that I ought always to
do what I thought best. The other friends discussed the affair. That
admirable man, whom France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much
he should miss and regret these intimate _causeries_ at our five o’clock
teas.

“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate
selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the
strife. She is of a combative nature.”

“Ah, yes!” I cried, “I am born for the strife, I feel it. Nothing
pleases me like having to master a public—perhaps hostile—who have read
and heard all that the Press have to say against me. But I am sorry that
I cannot play, not only in Paris, but in all France, my two big
successes, ‘Adrienne’ and ‘Froufrou.’”

“As to that, you can count on me,” cried Félix Duquesnel. “My dear
Sarah, you had your first successes with me and it is with me that you
will have your last.”

Everybody exclaimed and I jumped up.

“Why wait,” said he, “for the last successes until you come back from
America? If you will consent you can count on me for everything. I
will obtain, at any price, theaters in all the large towns and we will
give twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to the
money conditions, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five
performances—50,000 francs. To-morrow I will give you the half of this
sum and you shall sign the contract, so that you will not have time to
change your mind.”

I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged
Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, a plan of the tour, for
they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had carried off
the laurels in England and Belgium and Denmark.

Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was
settled that their visits would be drawn by lot from a little bag and
each town marked with the date and the name of the play.

A week later, Duquesnel, with whom I had signed the contract, returned
with the entire tour planned out and all the company engaged. It was
almost miraculous.

The performances were to commence on Saturday the 4th of September, and
there were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day
of departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which
caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah
Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to
undertake his military service.

The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more
than in this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organized excursions and
fêtes outside the towns.

At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the
sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates
and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, etc.,
had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections
and the mayors had prepared the visits to the churches and celebrated
buildings.

When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters,
each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked. I hate seeing public
buildings, and having them explained to me. I know most of the public
sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt inclined and with
my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other buildings, I find
them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies me to see them. I
can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted
against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will
not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains
their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings
with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over
highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the
left wing, (that they would have done better by letting crumble to
ruins,) to have to wonder at the depth of some moat which once used to
be full of water but is now dry as the east wind ... all that is so
tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood I have
always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all buildings
higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I positively
adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct the horizon.
I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a hundred times
rather they had never been built.

I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who
had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task and the 3rd of
September I set out, free, joyful, and content.

My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the
lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding
country in all the towns in which I played.

I came back to Paris on the 30th of September, and had only just time to
prepare for my journey to America. I had been only a week at Paris when
I had a visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés.
His brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond
Deslandes. I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once,
for we had mutual friends.

“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me,
after we had exchanged greetings.

“I really don’t know.... Nothing. I have not thought of anything.”

“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your
return to Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with you at
once for the Vaudeville.”

“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond
Deslandes is the manager and he hates me like poison because I ran away
from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play:
‘Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme.’ His play was ridiculous, and I was even
more ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady
addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage
me!”

He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My
brother ... to put it plainly, is myself. All the money brought by us is
mine! I am the sole master! What do you want to earn?”

“But...? I really don’t know.”

“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”

I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right
mind.

“But, monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot
agree to that.”

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a
colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty
performances!”

“Oh, no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of
Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend
on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign and thank you for
your confidence.”

At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they
were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my
resignation.

Only three days remained to me in Paris. My heart was sore at the idea
of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons.... But in these memoirs I
have put to one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There
is one “I” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows,
joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.

But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other
skies.

I left my little boy with my uncle who had five boys of his own. His
wife was a rigid Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, their
eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me to be
on the lookout and to let me know at once if there was anything I ought
to know.

[Illustration: BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU, BY SARAH BERNHARDT.]

Up to the last moment, people in Paris did not believe that I would
really go. I had such uncertain health that it seemed folly to undertake
such a journey. But when it was quite certain that I was going, there
was a general outburst from my enemies and the hue and cry after me was
in full swing. I have now under my eyes the specimens of insanity,
calumnies, lies, and stupidities, burlesque portraits, doleful
pleasantries, good-bys to the darling, the idol, the star, the zimm!
boum! boum! etc., etc.... It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was
confounded. I had not read the greater part of these articles, but my
secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little notebooks,
whether favorable or unfavorable. It was my godfather who had commenced
doing this when I entered the _Conservatoire_ and after his death I had
it continued.

Happily I find, in these thousands of lines, fine and noble words—words
written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallés, Jules
Lemaître, etc.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed
Victor Hugo, Francois Coppée, Richemin, Haroucourt, Henri de Bornier,
Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.

I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies; but
I confess that the kindly appreciation and praises accorded me by the
superior spirits afforded me infinite joy.

CHAPTER XXV
MY ARRIVAL IN AMERICA

The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and
other successes was named _L’Amérique_. It was the unlucky boat, the
boat that was haunted by the Gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents,
and storms had been its lot. It had been stranded for months with its
keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat and
it had foundered on the shoals of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set
afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre
roadstead, but no great damage was done, and the poor boat had had a
celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous. In 1876 or 1877 a new
pumping system was adopted and although this system had been in use by
the English for a long time it was quite unknown aboard French boats.
The captain very wisely decided to have these pumps worked by his crew
so that in case of any danger the men would be ready to manipulate them
easily. The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of
the men came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling
with water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!”
shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked
frantically and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the
captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers
safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after,
tried the pumps which worked admirably but in the contrary way to that
indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the _Compagnie
Transatlantique_ £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to start
the ship again and passengers refused to go by it they offered my
_impresario_, M. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very
intelligent he was, for in spite of all prognostications the boat had
paid her tribute.

I had hitherto traveled very little and I was wild with delight.

On the 15th of October, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning, I entered
my cabin. It was a large one and hung with light red rep embroidered
with my initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was
a large brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers everywhere.
Adjoining mine was a very comfortable cabin for my _petite dame_, and
leading out of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other
persons I employed were at the other end of the ship. The sky was misty,
and the sea gray, with no horizon. I was on my way over there, beyond
that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a mysterious
rampart. The clearing of the deck for the departure upset everyone and
everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the
bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the
shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in
time to catch the boat, the “Halloo!” “Look out!” of the men who were
pitching the packages from the port into the hold, the sound of the
laughing waves breaking over the side of the boat, all this mingled
together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its
own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who, up
to the last moment enjoyed the “Good-bys,” the handshakings, the plans
about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over
flung themselves sobbing on their bed.

For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears,
tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again, my will
power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven
o’clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold and as
I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad, resigned
face. The sea looked gloomy and colorless and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against our boat that we were
both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the
benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my
feet with a bound I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her
dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor, we managed to prevent
the poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much
hurt, though, she was, and a trifle confused; she thanked me in such a
gentle, dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.

“You might have been killed, madame,” I said, “down that horrible
staircase.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret, “but it was not God’s will.
Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued, looking earnestly at me.

“No, madame,” I answered, “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.”

She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her
brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely
audible: “I am the widow of President Lincoln.”

I, too, stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had
just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have
done her—I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated
by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from
joining her beloved husband. I went back again to my cabin and stayed
there two days, for I had not the courage to meet that woman for whom I
felt such sympathy, and to whom I should never dare to speak again.

On the 22d we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called up
hurriedly by Captain Jonclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went on
to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time
fairylike. The heavy flakes met each other with a hiss in their mad
waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by
all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding
the horizon. I was facing the sea and, as Captain Jonclas pointed out to
me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round
and saw that the boat was as white as a seagull; the ropes, the cordage,
the nettings, the portholes, the shrouds, the whalers, the deck, the
sails, the ladders, the funnels, the airholes—everything was white. The
sea was black and the sky was black. The boat alone was white, floating
along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high funnel,
sputtering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind which was
rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks of the
siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin whiteness of
this boat and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to me as if I
had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.

In the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the
birth of a child among the immigrants, in whom I was deeply interested.
I went at once to the mother and did all I could for the poor little
creature who had just come into the world. Oh, the dismal moans in that
dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident
cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these
sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything
was there mingled together in that human medley—men, women, children,
rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates,
half-open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish
women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and
fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under
the rags, knives in the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us
the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally
looking fellow with a very decided expression on his face, and a hatchet
and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors immediately seized
the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall never forget the
scrutinizing glance of the man. He had evidently made a mental note of
the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent prayer that the two
might never meet in a solitary place.

I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of
me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty
little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul and
would have thoughts. I felt quite sick and I could never again look at
that child—although I was afterwards its godmother—without living over
again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I
wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so
rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and
immigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us
silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed
at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,” one
of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like wine. You
and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!” An old
woman clung to me as we passed. “Oh, madame!” she said, “shall we be
shipwrecked with the boats rolling like this? Oh, God! oh, God!” A tall
fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman
down again gently. “You can sleep in peace, mother,” he said; “if we are
shipwrecked I swear there shall be more, saved down here than up on the
top.” He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The
rich folks ... first class, into the sea! ... the immigrants—seconds, in
the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from
everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my
feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the
scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor and he saw that I was
uneasy.

“Nonsense,” he said, laughing, “we should defend ourselves.”

“But how many _could_ be saved,” I asked, “in case we were really in
danger?”

“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most with all the boats out,
if all arrived safely.”

“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty
immigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred and twenty
passengers. How many do you reckon are the officers, the crew, and the
servants?”

“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered.

“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board and you can save only two
hundred and fifty?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I can understand the hatred of these immigrants whom you
take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely
certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed.”

“But we should save them when their turn came.”

I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest
and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all
these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life, and badly
treated by society, would have no right to life until after _we_ were
saved, we the more favored ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally
looking fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved
at that moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes,
he was quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first
places, always the first places ... and so we might have the first
places! Into the water with us!

“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain who was just coming out of
his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?”

“Yes, captain,” I answered, “but I am horrified.”

Jonclas stepped back in surprise....

“Good heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked.

“The way in which you treat your passengers ...”

He tried to put in a word, but I continued: “Why ... you expose us in
case of a shipwreck....”

“We never have a shipwreck....”

“Good ... in case of a fire, then....”

“Good ... in case of submersion....”

“We never have a fire....”

“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose you, madame?”

“To the very worst of deaths ... to a blow on the head with an ax, to a
dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water....”

He attempted to speak, but again I continued: “There are seven hundred
and fifty immigrants below and there are scarcely three hundred of us,
counting first-class passengers and the crew.... You have boats which
might save two hundred persons and even that is doubtful....”

“Well?”

“Well, what about the immigrants?”

“We should save them before the crew.”

“But after us?”

“Yes, after you.”

“And you fancy that they would let you do it?”

“We have guns with which to keep them in order.”

“Guns ... guns for women and children.”

“No ... the women and children would take their turn first.”

“But that is idiotic,” I exclaimed, “it is perfectly absurd! Why save
women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them?
And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to
their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are
of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have
the same right that we have to defend the supreme moment. They have the
courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to gain in the
struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that you should
expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and perfectly
justified crime.”

The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted. “Without going as far
as a shipwreck only fancy if we were to be tossed and bandied about for
months on a raging sea. This has happened and might happen again.... You
cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand people during
two or three months.”

“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man,
but very touchy.

“Well, then, what should you do?” I asked.

“What would _you_ do?” asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed
expression on the purser’s face.

“I ... oh! I should have a boat for immigrants and a boat for
passengers, and I think that would be only just.”

“Yes, but it would be ruinous.”

“No, the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the
one for emigrants a sailing vessel.”

“But that, too, would be unjust, madame, for the steamer would go more
quickly than the sailing boat.”

“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy people are always in
a hurry and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting
them in the land to which they are going....”

“It is the Promised Land.”

“Oh! poor things ... poor things ... with their Promised Land—Dakota or
Colorado! In the daytime they have the sun which makes their brains
boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth
endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their
patience. The Promised Land! At night they have the terrible cold to
make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints, and ruin their lungs.
The Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after
fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will
breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God
will have mercy on all of them, though, for it is piteous to think that
all these poor creatures are delivered over with their feet bound by
suffering, and their hands bound by hope, to the slave drivers who trade
in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s cash
box which the slave driver has paid for the transport of all these poor
creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or trembling
fingers. Poor money economized, copper by copper, tear by tear. When I
think of all this it makes me wish that we could be shipwrecked, that
_we_ could be all killed, and all of those saved.”

With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I
was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could
do nothing, absolutely nothing!...

The following morning I awoke late, as I had not fallen asleep until
near dawn. My cabin was full of visitors and they were all holding small
parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and could not quite
understand the meaning of their invasion.

“My dear Sarah,” said Mme. Guérard, coming to me and kissing me, “don’t
imagine that this day, your fête day, could be forgotten by those who
love you.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “is it the 23d?”

“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.”

My eyes filled with tears and it was through a mist that I saw the
portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in
the world, with a few words in his own hand writing.... Then there were
some presents from friends ... pieces of work from humble admirers. My
little godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket,
with oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star
on his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate
had been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude, her husband, who were
most devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises.
Presently there was a knock at my door and on calling out “Come in,” I
saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet which they
presented to me in the name of the whole crew. I was wild with
admiration and wanted to know how they had managed to keep the flowers
in such good condition. It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it
in my hands I let it fall to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of
laughter. The flowers were all cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly
done that the illusion was complete at a little distance. Magnificent
roses were cut out of carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes
had furnished sprays of rosebuds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and
all these relieved by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the
grassy plants used for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together
with a bow of tri-colored ribbon. One of the sailors made a very
touching little speech on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me
for a trifling service rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked
them heartily and this was the signal for a little concert that had been
organized in the cabin of my _petite dame_. There had been a private
rehearsal with two violins and a flute, so that for the next hour I was
lulled by the most delightful music, which transported me to my own dear
ones, to my hall which seemed so distant to me at that moment, and for
the first time since my departure I regretted having set out. This
little fête, which was almost a domestic one, together with the music,
had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears that
all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I wept
simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and weary,
and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst of my
tears, sighs, and sobs.

Finally, the boat stopped on the 27th of October, at half past six in
the morning. I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild
storms. My maid had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe
that we had arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last
minute. I had to give in to the evidence, however, as the boat had
stopped. This sudden arrival delighted me and everything seemed to be
transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts, and the weariness
of the eleven days’ crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose tinted,
dispersing the mists and shining over the river. I had entered the New
World in the midst of a display of sunshine. This seemed to me a good
omen. I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no
sunshine I should have been wretched, and most anxious until after my
first performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this
degree and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was
in those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country I have,
thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the
other countries. I know them all now and in any critical moment of my
life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk
a single step, or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look
at the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for
despair until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions
by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to.
Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen I began to
dress gleefully. Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door.

“Do please be ready as soon as possible, madame,” he said, “for there
are several boats, with the French colors flying that have come out to
meet you.”

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN TRAVELLING COSTUME, 1880.]

I glanced in the direction of my porthole and saw a small steamer, black
with people, and then two other small boats no less laden than the first
one. The sun lighted up all these French flags and my heart began to
beat more quickly. I had been without any news for twelve days, as, in
spite of all the efforts of our good captain, _L’Amérique_ had taken
twelve days for the journey. A man had just come on deck, and I rushed
toward him with outstretched hands unable to utter a single word. He
gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see anyone present, and I heard
no sound. I wanted to know something. And among all the telegrams I was
searching first for one, just one name. At last I had it, the telegram I
had waited for, feared and hoped to receive. Here it was at last. I
closed my eyes for a second, and during that time I saw all that was
dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all. When I opened my
eyes again I was slightly embarrassed for I was surrounded by a crowd of
unknown people, all of them silent and indulgent, but evidently very
curious. Wishing to go away I took Mr. Jarrett’s arm and went to the
salon. As soon as I entered, the first notes of the “Marseillaise” rang
out, and our consul spoke a few words of welcome and handed me some
flowers. A group representing the French colony presented me with a
friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor of the _Courrier des
Etats-Unis_, made a speech, as witty as it was kindly. It was a
thoroughly French speech. Then came the terrible moment of
introductions. Oh, what a tiring time that was! My mind was kept at a
tension to catch the names. Mr. Pemb ... Madame Harth ... with the _h_
aspirated. With great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the
second finished in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants.
By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up listening,
I simply kept on with my little _risorius de Santorini_, half closed my
eyes, held out mechanically the arm, at the end of which was the hand
that had to shake and be shaken. I replied all the time: “_Combien je
suis charmée, madame.... Oh, certainement!... Oh, oui!... Oh, non!...
Ah!... Oh! Oh!..._” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with standing.
I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off the fingers that
were swelling with the repeated grips they were having. My eyes were
getting larger and larger with terror, as they gazed at the door through
which the crowd continued to stream in my direction ... there to
shake.... My _risorius de Santorini_ must still go on working more than
fifty times ... I could feel the beads of perspiration standing out
under my hair—and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered
and I commenced stammering. “_Oh, madame!... Oh!... Je suis
cha—cha_....” I really could not go on any longer. I felt that I should
get angry or burst out crying ... in fact that I was about to make
myself ridiculous. I decided therefore to faint.... I made a movement
with my hand as though it wanted to continue but could not.... I opened
my mouth, closed my eyes and fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick!
air!... A doctor.... Poor thing.... How pale she is! Take her hat
off.... Loosen her corset.... She doesn’t wear one. Unfasten her
dress....” I was terrified, but Félicie was called up in haste and my
_petite dame_ would not allow any _déshabillage_. The doctor came back
with a bottle of ether. Félicie seized the bottle.

“Oh, no, doctor ... not ether! When madame is quite well the odor of
ether will make her faint.”

This was quite true and I thought, it was time to come to my senses
again. The reporters were arriving and there were more than twenty of
them, but Jarrett, who was very much affected, asked them to go to the
Albemarle Hotel, where I was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take
Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these
“asides” he answered phlegmatically: “I have made an appointment with
them from one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes.” I
looked at him petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and
said:

“_Oh, oui, il était nécessaire!_”

On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous, and wanted
to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once to my room in the suite
that had been engaged for me and fastened the doors. There was neither
lock nor bolt on one of them, but I pushed a piece of furniture against
it and then refused emphatically to open it. There were about fifty
people waiting in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful
weariness which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for
the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the rug, cross my
arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I did not want to talk any
more, and I did not want to have to smile or look at anyone. I threw
myself down on the floor and was deaf to the knocks on my door, and to
Jarrett’s supplications. I did not want to argue the matter, so I did
not utter a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices and Jarrett’s
words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard the rustle of
paper being pushed under the door and Mme. Guérard whispering to
Jarrett, who was furious.

“You don’t know her, M. Jarrett,” I heard her say: “if she thought you
were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the furniture,
she would jump out of the window!”

Then I heard Félicie talking to a French lady who was insisting on
seeing me. “It is quite impossible,” she was saying. “Madame would be
quite hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest and everyone must wait!” For
some little time I could hear a confused murmur which seemed to get
farther away, and then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself
as I went off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry,
nonplused expression on the faces of my visitors.

I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to
sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and
I then wake quite peacefully without any start, at the time I have
decided upon. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and
mind, decided upon and regulated merely by my will. Very often in my own
family I have lain down on the bearskin hearth rug in front of the fire,
telling everyone to go on talking and take no notice of me. I have then
slept, perhaps for an hour, and on waking have found two or three
newcomers in the room who, not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in
the general conversation, while waiting until I should wake up to
present their respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge, wide sofa
in the little Empire _salon_ which leads into my _loge_ and I sleep
while waiting for the friends and _artistes_, with whom I have made
appointments, to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of
my kind friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have
had some rest. My mind is then tranquil and I am ready to listen to all
the beautiful ideas proposed to me or to decline the absurdities
submitted to me, without being ungracious.

I woke up, then, at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later and found myself
lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room and discovered my dear
Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk.

“Are there any people there still?” I asked.

“Oh, madame! there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie.

“Help me take my things off then, quickly,” I said, “and find me a white
dress.”

In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from
head to foot. I went into the drawing-room, where all these unknown
persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me
well dressed and with a smiling face, he postponed the sermon that he
wanted to preach me.

I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most
extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age.
He was tall with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most
beautiful silver-white hair I have even seen on a man’s head. His eyes
were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as
though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature,
his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip
showed his teeth, and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grin
seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears which were
always moving as though on the watch for prey. He was a terrible man,
extremely intelligent, but from childhood he must have been fighting
with the world, and he had the most profound contempt for all mankind.
Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he had no pity for
those who suffered. He always said that every man was armed for his own
defense. He pitied women, did not care for them, but was always ready to
help them. He was very rich, and very economical, but not miserly. “I
made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons:
honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon
a man can use against rascals and crafty people—the former don’t know
what it is, and the latter do not believe in it—while the revolver is an
admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep their word.” He
used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. He had a deep
scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion about a contract
to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his
interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look at that
eye, sir, it is now reading in your mind all that you are not saying.”
“It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the
other firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. “A bad shot, sir,”
replied Jarrett, “this is the way to take aim for effectually closing an
eye,” and he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell
down dead. When Jarrett told this story, his lip curled up and his two
incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts
of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an
upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and like what I
remember of him.

My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with
delight as I entered the drawing-room which I had not yet seen. The
busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded
with flowers. All around the large room were sofas laden with cushions
and to remind me of my home in Paris there were tall palms stretching
out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler to me,
who had suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I
shook hands with him and we were friends from that time forth. The
visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all
seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions.
One of them had crouched down tailor fashion on a bearskin and was
leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin and coughed
a great deal. I went toward him and had just opened my lips to speak to
him, although I was rather horrified that he did not rise, when he
addressed me in a bass voice:

“Which is your favorite rôle, madame?” he asked.

“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In
doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite.

“What do you eat as soon as you wake in the morning, madame?” he
inquired.

I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett,
who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man,
answered quickly for me: “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was,
but the ferocious reporter continued his questions:

“And what do you eat during the day?”

“Mussels.”

He wrote down phlegmatically: “Mussels through the day.” I moved
toward the door and a reporter in a tailor-made skirt, with her hair
cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice: “Are you a
Jewcatholicprotestantmahometanbuddhistatheistzoroastertheistordeist?”
I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment. She had said all
that in a breath, accenting the syllables haphazard, and making of the
whole one word, so wildly incoherent that my impression was it was not
safe to remain near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked
uneasy, and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking gayly
to a little group of people she came to my rescue, saying in very good
French: “This young lady is asking you, madame, whether you are of the
Jewish religion or whether you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a
Mahometan, a Buddhist, an atheist, a Zoroaster, a theist, or a deist?”

I sank down on a couch. “Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed, “will it be like
this in all the cities I visit?”

“Oh, no,” answered Jarrett, placidly, “your interviews will be wired
throughout America.”

“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then in an
absent-minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, mademoiselle.”

“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox church?” she asked.

I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance, and a very
young man then approached timidly.

“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, madame?” he asked.

I remained standing, my profile turned toward him at his request. When
he had finished I asked to see what he had done and, perfectly
unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly
wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day
that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription
underneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art
with a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago
reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious
articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present,
always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up
for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the
invention of _reportage_, has ever had as much to endure as I had during
that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long
before I arrived in America; there was all the treachery of the friends
of the Comédie and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not
succeed on my tour so that I might return more quickly to the fold,
humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated
announcements invented by my _impresario_, Abbey, and my representative,
Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always
ridiculous, but I did not know their real source until long afterwards
when it was too late, much too late, to undeceive the public, who were
fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I
therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to
me whether people believe one thing or another. Life is short, even for
those who live a long time, and we must live for the few who know and
appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for whom we have the same
affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as a mere crowd, lively
or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is nothing to be expected but
fleeting emotions, either pleasant or unpleasant, which leave no trace
behind them. We ought to hate very rarely, as it is too fatiguing,
remain indifferent to a great deal, forgive often and never forget.
Forgiving does not mean forgetting, at least it does not with me. I will
not mention here any of the outrageous and infamous attacks that were
made upon me, as it would be doing too great an honor to the wretched
people who were responsible for them from beginning to end, dipping
their pen in the gall of their own soul. All I can say is that nothing
kills but death, and that anyone who wishes to defend himself or herself
from slander can do it. For that one must live. It is not given to
everyone to be able to do it, but it depends on the will of God who sees
and judges.

CHAPTER XXVI
NEW YORK AND BOSTON

I TOOK two days’ rest before going to the theater, for I could feel the
movement of the boat all the time, my head was dizzy, and it seemed to
me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea
had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager telling
him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day as soon as
luncheon was over I went to the Booth Theater, where our performances
were to take place. At the door reserved for the _artistes_ I saw a
compact, swaying crowd, very much animated and gesticulating. These
strange-looking individuals did not belong to the _artiste_ world. They
were not reporters, either, for I knew them too well, alas! to be
mistaken in them. They were not there out of curiosity, either, these
people, for they seemed too much occupied and then, too, there were only
men. When my carriage drew up one of them rushed forward to the door of
it and then returned to the swaying crowd. “Here she is, here she is!” I
heard, and then all these common men with their white neckties and
questionable-looking hands, with their coats flying open and trousers
whose knees were worn and dirty looking, crowded behind me into the
narrow passage leading to the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my
mind, and I mounted the stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for
me at the top, Mr. Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two
gentlemen, and a charming and most distinguished woman whose friendship
I have kept ever since, although she does not care much for French
people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who was usually very dignified and cold,
advance in the most gracious and courteous way to one of the men who
were following me. They raised their hats to each other and, followed by
the strange and brutal-looking regiment, they advanced toward the center
of the stage. I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the
stage were my forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign twenty of the men
came forward and placing themselves, each one between two trunks, with a
quick movement with their right and left hands they lifted the lids of
the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett with frowns and an
unpleasant grin held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning
for my keys for the customs. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he said, “don’t be
uneasy,” and the way in which my luggage had always been respected in
other countries had given me perfect confidence about it. The principal
personage of the ugly group came toward me accompanied by Abbey, and
Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official from the
American customhouse. The custom office is an abominable institution in
every country, but worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared
for all this and was most affable to the tormenter of a traveler’s
patience. He raised the melon which served him for a hat and, without
taking his cigar out of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to
me. He then turned to his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his
hand, and uttered some word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands
of these twenty men proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and
laces. I rushed forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous
violations, and I ordered our costume maker to lift my gowns out one at
a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid, who was in tears at
the small amount of respect shown by these boors to all my beautiful,
fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very noisy and
businesslike. One of them was short and stout, her nose seemed to begin
at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes and a mouth
like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her heavy, flabby
bust and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of her groin.
She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a terrapin, with
her little, black, evil-looking head at the end of a neck which was too
long, and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa and drawing
it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her body bulged
out.... These two delightful persons were the dressmakers sent for by
the customhouse to estimate my costumes. They glanced at me in a furtive
way and gave a little bow, full of bitterness and jealous rage at the
sight of my dresses, and I was quite aware that two more enemies had now
come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter and argue,
pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time. They kept
exclaiming in the most emphatic way: “Oh, how beautiful! What
magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these
and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the
American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of
excitement for this “chiffon court martial.” They kept lamenting, then
going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion.
The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval and spat on the
ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one
of the inquisitors:

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful! Show it them, show it them!” she exclaimed,
seizing on a dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in “La Dame
aux Camélias.”

“This dress is worth at least $10,000,” she said and then, coming up to
me she asked: “How much did you pay for that dress, madame?”

I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment
I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the
Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half past five and my feet were
frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The
rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly
band of men offered to put everything back in the trunk, but I objected
to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover
over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen,
stockings, furs, gloves, etc., etc. They then made me take my oath to
remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left
my butler there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and a
bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I
wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out
for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see the Brooklyn Bridge.

“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty
miseries of our red-tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for
Brooklyn Bridge.

Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing, and it makes one
feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realizes that
a human brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the
ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with
passengers, ten or twelve tram cars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and
carts, and thousands of foot passengers, and all that moving along
together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals, clanging,
clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and
things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful, tempestuous
coming and going, caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath. I made
a sign for the carriage to stand still and I closed my eyes. I then had
a strange indefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened my eyes
again when my brain was a little more tranquil and I saw New York
stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which
glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as
the firmament with its tunic of stars. I returned to the hotel
reconciled with this great nation. I went to sleep tired in body but
rested in mind, and had such delightful dreams that I was in a good
humor the following day. I adore dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are
those which follow dreamless nights. My great grief is that I cannot
choose my dreams. How many times I have done all in my power at the end
of a happy day to make myself dream a continuation of it! How many times
I have called up the faces of those I love just before falling asleep!
but my thoughts wander and carry me off elsewhere, and I prefer that or
even a disagreeable dream to none at all. When I am asleep my body has
an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is torture to me for my thoughts
to slumber. My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am
quite willing to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as
those of which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke,
my maid told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theater, so
that the valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to
Jarrett that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the
customhouse, and I asked him to finish everything without me, as Mme.
Guérard would be there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the
Seated Cow and the Black Band made notes for the customhouse, took
sketches for the papers and patterns of my dresses for customers. I
began to get impatient, as we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I
was told on Thursday morning that the business was over, and that I
could not have my trunks until I had paid 28,000 francs for duty. I was
seized with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been
terrified, caught it from me and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth.

“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must
make my début on Monday, the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I
shall be at the theater on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks,
for there was nothing about the customhouse in my contract. I will pay
half, though, of what you have to give.” The 28,000 francs were handed
over to an attorney who made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs.
My trunks were left with me, thanks to this deposit, and the rehearsals
commenced at Booth’s Theater.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME, BY WALTER SPINDLER.]

On Monday evening, November 8th, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first
performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.” The house was crowded and the
seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them
again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and
curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present,
as the piece was too immoral. (Poor _Adrienne Lecouvreur_!) The audience
was very polite to the _artistes_ of my company, but rather impatient to
see the strange person who had been announced to them. The curtain fell
at the end of the first act and Adrienne had not appeared. One of the
audience, very much annoyed, asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my
money back,” he said, “as _la Bernhardt_ is not in every act.” Abbey
refused to return the money to the extraordinary individual and as the
curtain was going up he hurried back to take possession of his seat
again. My appearance was greeted by several rounds of applause, which I
believe had been paid for in advance by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced
and the sweetness of my voice as in the fable of the “Two Pigeons”
worked the miracle. The whole house this time burst out into hurrahs. A
current of sympathy was established between my public and myself.
Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been announced to them, they
had before them a very frail-looking creature with a sweet voice. The
fourth act was applauded and _Adrienne’s_ rebellion against the
_Princesse de Bouillon_ stirred the whole house. Finally, in the fifth
act, when the unfortunate _artiste_ is dying, poisoned by her rival,
there was quite a manifestation and everyone was deeply moved.

At the end of the third act all the young men were sent off by the
ladies to find all the musicians they could get together, and to my
surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a charming serenade was
played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had assembled under my
windows at the Albemarle Hotel and I was obliged to go out on to the
balcony several times to bow and to thank this public, which I had been
told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From the bottom of my
heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers, as it was through
them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the certainty of
conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had not dared to
hope for it.

I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were “Adrienne
Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “Hernani,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le Sphinx,”
“L’Etrangère.” The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each
performance, including matinées. The last performance was given on
Saturday, December 4th, as a matinée, for my company had to leave that
night for Boston and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison, at
Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland.

Oh, that matinée of Saturday, December 4th! I can never forget it! When
I got to the theater to dress it was midday, for the matinée was to
commence at half past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get
along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they
had borrowed from the neighboring shops, or on folding seats which they
had brought themselves. The play was “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to
get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order
to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it.
People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her
brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts
surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had
its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her notebook
and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small boys
under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their
cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my
hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I
turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had
tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she had only succeeded in
cutting the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and
shouted—I could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered
me, but without any ceremony, either for my admirers or for myself. They
were real brutes, those policemen, and made me very angry. I played “La
Dame aux Camélias” and I counted seventeen calls after the third act and
twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and calls
the play had lasted an hour longer than usual and I was half dead with
fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my hotel
when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000 people
waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.

“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed! I am tired out. I can do
no more.”

But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.

“Stay,” said he to my sister, “put on madame’s hat and boa and take my
arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now
we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.”

He said all this in English and Jarrett translated it to my sister who
lent herself to this little comedy very willingly. During this time
Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of
the theater where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this
course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour
later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my
hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the
little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.

We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in
traveling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston and
my trunks had gone that day with my company, which preceded me by
several hours.

The dinner was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the
food was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty,
special train all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had
been kind enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey, all
the same, for at each instant we had to pull up to allow another train
to pass, or an engine to maneuver, or to wait to pass over the points.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the
station of Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison.

It was a very dark night and the snow was falling silently in heavy
flakes. A carriage was waiting and the one lamp of this carriage served
to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the
electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of
Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The
intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable
blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the
first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp.
There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten
in all; Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first
one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of
conspirators, the dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence
caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our
furs, and our anxious expressions as we glanced around us—all this made
our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta.

The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting
terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic
accident. I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along for, lulled
by the movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was
quietly dozing when a formidable “Hip-hip-hurrah!” made us all jump, my
traveling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as
thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on
the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed
forth triumphantly. The wheels of the carriage turned a few times more
and then drew up at the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of
people awaited us on the veranda, four men, two ladies, and a young
girl. My heart began to beat quickly as I wondered which of these men
was Edison. I had never seen his photograph and I had the greatest
admiration for his genius. I sprang out of the carriage and the dazzling
electric light made it seem like daytime to us. I took the bouquet which
Mrs. Edison offered me and thanked her for it, but all the time I was
endeavoring to discover which of these was the Great Man. They all four
advanced toward me, but I noticed the flush that came into the face of
one of them and it was so evident from the expression of his blue eyes
that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was Edison. I felt
confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well that I was causing
inconvenience to this man by my visit. He, of course, imagined that it
was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner, eager to court publicity.
He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store for him the
following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to utter. He was
suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions I should ask
him, of all the explanations he would, out of politeness, be obliged to
give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to me. His
wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps, enabled
me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must be won
over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of
fascination, in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful _savant_.
I made such an effort and succeeded so well that, half an hour later, we
were the best of friends. I followed him about quickly, climbing up
staircases as narrow and steep as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in
the air above veritable furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I
understood all, and I admired him more and more, for he was so simple
and charming, this king of light. As we leaned over a slightly unsteady
bridge, above the terrible abyss in which immense wheels, encased in
wide thongs, were turning, tacking about, and rumbling, he gave various
orders in a clear voice and light then burst forth on all sides,
sometimes in sputtering, greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes or in
serpentine trails like streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium
size, with rather a large head and a noble-looking profile, and I
thought of Napoleon I. There is certainly a great physical resemblance
between these two men, and I am sure that one compartment of their brain
would be found to be identical. Of course I do not compare their genius.
The one was “destructive” and the other “creative,” but while I execrate
battles, I adore victories and, in spite of his errors, I have raised an
altar in my heart to that god of Glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at
Edison thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead.
The deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the
changes of light—all that together made my head whirl and, forgetting
where I was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which
separated me from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger
that, before I had recovered from my surprise, Edison had helped me into
an adjoining room and installed me in an armchair without my realizing
how it had all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy.

After having done the honors of his telephonic discovery and of his
astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the
dining-room where I found his family assembled. I was very tired and did
justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us.

I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning and this time the
country round, the roads, and the station were all lighted up, _à
giorno_, by the thousands of jets of my kind host. What a strange power
of suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had traveled a long way that
night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved
to be quite a short distance and the roads were charming, although they
were covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during the
journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one during
the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my
admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his
timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of
Shakespeare.

The next day or rather that same day, for it was then four in the
morning, I started after my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my
_impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was
nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from
Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this
one, nevertheless. In the middle of the room there was a real bed, large
and comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there was an armchair, a
pretty dressing table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and
flowers everywhere, but flowers without overpowering perfume. In the car
adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I
went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied and woke up at Boston.

A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and
curious men and women, a public decidedly more interested than friendly,
not badly intentioned but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in
New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had
been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid
and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some
people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated
these turpitudes, but everyone knew that I had won in the end, and that
I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that
clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by
the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration
from hell, etc., etc. Everyone knew all this, but the public wanted to
see for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says
that it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the
majority there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent
with a certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this
strange, courteous, and cold crowd, and, just as I was about to get into
my carriage a lady advanced toward me and said: “Welcome to Boston,
madame.”

“Welcome, madame,” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American
women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now
approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them. I
took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for a
moment when a reporter sprang on to the steps of the carriage just as we
were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any
of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits and I pushed
the wretched man back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this and saved
him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen down on
the pavement as he deserved.

“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this
extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke
French perfectly and repeated his question.

“He’s mad,” I said in a low voice to Jarrett.

“No, madame, I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you
will come and get on the whale. It would be better perhaps to come this
evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a
pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.”

He went on talking, and as he talked, he half seated himself beside
Jarrett who was still holding him by the collar, lest he should fall out
of the carriage.

“But, monsieur,” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? What is all this about
a whale?”

“Ah! madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the
harbor basin and there are men employed day and night to break the ice
all round it.”

He broke off suddenly and standing on the carriage step he clutched the
driver.

“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi-Hi, Henry—come here—here’s madame, here
she is!”

The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony he jumped down
and pushed into my carriage a little man, square all over, who was
wearing a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and an enormous diamond in
his cravat. He was the strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He
did not speak a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett,
while the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to the
vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from the station,
and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome. There were a great
many people awaiting my arrival, and I was quite ashamed of my new
companion. He talked in a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed
everyone, and gave everyone invitations. All the people seemed to be
delighted. A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck,
exclaiming: “Oh, yes, papa, do please let us go!”

“Well, but we must ask madame,” he replied and he came up to me in the
most polite and courteous manner. “Will you kindly allow us to join your
party when you go to see the whale to-morrow?” he asked.

“But, monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with a gentleman
once more, “I have no idea what all this means. For the last quarter of
an hour this reporter and that extraordinary man have been talking about
a whale. They declare, authoritatively, that I must go and pay it a
visit and I know absolutely nothing about it at all. These two gentlemen
took my carriage by storm, installed themselves in it without my
permission and, as you see, are giving invitations in my name to people
I do not know, asking them to go with me to a place about which I know
nothing, for the purpose of paying a visit to a whale which is to be
introduced to me and which is waiting impatiently to die in peace.”

The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to come with us
and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett, and Mme. Guérard, I went up in
an elevator to the door of my suite of rooms. I found my apartments hung
with valuable pictures and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather
disturbed in my mind, for among these objects of art were two or three
very rare and beautiful things which I knew must have cost an exorbitant
price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen and I spoke of my
fear to the proprietor of the hotel.

“Mr. X——, to whom the knickknacks belong,” he answered, “wishes you to
have them to look at as long as you are here, mademoiselle, and when I
expressed my anxiety about them to him just as you have done to me, he
merely remarked that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures,
they belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a superb
Millet which I should have liked very much to own. After expressing my
gratitude, and admiring these treasures, I asked for an explanation of
the story of the whale, and Mr. Max Gordon, the father of the little
girl, translated for me what the little man in the fur cap had said. It
appeared that he owned several fishing boats which he sent out for
codfishing for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an
enormous whale, which still had the two harpoons in it. The poor
creature, thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, was several miles
farther along the coast, but it had been easy to capture it and bring it
in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner of the boats. It was difficult to
say by what freak of fancy and by what turn of the imagination this man
had arrived at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name
as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the fact remained
that he insisted in such a droll way and so authoritatively and
energetically that the following morning at seven o’clock, fifty persons
assembled, in spite of the icy cold rain, to visit the basin of the
quay. Mr. Gordon had given orders that his mail coach with four
beautiful horses should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his
daughter, Jarrett, my sister, Mme. Guérard, and another elderly lady,
whose name I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages
followed. It was all very amusing indeed. On our arrival at the quay, we
were received by this comic Henry, shaggy looking this time from head to
foot, and his hands encased in fingerless woolen gloves. Only his eyes
and his huge diamond shone out from his furs. I walked along the quay,
very much amused and interested. There were a few idlers looking on also
and alas! three times over alas!—there were reporters. Henry’s shaggy
paw then seized my hand and he drew me along with him quickly to the
staircase. I barely escaped breaking my neck at least a dozen times. He
pushed me along, made me stumble down the ten steps of the basin and I
next found myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it
still breathed; I should not like to affirm that it really did, but the
splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor creature
caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered with glazed
frost, and twice I fell down full length on its spine. I laugh about it
now, but I was furious then. Everyone around me insisted, however, on my
pulling a piece of the shattered whalebone from the mouth of the poor
wounded creature, a sliver of that bone from which those little ribs are
made which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to do this, as I
feared to cause it suffering and I was sorry for the poor thing, as
three of us, Henry, the little Gordon girl, and I, had been skating
about on its back for the last ten minutes. Finally, I decided to do it.
I pulled out the little piece of whalebone and went up the steps again,
holding my poor trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and
everyone surrounded me. I was annoyed with this man. I did not want to
return to the coach, as I thought I could hide my bad temper better in
one of the huge, gloomy-looking landaus which followed, but the charming
Miss Gordon asked me so sweetly why I would not drive with them, that I
felt my anger melt away before the child’s smiling face.

“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I accepted with
pleasure.

Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach as quickly as
his age and corpulence would allow him.

“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he said, and he took
his place in another carriage. I changed seats boldly with Mr. Gordon in
order to drive, and we had not gone a hundred yards before I had let the
horses make for a chemist’s shop along the quay and got the coach itself
up on to the footpath, so that if it had not been for the quickness and
energy of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at the
hotel, I went to bed and stayed there until it was time for the theater
in the evening.

CHAPTER XXVII
I VISIT MONTREAL

We played “Hernani” that night to a full house. The seats had been sold
to the highest bidders, and considerable prices were obtained for them.
We gave fifteen performances at Boston at an average of 19,000 francs
for each performance. I was sorry to leave that city, as I had spent two
charming weeks there, my mind all the time on the alert when holding
conversations with the Boston women. They are Puritans from the crown of
the head to the sole of the foot, but they are indulgent and there is no
bitterness about their puritanism. What struck me most about the women
of Boston was the harmony and softness of their gestures. Brought up
among the severest and harshest of traditions, the Bostonian race seems
to me to be the most refined and the most mysterious of all the American
races. As the women are in the majority in Boston, many of the young
girls will remain unmarried. All their vital forces which they cannot
expend in love and in maternity they employ in fortifying and making
supple the beauty of their body, by means of exercise and sports,
without losing any of their grace. All the reserves of heart are
expended in intellectuality. They adore music, the theater, literature,
painting, and poetry. They know everything and understand everything,
are chaste and reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loudly.

They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North Pole is from
the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful, and captivating.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AS _DOÑA SOL_ IN “HERNANI.”]

It was, therefore, with a rather heavy heart that I left Boston for New
Haven, and to my great surprise on arriving at the hotel at New Haven, I
found Henry Smith there, the famous whale man. “Oh, heavens!” I
exclaimed, flinging myself into an armchair, “what does this man want
now with me?”

I was not left in ignorance very long for the most infernal noise of
brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and I should think saucepans, drew
me to the window. I saw an immense carriage surrounded by an escort of
negroes dressed as minstrels. On this carriage was an abominable,
monstrous, colored advertisement representing me standing on the whale,
tearing away its blade while it struggled to defend itself. Some
sandwich men followed with posters on which were written the following
words: “Come and see the enormous cetacea which Sarah Bernhardt killed
by tearing out its whalebone for her corsets. These are made by Mme.
Lily Noé who lives, etc.” Still other sandwich men carried posters with
these words: “The whale is just as flourishing (sic) as when it was
alive. It has five hundred dollars’ worth of salt in its stomach, and
every day the ice upon which it was resting is renewed at a cost of one
hundred dollars!”

My face turned more livid than that of a corpse and my teeth chattered
with fury on seeing this. Henry Smith advanced toward me and I struck
him in my anger, and then rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with
vexation, disgust, and utter weariness. I wanted to start back to Europe
at once, but Jarrett showed me my contract. I then wanted to take steps
to have this odious exhibition stopped and in order to calm me, I was
promised that this should be done, but in reality nothing was done at
all. Two days later I was at Hartford and the same whale was there. It
continued its tour as I continued mine. They gave it more salt, and
renewed its ice, and it went on its way, so that I came across it
everywhere. I took proceedings about it, but in every state I was
obliged to begin all over again, as the law varied in the different
states. And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found there an
immense bouquet awaiting me with the horrible card of the showman of the
whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and trampled on them, and much
as I love flowers, I had a horror of these. Jarrett went to see the man
and begged him not to send me any more bouquets, but it was all of no
use as it was the man’s way of avenging the box on the ears I had given
him. Then, too, he could not understand my anger. He was making any
amount of money and had even proposed that I should accept a percentage
of the receipts. Ah! I would willingly have killed that execrable Smith,
for he was poisoning my life. I could see nothing else in all the
different cities I visited, and I used to shut my eyes on the way from
the hotel to the theater. When I heard the minstrels I used to fly into
a rage and turn green with anger. Fortunately, I was able to rest when
once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this show. I should
certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I saw nothing but that,
I could think of nothing else, and my very dreams were about it. It
haunted me, it was an obsession and a perpetual nightmare. When I left
Hartford, Jarrett swore to me that Smith would not be at Montreal as he
had been taken suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had found
a way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine which had
stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of this, as the
ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily _en route_, but anyhow I was
infinitely grateful to him for ridding me of the man for the present.

For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had dreamed about
Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret, with considerable fury,
the surrender of that territory by France to England.

I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding them, the
pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense fortune that lay in its
lands, etc. ... and that country had seemed to my imagination the
far-off promised land.

Awakened some considerable time previous by the strident whistle of the
engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock, I was informed. We
were within fifteen minutes of the station. The sky was black and
smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns placed at distant intervals caught
the whiteness of the snow heaped up there for how many days!... The
train stopped suddenly and then started again with such a slow and timid
movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility of its running
off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing louder every second, fell
upon my attentive ears. This sound soon resolved itself into music ...
and it was in the midst of a formidable “Hurrah! Long live France!”
shouted by ten thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra playing
the “Marseillaise” with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry into
Montreal.

The place where the train stopped in those days was very narrow. A
somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the slight platform of the
station.

Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with emotion upon
the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank was packed with bears
holding lanterns. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. In the
narrow space between the bank and the train which had come to a stop,
there were more bears, large and small ... and I wondered with terror
how I should manage to reach my sleigh.

Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way and I got out. But a
deputy whose name I cannot make out in my notes (what commendation for
my writing!)—a deputy advanced toward me and handed me an address signed
by the notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I could, and
took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in the name of
the signatories to the address. When I lifted the flowers to my face in
order to smell them, I hurt myself slightly with their pretty petals
frozen by the cold.

However, I began to feel both arms and legs were getting benumbed. The
cold crept over my whole body. That night, it appears, was one of the
coldest that had been experienced for many years past.

The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the French
company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior of the station,
with the exception of Mrs. Joseph Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of
rare flowers and gave me a kiss. It was twenty-two degrees below zero. I
whispered low to Jarrett:

“Let us continue our journey, I am turning into ice. In ten minutes I
shall not be able to move a step.”

Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey who applied to the chief of police.
The latter gave orders in English and another police officer repeated
them in French. And we were able to proceed for a few yards. But the
station was still some way off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one time I
felt as though I were about to faint. I took courage, however, holding
or rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every minute I
thought I should fall, for the platform was covered with ice.

We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred lanterns,
held aloft by a hundred students’ hands, suddenly lit up the place.

A tall young man separated himself from the group and came straight
toward me holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice
exclaimed: “To Sarah Bernhardt....” And these are the lines he read:

A SARAH BERNHARDT

Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante Doña Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
Est-ce un frisson d’orgueil ou d’amour? je ne sais;
Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang français,
Quelque chose qui nous enivre!

Femme vaillante au cœur saturé d’idéal,
Puisque tu n’as pas craint notre ciel boréal,
Ni redouté nos froids sévères,
Merci! De l’âpre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers,
Nous rêvons à ta vue aux rayons printaniers
Qui font fleurir les primevères!

Oui, c’est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rêver!
Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver
L’horreur de nos saisons perfides,
Aux clairs rayonnements d’un chaud soleil de Mai,
Nous croyons voir, du fond d’un bosquet parfumé,
Surgir la reine des sylphides.

Mais non: de floréal ni du blond Messidor,
Tu n’est pas, ô Sarah, la fée aux ailes d’or
Qui vient répandre l’ambroisie,
Nous saluons en toi l’artiste radieux
Qui sut cueillir d’assaut dans le jardin des dieux
Toutes les fleurs de poésie!

Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau;
Que le paron brillant vive sous ton ciseau,
Ou l’argile sous ton doigt rose;
Que sur la scène, au bruit délirant des bravos,
En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux,
Ton talent se métamorphose;

Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain,
Toi-même oses ravir la muse au front serein,
A te sourire toujours prêtée!
Soit qu’aux mille vivate de la foule à genoux,
Des grands maîtres anciens ou modernes, pour nous
Ta voix se fasse l’interprète;

Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent,
Qu’il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang,
Laissant glapir la calomnie,
Tour à tour par ton œuvre et ta grâce enchanté
Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté
De ton universel génie!

Salut donc, ô Sarah! salut, ô Doña Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Te montrer de l’indifférence
Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront;
Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front,
C’est encore celle de la France!

He read very well, it is true, but those lines, read with a temperature
of twenty-two degrees of cold, to a poor woman dumfounded through
listening to a frenzied “Marseillaise,” stunned by the mad hurrahs from
ten thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervor, were more than my
strength could bear, made me feel dizzy, and caused my head to reel.

I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed with
fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning round in a mad farandole. I
felt myself raised from the ground and heard a voice which seemed to
come from far away—“Make room for our French lady....” Then I heard
nothing further and only recovered my senses in my room at the Hotel
Windsor.

My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the movement of the
crowd. But the poet Fréchette, a French-Canadian, became her escort and
brought her several minutes after, safe and sound, but trembling on my
account, and this is what she told me—“Just imagine. When the crowd was
pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head fall back
with closed eyes on to Abbey’s shoulder, I shouted out ‘Help. My sister
is being killed.’ I had become mad. A man of enormous size who had
followed us for a long time worked his elbows and hips to make the
enthusiastic but overwrought mob give way, with a quick movement placed
himself before you, just in time to prevent you from falling. The man,
whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden beneath a fur
cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire face, raised you
up as though you had been a flower, and held forth to the crowd in
English. I did not understand anything he said, but the Canadians were
struck with it, for the pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two
compact files in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it
made me feel quite impressed to see you so slender, with your head back
and the whole of your poor frame borne at arms’ length by that Hercules.
I followed as fast as I could, but having caught my foot in the flounce
of my skirt I had to stop for a second, and that second was enough to
separate us completely.

“The crowd having closed up after your passage, formed an impenetrable
barrier. I can assure you, dear sister, that I felt anything but at
ease, and it was Mr. Fréchette who saved me.”

I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman and thanked him this time as
well as I could for his fine poem, then I spoke to him of his other
poems, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for, alas! to my
shame I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Fréchette up to the
time of my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little
in Paris.

He was very touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the finest of
his work. He thanked me for doing so. We remained friends.

The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck, when a card was sent
up to me on which were written these words: “He who had the joy of
saving you, madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment’s
interview.” I directed that the man be shown into the drawing-room, and
after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with me,” I
said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing gown and we went in the
direction of the huge, immense drawing-room of my apartment, for a
bicycle would have been necessary to traverse my rooms, drawing-rooms
and dining-room, for the whole length without fatigue. On opening the
door I was struck with the beauty of the man who was before me. He was
very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and
curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine looking but seemed uneasy. He
blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude and asked to be
excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully the bouquet of
violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in a low tone: “If ever
you hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service
I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered with white face. He
went up to the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could, however,
catch the words: “detective ... door ... assassination ...
impossibility ... New Orleans....”

His sunburnt complexion became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he
looked toward the door. Then, as flight appeared impossible, he looked
at Jarrett and in a peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said “Well” as he
went toward the door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let
fall his bouquet which he picked up, looking at me with a supplicating
and appealing air. I understood and said to him in a loud tone of voice,
“I swear to it, monsieur.” The man disappeared with his flowers. I heard
the uproar of people behind the door, and of the crowd in the street. I
did not wish to listen to anything further.

When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell
me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.

Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an
account of his death by hanging I refused to hear anything about it. And
now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to
remember the service rendered and my pledged word. This incident left me
somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal was necessary to
enable me to regain my good humor. That prelate, after holding forth in
the pulpit against the immorality of French literature, forbade his
flock to go to the theater. His charge was violent and spiteful against
modern France. As to Scribe’s play, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” he tore it
into shreds, as it were, disclaiming against the immoral love of the
_comedienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the
_Princess of Bouillon_. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and
he cried out with fury intensified by outrage—“In this infamous
lucubration there are French authors, a court abbé who, thanks to the
unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult
to the clergy.” Finally, he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who
was already dead, against Legouvé, against me, and against all my
company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four
presentations, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias”
(afternoon performance), and “Hernani,” had a colossal success and
brought in fabulous receipts.

[Illustration: CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S PARIS HOME, SHOWING PORTRAIT
BY CHARTRAN.]

I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not
remember to make a visit to Ottawa. I accepted with joy, and went there
accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always ready for
a dangerous excursion; I felt in safety in the presence of that artist,
full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean strength. The
only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He had none then
and never did have any.

The St. Lawrence River was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in
a carriage along a route indicated on the river by two rows of branches
fixed in the ice. We had four carriages; the distance between Ottawa and
Montreal is one hundred and twenty-five kilometers.

This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was introduced
to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes. Alas! this
former chief, son of “Big White Eagle,” surnamed during his childhood
“Sun of the Nights,” now clothed in sorry European rags, was selling
liquor, thread, needles, flax, pork fat, chocolate, etc. All that
remained of his mad rovings through the old wild forests—when he roamed
naked over a land free of all allegiance—was the stupor of the bull held
prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy and that he
quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of
forgetfulness.

“Sun of the Nights” introduced me to his daughter, a girl of eighteen to
twenty years of age, insipid and devoid of beauty and grace. She sat
down at the piano and played a tune that was popular at the time—I do
not remember what. I was in a hurry to leave the store—the home of these
two victims of civilization.

I visited Ottawa, but found no pleasure in it. The same compression of
the throat, the same retrospective anguish caused me to revolt against
man’s cowardice which hid under the name of civilization the most unjust
and most protected of crimes.

I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success of our four
performances was extraordinary, but what gave them a special charm in my
eyes was the infernal and joyous noise made by the students. The doors
of the theater were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They
then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were gifted with
magnificent voices. They separated into groups according to the
requirements of the songs they wished to sing. Then they prepared by
means of a strong string worked by a pulley the aërial route that was to
be followed by the flower-bedecked baskets which descended from their
paradise to where I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves
bearing sonnets and wishes.

These flowers and birds were sent off during the “calls,” and by a happy
disposition of the strings the flowers fell at my feet, the doves flew
where their astonishment led them, and every evening these messages of
grace and beauty were repeated. I experienced considerable emotion the
first evening. The Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria,
Governor of Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The
house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the curtain I gazed
on the composition of this assembly. All of a sudden a silence came over
it without any outward reason for it, and the “Marseillaise” was sung by
three hundred warm, young, male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur
the governor stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole
house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem echoed in
our hearts like a call from the mother country. I do not believe I ever
heard the “Marseillaise” sung with keener emotion and unanimity. As soon
as it was over, the plaudits of the crowd broke out three times over,
then, upon a sharp gesture from the governor, the band played “God Save
the Queen.”

I never saw a prouder and more dignified gesture than that of the
governor when he motioned to the leader of the band. He was quite
willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen to feel a regret,
perhaps even a flickering hope. The first on his feet, he listened to
that fine plaint with respect, but he smothered its last echo beneath
the English national anthem. Being English, he was incontestably right
in doing so.

I gave for the last performance, on the 25th December, Christmas Day,
“Hernani.”

The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against Scribe and
Legouvé, and the poor _artistes_ who had come with me who could not help
it. I do not know whether he did not even threaten to excommunicate all
of us, living and dead. Lovers of France and French art, in order to
reply to his abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost
carried by an immense crowd among which were the deputies and
notabilities of the city.

One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to realize the
crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel.

The day following, Sunday, I left the hotel at seven o’clock in the
morning with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade on the banks of the
St. Lawrence River. At a given moment I ordered the carriage to stop
with the object of walking a little way.

My sister laughingly said, “What if we climb on to the large piece of
ice that seems ready to crack?” No sooner thought of than done. And
behold, both of us walking on the ice trying to break it loose. All of a
sudden, a loud shout from Jarrett made us understand that we had
succeeded. As a matter of fact, our ice bark was already floating free
in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open through the
force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece of ice
rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh inordinately.
Jarrett’s cries caused people to gather. Men armed with boat hooks
endeavored to stop our progress, but it was not easy, for the edges of
the channel were too friable to bear the weight of a man. Ropes were
thrown out to us. We caught hold of one of them with our four hands, but
the sudden pull of the men in drawing us toward them cast our raft so
suddenly against the icy edges that it broke in two, and we remained,
full of fear this time, on one small part of our skiff. I laughed no
longer, for we were beginning to travel somewhat fast, and the channel
was opening out in width. But in one of the turns it made, we were
fortunately squeezed in between two immense blocks, and to this fact we
owed being able to escape with our lives. The men who bad followed our
very rapid ride with real courage, climbed on to the blocks. A harpoon
was thrown with marvelous skill on to our icy wreck so as to retain us
in our position, for the current, rather strong underneath, might have
caused us to move. A ladder was brought and planted against one of the
large blocks, and its steps afforded us means of delivery. My sister was
the first to climb up and I followed, somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous
escapade.

During the length of time required to regain the bank, the carriage,
with Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was pallid, not from fear
of the danger I had undergone, but at the idea that if I died the tour
would come to an end. He said to me quite seriously, “If you had lost
your life, madam, you would have been dishonest, for you would have
broken your contract of your own free will.”

We had just enough time to get to the station where the train was ready
to take me to Springfield.

An immense crowd was waiting and it was with the same cry of love,
underlined with _au-revoirs_, that the Canadian public wished us
good-by.

CHAPTER XXVIII
MY TOUR OF THE WESTERN STATES

After our immense and noisy success at Montreal, we were somewhat
surprised with the icy welcome of the public at Springfield.

We played “La Dame aux Camélias,” in America “Camille”—why? No one was
ever able to tell me. This play, that the public rushed to see in
crowds, shocked the overstrained Puritanism of the small American
states. The critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene.
But those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This
stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the
impurity of _Marguerite Gautier_, we met with from time to time in the
small cities. Springfield at that time had barely thirty thousand
inhabitants.

During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmiths to
purchase a Colt gun. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow
courtyard where I tried several guns. On turning round, I was surprised
and confused to see two gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I
wished to withdraw at once, but one of them came up to me—“Would you
like, madam, to come and fire off a cannon?” I almost fell to the ground
with surprise, and did not reply for a second. Then I said, “Yes, I
would.”

An appointment was made with my strange questioner, who was the director
of the Colt gun factory. An hour afterwards I went to the rendezvous.

More than thirty people were there already who had been hastily invited.
It got on my nerves a trifle. I fired off the newly invented
quick-firing cannon. It amused me very much without procuring me any
emotion, and that evening, after the icy performance, we left for
Baltimore with a vertiginous rush, the play having finished later than
the hour fixed for the departure of the train. It was necessary to catch
it at any cost. The three enormous carriages that made up my special
train went off under full steam. Having two engines we bounded over the
rails but stayed on, thanks to some miracle.

We finally succeeded in catching up with the express that (having been
warned by telegram) knew we were on its track; it made a short stop—just
long enough to couple us to it—and in that way we reached Baltimore,
where I stayed four days and gave five performances.

Two things struck me in that city—the deadly cold in the hotels and the
theater, and the loveliness of the women. I felt a profound sadness at
Baltimore for it was the first time I had spent the first of January far
from everything that was dear to me. I wept all night and underwent that
moment of discouragement that makes one wish for death.

The success, however, had been colossal in that charming city, which I
left with regret to go to Philadelphia, where we were to remain a week.

That handsome city I do not care for. I received an enthusiastic welcome
there in spite of a change of programme the first evening. Two
_artistes_ having missed the train we could not play “Adrienne
Lecouvreur” and I had to replace it by “Phèdre,” the only piece in which
the absentees could be replaced. The receipts averaged 20,000 francs for
the seven performances given in six days. My sojourn was saddened by a
letter announcing the death of my friend Gustave Flaubert, the writer
who had the beauty of our language most at heart.

From Philadelphia we proceeded to Chicago.

At the station I was received by a deputation of Chicago ladies, and a
bouquet of rare flowers was handed to me by a delightful young lady,
Madam Lily ——. Jarrett then led me into one of the rooms of the station
where the French delegates were waiting.

A very short but highly emotional speech from our consul spread
confidence and friendly feelings among all, and after having returned
heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave the station, when I remained
stupefied—and it seems that my features assumed such an intense
expression of suffering that everybody ran toward me to offer
assistance. For a sudden anger electrified all my being, and I walked
straight toward the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the
whale man! He was alive, that horrible Smith—enveloped in furs, with
diamonds on all of his fingers. He was there with a bouquet in his hand,
the horrible brute! I refused the flowers and repulsed him with all my
strength increased tenfold by anger, and a flood of confused words
escaped my pallid lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was repeated
and spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors than ever.

I went to the Palmer House, one of the most magnificent hotels of that
day, whose proprietor, Mr. Palmer, was a perfect gentleman, courteous,
kind, and generous, for he filled the immense apartment I occupied with
the rarest flowers, and taxed his ingenuity in order to have me served
in the French style, a rare thing at that time.

We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success exceeded all
expectations. This fortnight at Chicago seemed to me the most agreeable
days I had had since my arrival in America. First of all there was the
vitality of the city in which men pass each other without ever stopping,
with knitted brows, with one thought in mind, “the end to attain.” They
move on and on, never turning for a cry or prudent warning. What takes
place behind them, matters little. They do not wish to know why a cry
was raised; and they have no time to be prudent, “the end to attain”
awaits them.

Women here, as everywhere else in America, do not work, but they do not
stroll about the streets as in other cities; they walk quickly; they
also are in a hurry to seek amusement. During the daytime I went some
distance into the surrounding country in order not to meet the sandwich
men advertising the whale.

One day I went to the pig-slaughtering house. Ah, what a dreadful and
magnificent sight! There were three of us—my sister, myself, and an
Englishman, a friend of mine. On arrival, we saw hundreds of pigs
hurrying, bunched together, grunting and snorting, file off along a
small, narrow, raised bridge.

Our carriage passed under this bridge and stopped before a group of men
who were waiting for us. The manager of the stockyards received us and
led the way to the special slaughterhouses. On entering into the immense
shed, which was dimly lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an
abominable smell gets into one’s throat, a smell that only leaves one
several days afterwards. A sanguinary mist rises everywhere like a light
cloud floating on the side of a mountain and lit up by the setting sun.
An infernal hubbub drums itself into one’s brain; the almost human cries
of the pigs being slaughtered, the violent strokes of the hatchets,
lopping off the limbs, the successive “Han!” of the “ripper” who, with a
superbly sweeping gesture lifts the heavy hatchet, and with one stroke
opens from top to bottom the unfortunate, quivering animal hung on a
hook. During the terror of the moment, one hears the continuous grating
of the revolving razor, which, in one second, removes the bristles from
the trunk thrown to it by the machine that has cut off the four legs.
The whistle by which escapes the steam from the hot water in which the
head of the animal is scalded; the rippling of the water that is
constantly renewed; the cascade of the waste water; the rumbling of the
small trains carrying under wide arches trucks loaded with hams,
sausages, etc. ... all that sustained by the sounds of the bells of the
engines warning of the danger of their approach, and which in this spot
of terrible massacre seem to be the perpetual knell of wretched agonies.
Nothing was more Hoffmanesque than this slaughter of pigs at the period
I am speaking about, for since then, a sentiment of humanity has crept,
although still somewhat timidly, into this temple of porcine hecatombs.

I returned from this visit quite ill. That evening I played in “Phèdre.”
I went on to the stage quite unnerved and trying to do everything to get
rid of the horrible vision of a little while ago. I threw myself heart
and brain into my rôle, so much so that at the end of the fourth act I
absolutely fainted on the stage.

On the day of my last performance, a magnificent collar of camellias in
diamonds was handed me on behalf of the ladies of Chicago. I left that
city fond of everything in it—its people, its lake as big as a small
inland sea, its audiences who were so enthusiastic, everything,
everything, but its stockyards.

I did not even bear any ill-will toward the bishop who also, as had
happened in other cities, had denounced my art and French literature. By
the violence of his sermons he had as a matter of fact advertised us so
well that Mr. Abbey, the manager, wrote the following letter to him:

HIS GRACE: Whenever I visit your city I am accustomed to spend $400 in
advertising. But as you have done the advertising for me, I send you
$200 for your poor.

HENRY ABBEY.

We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after having
covered two hundred and eighty-three miles in fourteen hours.

In the drawing-room of my car, Abbey and Jarrett showed me the statement
of the sixty-two performances that had been given since our departure;
the gross receipts were $227,459, that is to say 1,137,295 francs—an
average of 18,343 francs per performance. This gave me great pleasure on
Henry Abbey’s account, who had lost everything in his previous tour with
an admirable _troupe_ of Opera _artistes_, and greater pleasure still on
my own account, for I was to receive a good share of the receipts.

We stayed at St. Louis all the week from the 24th to the 31st of
January. I must admit that this city, which was specially French, was
less to my liking than the other American cities, as it was dirty and
the hotels were not very comfortable. Since then St. Louis has made
great strides, but it was the Germans who planted there the bulb of
progress. At the time of which I speak, the year 1881, the city was
repulsively dirty. In those days, alas! we were not great at colonizing,
and all the cities where French influence preponderated, were poor and
behind the times. I was bored to death at St. Louis, and I wanted to
leave the place at once, after paying the indemnity to the manager, but
Jarrett, the upright man, the stern man of duty, the ferocious man, said
to me, holding the contract in his hand: “No, madame, you must stay; you
can die of _ennui_ here, if you like, but stay you must.”

By way of entertaining me, he took me to a celebrated grotto, where we
were to see some millions of fish without eyes. The light had never
penetrated into this grotto, and as the first fish who lived there had
no use for their eyes, their descendants had no eyes at all. We went
down and groped our way to the grotto, very cautiously, on all fours
like cats. The road seemed to me interminable; but, at last, the guide
told us that we had arrived at our destination. We were able to stand
upright again, as the grotto itself was higher. I could see nothing, but
I heard a match being struck, and the guide then lighted a small
lantern. Just in front of me, nearly at my feet, was a rather deep
natural basin: “You see,” remarked our guide phlegmatically, “that is
the pond, but just at present there is no water in it, neither are there
any fish; you must come again in three months’ time.”

Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which borders
on madness; I was suffocated with it, and I hiccoughed and laughed till
the tears came. I then went down into the basin of the pond in search of
a relic of some kind, a little skeleton of a dead fish, or anything, no
matter what. There was nothing to be found, though, absolutely nothing.
We had to return on all fours as we came. I made Jarrett go first, and
the sight of his big back in his fur coat as he walked along on hands
and feet, grumbling and swearing as he went, gave me such delight that I
no longer regretted anything, and I gave ten dollars to the guide to his
ineffable surprise.

[Illustration: LIBRARY IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS.]

We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweler had been
waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweler!” I exclaimed; “but I
have no intention of buying any jewelry; I have too much as it is.”
Jarrett, however, winked at Abbey, who was there as we entered. I saw at
once that there was some understanding between the jeweler and my two
_impresarii_. I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the
jeweler would undertake to make them look like new, repair them if they
required it and, in a word ... exhibit them. I rebelled, but it was of
no use. Jarrett assured me that the ladies of St. Louis were
particularly fond of shows of this kind. He said it would be an
excellent advertisement, that my jewelry was very much tarnished, that
several stones were missing, and that this man would replace them for
nothing. “What a saving,” he added; “just think of it!”

I gave up, for discussions of that kind bore me to death, and two days
later the ladies of St. Louis went to admire my ornaments in this
jeweler’s showcases under a blaze of light. Poor Mme. Guérard, who also
wanted to see them, came back horrified:

“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs of earrings,
two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette all diamonds and rubies, a
gold cigarette holder set with turquoises, a small pipe, the amber
mouthpiece of which is encircled with diamond stars, sixteen bracelets,
a toothpick studded with sapphires, and a pair of spectacles with gold
mounts ending with small acorns of pearls.”

“They must have been made specially,” said poor Guérard, “for there
can’t be anyone who would wear such glasses, and on them were written
the words: ‘Spectacles which Madame Sarah Bernhardt wears when she is at
home.’” I certainly thought that this was exceeding all the limits
allowed to advertisement. To make me smoke pipes and wear spectacles was
going rather too far, and I got into my carriage and drove at once to
the jeweler’s. I arrived just in time to find the place closed. It was
five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, the lights were out, and everything
was dark and silent. I returned to the hotel and spoke to Jarrett of my
annoyance: “What does it all matter, madame?” he said tranquilly; “so
many girls wear spectacles, and as to the pipe, the jeweler tells me he
has received five orders from it, and that it is going to be quite the
fashion. Anyhow, it is of no use worrying about the matter, as the
exhibition is now over, your jewelry will be returned to-night, and we
leave here the day after to-morrow.” That evening the jeweler returned
all the objects I had lent him, and they had been polished and repaired,
so that they looked quite new. He had included with them a gold
cigarette holder set with turquoises, the very one that had been on
view. I simply could not make that man understand anything, and my anger
cooled down when confronted by his pleasant manner and his joy.

This advertisement, though, came very near costing my life. Tempted by
the thought of this huge quantity of jewelry, the greater part of which
did not belong to me, a little band of sharpers planned to rob me,
believing that they would find all these valuables in the large handbag
which my steward always carried.

On Sunday, the 30th of January, we left St. Louis at eight o’clock in
the morning for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently appointed Pullman
car, and I had requested that my car should be put at the end of our
special train, so that from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the
landscape which passes before one like a continually changing living
panorama.

We had scarcely been more than ten minutes _en route_ when the guard
suddenly stooped down and looked over the little balcony. He then drew
back quickly, and his face turned pale. Seizing my hand, he said in a
very anxious tone, in English, “Please go inside, madame.” I understood
that we were in danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a
sign to another guard, and, before the train had quite come to a
standstill, the two men sprang down and disappeared under the train. The
guard had fired a revolver in order to attract everyone’s attention, and
Jarrett, Abbey, and the _artistes_ hurried out into the narrow corridor.
I found myself in the midst of them, and to our stupefaction, we saw the
two guards dragging out from underneath my compartment a man armed to
the teeth. With a revolver held to his temple on either side he decided
to confess the truth of the matter. The jeweler’s exhibition had excited
the envy of all the tribes of thieves, and this man had been despatched
by an organized hand at St. Louis to relieve me of my jewelry. He was to
unhook my carriage from the rest of the train between St. Louis and
Cincinnati, at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.” As this was
to be done during the night, and my carriage was the last, the thing was
comparatively easy, as it was only a question of lifting the enormous
hook and drawing it out of the link. The man was a veritable giant and
he was fastened on to my carriage. We examined his apparatus and found
that it consisted of merely very thick, wide straps of leather, about
half a yard wide. By means of these, he was fastened firmly to the under
part of the train with his hands perfectly free. The courage and the
_sang froid_ of that man were admirable. He told us that seven armed men
were waiting for us at the “Little Incline” and that they certainly
would not have injured us if we had not attempted to resist, for all
they wanted was my jewelry, and the money which the secretary carried,
$2,300. Oh! he knew everything, he knew everyone’s name, and he gabbled
on in bad French: “Oh! as for you, madame, we should not have done you
any harm in spite of your pretty little revolver; we should even have
let you keep it.”

And so this man and his band knew that the secretary slept at my end of
the train and that he was not to be dreaded much, poor Chatterton, that
he had with him $2,300, and that I had a very prettily chased revolver,
ornamented with cats’ eyes. The man was firmly bound and taken in charge
by the two guards, and the train was then backed to St. Louis—we had
started away only a quarter of an hour before. The police were informed
and they sent us five detectives. A goods train, which should have gone
on half an hour after us, was sent on ahead. Eight detectives traveled
on this goods train and received orders to get out at the “Little
Incline.” Our giant was handed over to the police authorities, but I was
promised that he should be dealt with mercifully on account of the
confession he had made. Later on, I learned that this promise had been
kept, as the man was sent back to his native country, Ireland.

From this time forth, my compartment was always placed between two
others every night. In the daytime I was allowed to have my carriage at
the end on condition that I would agree to have an armed detective on my
bridge, whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. We started
about twenty-five minutes after the goods train. All the men were
requested to have their revolvers in readiness and some white sticks
like pastry rollers were given to the women and to the men who had not
any revolvers. Our dinner was very gay and everyone was rather excited.
As to the guard who had discovered the giant hidden under the train,
Abbey and I had rewarded him so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and
kept coming on every occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s
tears, repeating all the time: “I saved the French lady, I’m a
gentleman.”

When, finally, we approached the “Little Incline,” it was dark. The
engine driver wanted to rush along at full speed, but we had not gone
five miles when petards exploded under the wheels, and we were obliged
to slacken our pace. We wondered what new danger there was awaiting us,
and we began to feel anxious. The women were nervous and some of them
were in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness, trying
to make out the form of a man or of several men by the light of each
petard. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these petards had
been placed along the line by the bandits, who had probably thought of
some way of stopping the train in case their giant did not succeed in
unhooking the carriage. The engine driver refused to go more quickly,
declaring that these petards were the signals placed there by the
railway company, and that he could not risk everyone’s life on a mere
supposition. The man was quite right and he was certainly very brave.

“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said, “but I could
not answer for anyone’s life if the train went off the lines, or
collided with something, or went over a precipice.”

We continued, therefore, to go slowly. The lights had been turned off in
the car, so that we might see as much as possible without being seen
ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth from the _artistes_, except
from three men whom I had sent for to come to my carriage. The
_artistes_ really had nothing to fear from the robbers, as I was the
only person at whom they were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions
and evasive answers we sent the secretary to tell them that as there was
some obstruction on the line the train had to go slowly. They were also
told that one of the gas pipes had to be repaired before we could have
the light again. The communication was then cut between my car and the
rest of the train. We had been going along like this for ten minutes,
perhaps, when everything was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a
gang of railway men hastening toward us. It makes me shudder now when I
think how nearly these poor fellows were to being killed. Our nerves had
been in such a state of tension for several hours that we imagined at
first that these men were the wretched friends of the giant. Some one
fired at them, and if it had not been for our plucky engine driver
calling out to them to stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two
or three of these poor men would have been wounded. I, too, had seized
my revolver, but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which serves
as a cog to prevent it from going off, anyone would have had time to
seize me, bind me, and kill me a hundred times over. And still any time
I go to a place where I think there is danger, I invariably take my
pistol with me, for it is a pistol and not a revolver. I always call it
a revolver, but, in reality, it is a pistol, and of a very old-fashioned
make, too, with this ramrod and the trigger so hard to pull that I have
to use my other hand as well. I am not a bad shot, for a woman, provided
that I may take my time, but this is not very easy when one wants to
fire at a robber. And yet, I always have my pistol with me; it is here
on my table and I can see it as I write. It is in its case, which is
rather too narrow, so that it requires a certain amount of strength and
patience to pull it out. If an assassin should arrive at this particular
moment I should first have to unfasten the case, which is no easy
matter, then to get the pistol out, pull out the ramrod, which is rather
too firm, and press the trigger with both hands. And yet, in spite of
all this, the human animal is so strange that this little ridiculously
useless object here before me seems to me an admirable protection. And
nervous and timid as I am, alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to
this little friend of mine, who must roar with laughter inside the
little case out of which I can scarcely drag it.

Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train which had
started before us ran off the line, but no great damage was done, and no
one was killed. The St. Louis band of robbers had arranged everything,
and had prepared to have this little accident two miles from the “Little
Incline,” in case their comrade, crouching under my car, had not been
able to unhook it. The train left the rails, but when the wretches
rushed forward believing that it was mine, they found themselves
surrounded by the band of detectives. It seems that they fought like
demons. One of them was killed on the spot, two more wounded, and all
the others taken prisoners. A few days later the chief of this little
band was hanged. He was a Belgian, named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five
years of age.

I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that
unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan. If Abbey and
Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if they had not added
more than 600,000 francs’ worth of jewelry to mine, this man, this
wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the stupid idea of robbing
me.

[Illustration: CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, SHOWING MADAME
BERNHARDT’S WRITING TABLE ON THE LEFT.]

Who can say what schemes had floated through the minds of the poor
fellow, who was perhaps half starved or perhaps excited by a clever,
inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped and looked at the jeweler’s
window, he said to himself: “There is jewelry there worth 1,000,000
francs. If it were all mine I would sell it and go back to Belgium. What
joy I could give to my poor mother who is blinding herself with work by
gaslight, and I could help my sister to get married.” Or perhaps he was
an inventor, and he thought to himself: “Ah! if only I had the money
which that jewelry represents, I could bring out my invention myself,
instead of selling my patent to some highly esteemed rascal, who will
buy it from me for a crust of bread. What would it matter to the
_artiste_? Ah, if only I had the money!” Ah, if I had the money!...
Perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all this wealth
belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime germinated in this
way in a mind which had hitherto been pure.

CHAPTER XXIX
FROM THE GULF TO CANADA AGAIN

We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances
there and set off once more for New Orleans. Now, I thought, we shall
have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm our poor limbs,
stiffened with three months of mortal cold. We shall be able to open our
windows, and breathe fresh air instead of the suffocating and
anæmia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep and dreams of warmth and sweet
scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock at my door roused me suddenly,
and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did not growl
I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door and Jarrett,
followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came in on
tiptoes and closed the door again.

“Well, what is it now?” I asked.

“Why,” replied Jarrett, “the incessant rain during the last twelve days
has swollen the river to such a height that the bridge across the bay of
St. Louis threatens to give way. If we go back we shall require three or
four days.”

I was furious. Three or four days and to go back to the snow again. Ah,
no, I felt I must have sunshine!

“Why can we not pass? Oh, heavens, what shall we do!” I exclaimed.

“Well, the engine driver is here. He thinks that he might get across,
but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition
that you give him $2,500, which he will at once send to Mobile where his
father and wife live. If we get safely to the other side he will give
you back this money, but if not it will belong to his family.”

“Yes, certainly, give him the money and let us cross.”

As I have said, I generally traveled by special train. This one was made
up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a moment
as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did not
tell anyone about it except my sister, my beloved Guérard, and my
faithful Félicie and her husband Claude. The comedian, Angelo, who was
sleeping in Jarrett’s berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was
courageous and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the
engine driver who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were
actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had
taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of
twenty-seven persons. It was too late then to do anything, the train had
started and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge. I had taken my
seat on the platform and the bridge bent and swayed like a hammock under
the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way across it gave
way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered: “Ah, we are
drowning!” I certainly thought as she did that the supreme moment had
arrived.

My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the Book of
Destiny. The train pulled itself together and we arrived on the other
side of the water. Behind us we heard a terrible noise. The bridge had
given way. For more than a week the trains from the East and the North
could not enter the city.

I left the money to our brave engine driver but my conscience was by no
means tranquil and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most
frightful nightmares.

When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive. I had to
submit to receiving the friendly but fatiguing deputation of my
compatriots. Then, loaded with flowers, I climbed into the carriage that
was to take me to the hotel. The roads were rivers and we were on an
elevated spot. The lower part of the city, the coachman explained to us
in Marseilles French, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. The
negroes had been drowned by hundreds. “Ah, hussy!” he cried as he
whipped up his horses. At that period the hotels in New Orleans were
squalid—dirty, uncomfortable, black with cockroaches, and as soon as the
candles were lighted, the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes
that buzzed around and fell on one’s shoulders, sticking in one’s hair.
Oh, I shudder still when I think of it!

At the same time there was an opera company in the city, the “star” of
which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at one time came very near
being Queen of Holland. The country was poor, like all the other
American districts where the French were to be found preponderating. Ah,
we are hardly good colonists!

The opera did a very poor business and we did not do excellently,
either. Six performances would have been ample in that city; we gave
eight.

Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely. An infinite charm was
evolved from it. All these people, so different, black and white, had
smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The shops were attractive
from the cheerfulness of their windows. The open-air traders under the
arcades challenged one another with joyful flashes of wit. The sun,
however, did not show itself once. But these people had the sun within
themselves.

I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up
to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a
carriage if the pavements had not been a meter or more high.

Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use thinking of
banking up the river or arm of the sea. But walking was made easy by the
high pavements and small, movable bridges. The dark children amused
themselves catching crayfish in the streams. Where did they come from?
And they sold them to passersby. Now and again, we would see a whole
family of water serpents speed by. They swept along with raised head and
undulating body like long, starry sapphires.

I went down toward the lower part of the town. The sight was
heartrending. All the cabins of the colored inhabitants had fallen into
the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds squatting upon these
moving wrecks, with eyes burning from fever, their white teeth
chattering. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies floating about,
knocking up against the wooden piles. Many ladies were distributing
food, endeavoring to lead away the unfortunate negroes, but they refused
to go. And the women would slowly shake their heads. One child of
fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the hospital with his
foot cut clean off at the ankle by an alligator. His family were howling
with fury. They wished to keep the youngster with them. The negro quack
doctor pretended that he could have cured him in two days and that the
white quacks would leave him for a month in bed.

I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city I had
visited up to then. We were surprised to find that none of our party was
missing though we had gone through—so they all said—various dangers. The
hairdresser alone, a man called Ibé, could not recover his equilibrium,
having become half mad from fear the second day of our arrival. At the
theater he generally slept in the trunk in which he stored his wigs.
However strange it may seem, the fact is quite true. The first night,
everything passed off as usual, but during the second night he woke up
the whole neighborhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate fellow had got
off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that his mattress,
which hung over his collection of wigs, was being raised up by some
inconceivable movements. He thought that some cat or dog had got into
the trunk and he lifted up the feeble rampart. Two serpents were within,
actively moving about, of a size sufficient to terrify the people that
the shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round.

He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the boat that was
to take us to our train. I called him and begged him to relate to me the
odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he showed me his
heavy leg. “They were as thick as that, madame. Yes, like that....” And
he quaked with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the reptiles. I
thought that they were about one-quarter as thick as his leg, and that
would have been enough to justify his fright, but the serpents in
question were inoffensive water snakes that bite out of pure
viciousness, but have no venom fangs.

We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day. We had stopped at that city
on our way to New Orleans, and I had had a real attack of nerves caused
by the “cheek” of the inhabitants who, in spite of the lateness of the
hour, had got up a deputation to wait upon me. I was dead with fatigue
and was dropping off to sleep in my bed on the car. I therefore
energetically declined to see anybody. But these people knocked at my
windows, sang about my carriage, and finally exasperated me. I quickly
threw up one of the windows and emptied a jug of water on their heads.
Women and men, among whom were several journalists, were splashed. Their
fury was great.

I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story embellished in
their favor by the drenched reporters. But on the other hand there were
others who had been more courteous and had refused to go and disturb a
lady at such an unearthly hour of the night. These latter were in the
majority and took up my defense.

It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared before the
public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the good opinion of my
defenders and confound my detractors. Yes, but the Gnome who had decided
otherwise was there.

Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_.
There was only one theater. It had been let to the tragedian Barrett,
who was to appear six days after me. All that remained was a miserable
place, so small that I know of nothing that can be compared to it. We
were playing “La Dame aux Camélias.” When _Marguerite Gautier_ orders
supper to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table ready
laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was impossible.
Nothing could be more comical than to see those unfortunate servants
adopt every expedient.

The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators was one that
became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen who had got in somehow
was standing on a chair, and with his two hands holding on to his knees,
his body bent, head forward, mouth open, he was laughing with such a
shrill and piercing tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught
it, too. I had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being
removed to allow the table to be brought in.

I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination of
suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table and the supper was
drawing to a close as usual. But just as the servants were entering to
remove the table, one of them caught the scenery that had been badly
adjusted by the scene shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene
fell on our heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those
days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round our
necks, and we had to remain in that position without being able to move.
Our heads having gone through the paper, our appearance was most comical
and ridiculous. The young negro’s laughter started again more piercing
than ever, and this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that
left me without any strength.

The money paid for admission was returned to the public. It exceeded
15,000 francs.

This city had a fatality for me and came very near proving so during the
third visit I paid to it.

That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after playing “La
Dame aux Camélias,” we left again the same evening for Nashville.

We stayed for an entire day at Memphis and gave two performances. At one
in the morning we left for Louisville.

We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns, arriving at
three, four, and sometimes six o’clock in the evening, and leaving
immediately after the play. I left my car only to go to the theater and
returned as soon as the play was over to retire to my elegant but
diminutive bedroom. I sleep well on the railway. I felt an immense
pleasure in traveling that way at high speed, sitting outside on the
small platform or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the
ever-changing spectacle, that passed before me, of American plains and
forests. Without stopping, we went through Louisville, Cincinnati, for
the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph that has the
best beer in the world, and where, we were obliged to go to an hotel on
account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car. Supper was served.
What a supper! Fortunately, the beer was light in both color and
consistency and enabled me to swallow the dreadful things that were
served up.

We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield—not the Springfield in
Massachusetts—the one in Illinois.

During the journey from Springfield to Chicago, we were stopped by the
snow in the middle of the night. The sharp and deep groanings of the
locomotive had already awakened me. I summoned my faithful Claude and
learned that we were to stop and wait for help. Aided by my Félicie, I
dressed in haste and tried to descend, but it was impossible. The snow
was as high as the platform of the car. I remained wrapped up in furs,
contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was hard, implacable,
without a star, but all the same translucent. Lights extended as far as
the eye could see along the rails before me, for I had taken refuge on
the rear platform. These lights were to warn the trains that followed.
Four of them came up and stopped when the first fog-signals went off
beneath their wheels, then crept slowly forward to the first light where
a man who was stationed there explained the incident. The same lights
were lit immediately for the following train, as far off as possible,
and a man proceeding beyond the lights placed detonators on the rails.
Each train that arrived followed that course.

We were blocked by the snow. The idea came to me of lighting the kitchen
fire and I thus got enough boiling water to melt the top coating of snow
on the side where I wanted to get down. Having done this, Claude and the
negroes got down and cleared away a small portion as well as they could.
I was at last able to get down myself and tried to remove the snow to
one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each other
and the _mêlée_ became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary, and
several of the _artistes_ joined in and we were warmed up through this
small battle with white cannon balls.

When dawn appeared we were to be seen firing a revolver and Colt rifle
at a target made from a champagne case. A distant sound, deadened by the
cotton wool of the snow, at length made us realize that help was
approaching. As a matter of fact, two engines with men who had shovels,
hooks, and spades, were coming at full speed from the opposite
direction. They were obliged to slow down on getting to one kilometer of
where we were, and the men got down, clearing the way before them. They
finally succeeded in reaching us, but we were obliged to go back and
take the western route. The unfortunate _artistes_ who had counted on
getting breakfast in Chicago, which we ought to have reached at eleven
o’clock, were lamenting, for with the new itinerary that we were forced
to follow, it would be half past one before we could get to Milwaukee,
where we were to give a matinée at two o’clock—“La Dame aux Camélias.” I
therefore had the best lunch I could prepared and my negroes carried it
to my company, the members of which showed themselves very grateful.

The performance did not begin till three and finished at half past six
o’clock; we started again at eight with “Froufrou.”

Immediately after the play was over we left for Grand Rapids, Detroit,
Cleveland, and Pittsburg, in which latter city I was to meet an American
friend of mine who was to help me to realize one of my dreams—at least I
fancied so. In partnership with his brother, my friend was the owner of
a large steel works and several petroleum wells. I had known him in
Paris, and had met him again at New York, where he offered to conduct me
to Buffalo so that I could visit, or rather where he could show me, the
Falls of Niagara, for which he entertained a lover’s passion.
Frequently, he would start off quite unexpectedly, like a madman, and
take a rest at a place just near the Niagara Falls. The deafening sound
of the cataracts seemed like music after the hard, hammering, strident
noise of the forges at work on the iron, and the limpidity of the
silvery cascades rested his eyes and refreshed his lungs, saturated as
they were with petroleum and smoke.

My friend’s buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, took us along in a
bewildering whirlwind of mud splashing over us and snow blinding us. It
had been raining for a week and Pittsburg in 1881 was not what it is at
present, although it was a city which impressed one on account of its
commercial genius. The black mud ran along the streets and everywhere in
the sky rose huge patches of thick, black, opaque smoke; but there was a
certain grandeur about it all, for work was king there. Trains ran
through the streets laden with barrels of petroleum or piled as high as
possible with charcoal and coal. That fine river, the Ohio, carried
along with it steamers, barges, and loads of timber fastened together
and forming enormous rafts which floated down the river alone to be
stopped on the way by the owner for whom they were destined. The timber
is marked and no one else thinks of taking it. I am told that the wood
is not conveyed in this way now and it is a pity.

The carriage took us along through streets and squares in the midst of
railways, under the enervating vibration of the electric wires which ran
like furrows across the sky. We crossed a bridge which shook under the
light weight of the buggy. It was a suspension bridge. Finally, we drew
up at my friend’s home. He introduced his brother to me, a charming man
but very cold and correct, and so quiet that I was astonished.

[Illustration: THÉÂTRE SARAH BERNHARDT, PARIS.]

“My poor brother is deaf,” said my companion, after I had been exerting
myself for five minutes to talk to him in my gentlest voice. I looked at
this poor millionaire who was living in the most extraordinary noise and
who could not even hear the faintest echo of the outrageous uproar. He
could not hear anything at all, and I wondered whether he was to be
envied or pitied. I was then taken to visit his incandescent ovens and
his vats in a state of ebullition. I went into a room where some steel
disks were cooling, which looked like so many setting suns. The heat
from them seemed to scorch my lungs, and I felt as though my hair would
take fire. We then went down a long, narrow street through which small
trains were running to and fro. Some of those trains were laden with
incandescent metals which irised the air as they passed. We walked in
single file along the narrow passage reserved for foot passengers
between the rails. I did not feel at all safe and my heart began to beat
fast. Blown each way by the wind from the two trains coming in opposite
directions and passing each other, I drew my skirts closely round me so
that they should not be caught. Perched on my high heels, at every step
I took I was afraid of slipping on this narrow, greasy, coal-strewn
pavement. To sum up briefly, it was a very unpleasant moment, and very
delighted I was to come to the end of that interminable street which led
to an enormous field stretching away as far as the eye could see. There
were rails lying all about here which men were polishing and filing,
etc. I had had quite enough, though, and I asked to be allowed to go
back and rest. So we all three returned to the house.

On arriving there, valets arrayed in livery opened the doors, took our
furs, walking on tiptoes as they moved about. There was silence
everywhere and I wondered why, as it seemed to me incomprehensible. My
friend’s brother scarcely spoke at all and when he did his voice was so
low that I had great difficulty in understanding him. When we asked him
any question by gesticulating, and we had to listen most attentively to
catch his reply, I noticed that an almost imperceptible smile lighted up
for an instant his stony face. I understood very soon that this man
hated humanity and that he avenged himself in his own way for his
infirmity.

Lunch had been prepared for us in the winter conservatory, a nook of
magnificent verdure and flowers. We had not taken our seats at the table
when the songs of a thousand birds burst forth like a veritable fanfare.
Underneath some large leaves whole families of canaries were imprisoned
by invisible nets. They were everywhere, up in the air, down below,
under my chair, on the table behind me, all over the place. I tried to
quiet this shrill uproar by shaking my napkin and speaking in a loud
voice, but the little feathered tribe began to sing in a maddening way.
The deaf man was leaning back in a rocking-chair and I noticed that his
face had lighted up. He laughed aloud in an evil, spiteful manner. Just
as my own temper was getting the better of me, a feeling of pity and
indulgence came into my heart for this man whose vengeance seemed to me
as pathetic as it was puerile. Promptly deciding to make the best of my
host’s spitefulness, and assisted by his brother, I took my tea into the
hall at the other end of the conservatory. I was nearly dead with
fatigue and when my friend proposed that I should go with him to see his
petroleum wells, a few miles out of the city, I gazed at him with such a
scared, hopeless expression that he begged me in the most friendly and
polite way to forgive him.

It was five o’clock and quite dusk, and I wanted to go back to my hotel.
Mr. Th—— asked if I would allow him to take me back by the hills. The
road was rather longer, but I should be able to have a bird’s-eye view
of Pittsburg, and he assured me that it was quite worth while. We
started off in the buggy with two fresh horses and a few minutes later I
had the wildest dream. It seemed to me that he was Pluto, the god of the
infernal regions, and I was Proserpine. We were traveling through our
empire at a quick trot, drawn by our winged horses. All around us we
could see fire and flames. The blood-red sky was burning with long,
black trails that looked like widows’ veils. The ground was covered with
long arms of iron stretched heavenward in a supreme imprecation. These
arms threw forth smoke, flames, or sparks which fell again in a shower
of stars. The carriage carried us on up the hills, and the cold froze
our limbs, while the fires excited our brain. It was then that my friend
told me of his love for the Niagara Falls. He spoke of them more like a
lover than an admirer, and told me he liked to go to them alone. He
said, though, that for me he would make an exception. He spoke of the
rapids with such intense passion that I felt rather uneasy and began to
wonder whether the man was not mad. I grew alarmed, for he was driving
along over the very tops of the hills, jumping the stone heaps. I
glanced at him sideways; his face was calm, but his underlip twitched
slightly, and I had noticed this peculiarity with his deaf brother, too.
By this time I was quite nervous. The cold and the fires, this
demoniacal drive, the sound of the anvil ringing out mournful chimes
which seemed to come from under the earth, and then the deep forge
whistle sounding like a desperate cry rending the silence of the night;
the chimney stacks, too, with their worn-out lungs spitting forth their
smoke with a perpetual death rattle, and the wind which had just risen
twisting the streaks of smoke into spirals which it sent up toward the
sky or beat down all at once on to us—altogether this wild dance, of the
natural and the combined elements, affected my whole nervous system so
that it was quite time for me to get back to the hotel. I sprang out of
the carriage quickly on arriving and arranged to see my friend at
Buffalo, but, alas! I was never to see him again. He took cold that very
day and could not meet me there, and the following year I heard that he
had been dashed against the rocks when trying to boat in the rapids. He
died of his passion, for his passion.

At the hotel all the _artistes_ were awaiting me, as I had forgotten we
were to have a rehearsal of “La Princesse Georges” at half past four. I
noticed a face that was unknown to me among the members of the company,
and on making inquiries about this person found that he was an
illustrator who had brought an introduction from Jarrett. He asked to be
allowed to make a few sketches of me, and after giving orders that he
should be taken to a seat, I did not trouble any more about him. We had
to hurry through the rehearsal in order to be at the theater in time for
the performance of “Froufrou,” which we were giving that night. The
rehearsal was accordingly rushed and gabbled through so that it was soon
over, and the stranger took his departure, refusing to let me look at
his sketches on the plea that he wanted to do them up before showing
them. My joy was great the following day when Jarrett arrived at my
hotel perfectly furious, holding in his hand the principal newspaper of
Pittsburg in which our illustrator, who turned out to be a journalist,
had written an article giving at full length an account of the dress
rehearsal of “Froufrou.” “In the play of ‘Froufrou,’” wrote this
delightful imbecile, “there is only one scene of any importance and that
is the one between the two sisters. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt did not impress
me greatly and, as to the _artistes_ of the Comédie Française, I
considered they were mediocre. The costumes were not very fine, and in
the ball scene the men did not wear dress suits.”

Jarrett was wild with rage, and I was wild with joy. He knew my horror
of reporters and he had introduced this one in an underhand way, hoping
to get a good advertisement out of it. The journalist imagined that we
were having a dress rehearsal of “Froufrou,” and we were merely
rehearsing Alexandre Dumas’ “Princesse Georges” for the sake of
refreshing our memories. He had mistaken the scene between the
_Princesse Georges_ and the _Comtesse de Terremonde_ for the scene in
the third act between the two sisters in “Froufrou.” We were all of us
wearing our traveling costumes and he was surprised at not seeing the
men in dress coats and the women in evening dress. What fun this was for
our company, and for all the town, and I may add, what a subject it
furnished for the jokes of all the rival newspapers!

CHAPTER XXX
END OF MY AMERICAN TOUR

I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on to Bradford, Erie,
Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo on Sunday. It was my intention to give
all the members of my company a day’s entertainment at the Falls, but
Abbey, too, wanted to invite them. We had a discussion on the subject
which was extremely animated. He was very dictatorial and so was I, and
we both preferred giving the whole thing up rather than yield to each
other. Jarrett, however, pointed out the fact to us that our autocracy
would deprive the _artistes_ of a little festivity about which they had
heard a great deal and to which they were looking forward. We therefore
gave in finally, and in order to settle the matter we agreed to share
this fête between us. The _artistes_ accepted our invitations with the
most charming good grace, and we took the train for Buffalo, where we
arrived at ten minutes past six in the morning. We had telegraphed
beforehand for carriages and coffee to be in readiness and to have food
provided for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to
arrive on Sunday in an American town without giving notice of such an
event. We had a special train going at full speed over the lines that
were entirely free on Sundays, and it was decorated with festoons of
flowers. The younger _artistes_ were as delighted as children, those who
had already seen everything before, told about it; then there was the
eloquence of those who had heard of it, etc., etc., and all this
together with the little bouquets of flowers distributed among the women
and the cigars and cigarettes presented to the men, made everyone
good-humored, so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met our
train and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre which had been kept open for
us. There were flowers everywhere and any number of small tables upon
which were coffee, chocolate, or tea. Every table was soon surrounded
with guests. I had my sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal
_artistes_ at my table. The meal was of short duration and very gay and
animated. We then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour on
the balcony hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with tears as I
stood there for I was deeply moved by the splendor of the sight. A
radiant sun made the air around us iridescent. There were rainbows
everywhere lighting up the atmosphere with their soft silvery colors.
The _coulées_ of hard ice hanging down along the rocks on each side
looked like enormous jewels. I was sorry to leave this balcony, and we
went down in narrow cages which glided gently into a tube arranged in
the cleft of the enormous rock. We arrived in this way under the
American Falls. They were there almost over our heads, sprinkling us
with their blue, pink, and mauve drops. In front of us, protecting us
from the Falls, were a heap of icicles forming quite a little mountain.
We climbed over this to the best of our ability. My heavy fur mantle
tired me and about half way down I took it off and let it slip over the
side of the ice mountain to take it again when I reached the bottom. I
was wearing a dress of white cloth with a satin blouse and everyone
screamed with surprise on seeing me. Abbey took off his overcoat and
threw it over my shoulders. I shook this off quickly and Abbey’s coat
went to join my fur cloak below. The poor _impresario’s_ face looked
very blank. As he had taken a fair quantity of cocktails he staggered,
fell down on the ice, got up and immediately fell again to the amusement
of everyone. I was not at all cold as I never am when out of doors. I
only feel the cold inside houses or in any place where I am inactive.
Finally, we arrived at the highest point of the ice and the cataract was
really most threatening. We were covered by the impalpable mist which
rises in the midst of the tumultuous noise. I gazed at it all,
bewildered and fascinated by the rapid movement of the water which
looked like a wide curtain of silver, unfolding itself to be dashed
violently into a rebounding, splashing heap with a noise unlike any
sound I had ever heard. I very easily turn dizzy and I know very well
that if I had been alone I should have remained there forever with my
eye fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed, my mind
lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed by the treacherous
cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged away, but I am soon myself
again when confronted by an obstacle.

[Illustration: FOYER IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S THEATER, PARIS.]

We had to go down again and this was not as easy as it had been to climb
up. I took the walking stick belonging to one of my friends and then sat
down on the ice. By putting the stick under my legs I was able to slide
down to the bottom. All the others imitated me and it was a comical
sight to see forty people descending this ice hill in this way. There
were several somersaults and collisions and plenty of laughter. A
quarter of an hour later we were all at the hotel where luncheon had
been ordered.

We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel and the meal
smelled good. When luncheon was over, the landlord of the hotel asked me
to go into a small drawing-room, where a surprise awaited me. On
entering, I saw on a table protected under a long glass box, the Niagara
Falls in miniature with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass
represented the sheet of water and glass threads represented the Falls.
Here and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing up on a
little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It was enough to
make anyone howl with horror, it was all so hideous. I managed to raise
a broad smile for the benefit of the hotel keeper by way of
congratulating him on his good taste, but I was petrified on recognizing
the man servant of the Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had sent this
monstrous caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world. I read
the letter which their domestic handed me and all my disdain melted
away; they had gone to so much trouble in order to explain what they
wanted me to understand and they were so delighted at the idea of giving
me any pleasure. I dismissed the valet after giving him a letter for his
masters, and I asked the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris
packed carefully. I hoped that it might arrive in fragments. The thought
of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s passion for the
Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a gift. While admitting
that his imaginative mind might have hoped to be able to carry out his
idea, how was it that he was not indignant at the sight of this
grotesque imitation? How had he dared to send it to me? How was it that
my friend loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their marvelous
grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory of him a
hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them, rolling about in their
waters, killed by their caresses, and I cannot think that he could ever
have seen how beautiful they really were. Fortunately, I was called
away, as the carriage was there and everyone waiting for me. The horses
started off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’
horses.

When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground and array
ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes. We looked like so many heavy,
dumpy sailors who were wearing these garments for the first time. There
were two large cells to shelter us, one for the women and the other for
the men. Everyone undressed more or less in the midst of wild confusion,
and making a little package of our clothes we gave this into the keeping
of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh hood drawn tightly under the
chin hiding the hair entirely, an enormous blouse much too wide covering
the whole body, fur boots with rough soles to prevent broken legs and
heads, and immense mackintosh breeches in Zouave style, the prettiest
and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a huge, cumbersome,
awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry in the hand completed this
becoming costume. I looked more ridiculous than the others for I would
not cover my hair, and in the most pretentious way I had fastened some
roses into my mackintosh blouse. The women went into raptures on seeing
me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed. “She always finds
a way to be chic, _quand-même_!” The men kissed my bear’s paw in the
most gallant way, bowing low and saying in low tones: “Always and
_quand-même_ the queen, the fairy, the goddess, the divinity,” etc.,
etc.... And I went along purring with content and quite satisfied with
myself until, as I passed by the counter where the girl who gives the
tickets was sitting, I caught sight of myself in the glass. I looked
enormous and ridiculous with my roses pinned in and the curly locks of
hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I appeared to be stouter
than all the others because of the silver belt I was wearing round my
waist, as this drew up the hard folds of the mackintosh round my hips.
My thin face was nearly covered by my hair which was flattened down by
my hood. My eyes could not be seen and only my mouth, which is rather
large, served to show that this barrel was a human being. Furious with
myself for my pretentious coquetry and ashamed of my own weakness for
having been so content with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people
who were making fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment
for my stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers among us who
nudged each other, pointing to me and laughing slyly at my absurd
get-up, and this was only what I deserved.

We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice in order to get
underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there was most strange and
extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense cupola of ice hanging over in
space, attached only on one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands
of icicles of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons,
arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with six
fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and women’s long locks
of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination, and by fixing the
gaze when looking with half-shut eyes, the illusion is complete, and in
less time than it takes to describe all this, one can evoke all the
pictures of nature and of our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a
diseased mind or the realities of a reflective brain.

In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud and erect,
standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the wind which gnaws the
ice, looking like minarets ready for the muezzin. On the right a cascade
was rushing down as noisily as on the other side, but the sun had
commenced its evolution toward the west and everything was tinged with a
rosy hue. The water splashed over us and we were suddenly covered with
small silvery waves that fell over us, and which when shaken slightly
stiffened against our mackintoshes. It was a shoal of very small fish
which had had the misfortune to be driven into the current and which had
come to die in the dazzling brilliancy of the setting sun. On the other
side there was a small block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the
water.

“I should love to mount on that,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends.

“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible!” I said. “There is only the
risk, the crevasse to be covered is not a yard long.”

“No, but it is deep,” remarked an _artiste_ who was with us.

“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog of my choice
that I go.”

Abbey was fetched immediately, but he arrived only in time to see me
there. I came very near falling into the crevasse, and when I was on the
back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up. It was as smooth and
transparent as artificial ice. I sat down on its back holding on to the
little hump, and I declared that if no one came to fetch me I should
stay where I was, as I had not the courage to move a step on this
slippery back and then, too, it seemed to me as though it moved
slightly. I began to lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had
won my dog. My excitement was over and I was seized with fright.
Everyone gazed at me in a bewildered way and that increased my terror.
My sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard groaned in a
heartrending way: “O God, my dear Sarah! O God!” The artist was making
sketches and fortunately the company had gone on up in order to get to
the rapids in time. Abbey besought me to return; poor Jarrett besought
me. But I felt dizzy and I could not and would not cross again. Angelo
then sprang across the crevasse and remaining there called for a plank
of wood and a hatchet.

“Bravo! Bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my rhinoceros.

The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece of wood and I
glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into the tail of my
rhinoceros and the plank was fixed firmly by Angelo on my side and held
by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude, on the other. I let myself slide over the
crupper of my rhinoceros and I then started, not without terror, along
the rotten plank of wood which was so narrow that I was obliged to put
one foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned in a
very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the droll
sketches he had made.

After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train which had been
waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others had taken their places
some time before. I was leaving without having seen the rapids in which
my poor Pittsburg friend met his death.

Our great voyage was drawing toward its close. I say great voyage for it
was my first one. It lasted for eight months. The voyages I have since
undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.

From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy,
Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an
admirable city, but which at that time had a sadness about it that
affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.

After two admirable performances and a supper at the Embassy we left for
Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to come to a
close. In that city I gave a grand matinée at the general demand of the
_artistes_ of New York. The piece chosen was the “Princesse Georges.”

Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was
applauded by the _artistes_. Nothing escaped the particular state of
mind of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and
sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair comb was handed to me on
which was engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From
Salvini, I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at
that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal
bearing a forget-me-not in turquoise. In my dressing-room I counted one
hundred and thirty bouquets.

That evening we gave our last performance with “La Dame aux Camélias.” I
had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.

Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and
bravos, I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths and which I
did not in the least understand. After each recall I asked in the wings
what the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful
sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and
enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him
abashed.... “Yes, they want you to make them a little speech.” “Ah, no!”
I exclaimed, as I again went on to the stage to make a bow. “No.” And in
making my bow to the public I murmured: “I cannot speak. But I can tell
you, thank you, with all my heart!” It was in the midst of a thunder of
applause, underscored with “Hip! hip! hurrah! Vive la France!” that I
left the theater.

On Wednesday, the 4th of May, I embarked on the same transatlantic
steamer, _L’Amérique_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had
brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new
one’s name was Santelli. He was as little and fair complexioned as the
other was big and dark. But he was as charming and a nice
conversationalist.

My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the woodwork had been
covered in sky-blue material. On going on the steamer I turned toward
the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir_,” they
shouted back.

I then went toward my cabin. Standing at the door in an elegant
iron-gray suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and
wearing dogskin gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave
a cry like that of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile and held out a
jewel casket which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea
through the open porthole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took
possession of the casket which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he
exclaimed, but I had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out
to the man: “Go away! you knave! you brute! go away. I hope you will die
under atrocious suffering! Go away!”

I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about
the present. I would not hear anything about it.

“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so
fine, give it to your daughter and do not speak to me about it any
more.” And this was done.

The evening before my departure from America I had received a long
cablegram signed Grosos, President of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre,
asking me to give a performance for the benefit of the families of the
society upon my arrival. I accepted with unspeakable joy. On regaining
my native land I should assist in drying tears.

After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship oscillated
slightly, and we left New York on Thursday, the 5th of May.

Detesting as I usually do sea traveling I set out this time with a light
heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort caused by
the voyage.

We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the boat stopped. I
sprang out of my berth and was soon on deck fearing some accident to our
boat, _Phantom_, as we had nicknamed it. In front of us a French boat
had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain, who
had given the replies to these signals, sent for me and explained to me
the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not remember
anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat was
lowered from the ship opposite us and two sailors and a young man, very
poorly dressed and with a pale face, embarked. Our captain had the steps
lowered, the small boat accosted, and the young man escorted by two
sailors came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer who was
waiting at the top of the steps. He read it and, looking at the young
man, he said quietly, “Follow me.” The small boat and the sailors
returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the engine shrieked, and
after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The
unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away after
asking the captain to tell me afterwards what was the meaning of it all
unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.

The captain came himself and told me some time after. The young man was
a poor artist, a wood engraver who had managed to slip aboard a steamer
bound for New York. He had not a cent of money for his passage, as he
had not even been able to pay for an immigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to
get through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various
kinds. He had, however, been taken ill and it was this illness which had
betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish he had talked aloud in
his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the
infirmary and when there he had confessed everything. The captain
undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America.
The story soon spread and other passengers made a collection so that the
young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of
£48. Three days later he brought me a little wooden box, manufactured,
carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now nearly full of
petals of flowers for every year on the 7th of May I receive a small
bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year after
year: “Gratitude and Devotion.” I always put the petals of the flowers
into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not received
any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist to
discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea, but
the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness as
forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human
being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while
Death is always here laying traps for us, watching all we do, and
jeering gayly when sleep closes our eyes, for we give him then the
illusion of what he knows will some day be a reality.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN “L’AIGLON”—PAINTING BY G. CLAIRIN.]

Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the
voyage. I spent every night on deck, gazing at the horizon, hoping to
draw toward me that land on which were the loved ones. I turned in
toward morning and slept all day to kill the time.

The boats in those days did not perform the crossing with the speed of
to-day. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I was so impatient
to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to send me to sleep
for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours’ sleep with a strong dose of
chloral and I felt stronger and calmer for confronting the shock of
happiness.

Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th.
I was ready and had pawed the ground distractedly for an hour when an
officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with the
commander who was waiting for me.

With my sister I went in haste on to the bridge, and soon understood
from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we
were too far off to hope to make the harbor that night.

I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the
Gnome was going to triumph and I wept those tears that were like a brook
that runs on and on without ceasing.

The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind.
I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limpid rags.

I lay down on a straw deck chair and when dawn came was benumbed and
sleepy. It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles off land.
The sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds,
light as snowflakes. The look of the loved one gave me courage again. I
ran toward my cabin. I spent a long while over my toilet in order to
kill time. At seven o’clock I made inquiries from the captain. “We are
twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.” “You swear to
it?” “Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark,
I scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw
it without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear the cry “Over
there! Over there!” All at once I noticed masses of small white flags
being waved on the small steamer. I got hold of my glass ... and let it
fall with a joyous cry that left me without any strength, without
breath. I wanted to speak. I could not. My face, it appears, became so
pale that it frightened the people who were about. My sister Jeanne wept
as she waved her arms toward the distance. They wanted to make me sit
down. I would not. Hanging on to the bulwarks, I smell the salts that
are thrust under my nose. I allow friendly hands to wipe my temples, but
I am gazing over there whence the vessel is coming. Over there lies my
happiness! my joy! my life! my everything! dearer than everything!

The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed
between the small and large ship, a bridge placed under the beatings of
our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for
how many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears
when the young being that one worships is pressed to one’s bosom under
the spell of an undefinable emotion.

The big ship is invaded. Everyone is there, my dear and faithful
friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a
delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with
tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One
is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time,
our boat is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared carrying away the
mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats are met with, decked
with flags, plowing the sea. There are a hundred at least. Here are
others.

“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of
the _Figaro_, who with friends had come to meet me.

“Oh, yes, madame, a great fête day to-day at Hâvre, for they are
expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago!”

“Is it really in my honor that all these pretty boats have spread their
wings and beflagged their masts. Ah, how happy I am!” At this moment we
go alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there
who cry out: “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”

I am dumfounded. I do not expect any triumphant return. I am well aware
that the performance given for the Life Saving Society has won the
hearts of the people of Hâvre, but I learn that trains have come from
Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return.

I feel my pulse.... It is I.... I am not dreaming....

The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent and an invisible orchestra
strikes up an air from the _Châlet_: “Arrêtons-nous ici.”

I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off ... and walk
through the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors who offer
me flowers.

Within the tent all the life savers are waiting for me, wearing on their
broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.

Mr. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:

“Madame, as president, I have the honor to present to you a delegation
from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, who have come to welcome you
and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded
in your transatlantic dispatch.

“We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you
have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous
journey. You have now conquered in two worlds an incontestable
popularity and artistic celebrity, and your marvelous talent, added to
your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the
land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty.

“A yet distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep
and sad souvenir, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your
heart is as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish
and burning successes of the theater you have never forgotten to unite
your patriotism to your artistic triumphs.

“Our life savers have charged me with expressing to you their
admiration for the charming benefactor whose generous hand has
spontaneously stretched itself out toward their poor but noble
society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil
of the mother country, on the land of France, where you will find them
everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept
them with favor, for they are presented to you by the bravest and most
loyal of our life savers.”

It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that
that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a
state of overexcitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food,
had no sleep. My heart had not ceased beating a moving and joyous
charge. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been
piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant
reception, that I was far from expecting after what had happened just
before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris
press, after the incidents of my journey that had been always badly
interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such
different proportions that they seemed hardly credible. I preferred to
remain in the latter dream that was so flattering to me.

The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life savers. As for
me, I played “La Dame aux Camélias” for the first time in France. God
had come. I affirm that those who were present at that performance
experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can give.

I spent the night at my place at Ste. Addresse. The day following I left
for Paris. A most flattering ovation was awaiting me on my arrival.
Then, three days afterwards, installed in my hotel in the Avenue de
Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou in order to hear the reading of
his magnificent piece “Fédora.”

Ah, what a great artist! What an admirable actor! What a marvelous
author! He read that play to me right off, playing every rôle, giving me
in one second the vision of what I should do.

“Ah!” I exclaimed after the reading was over. “Ah, dear master, thanks
for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given
me!”

That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the
darkness of the small star in which I had faith. I saw it as dawn was
breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era that it was going to
lighten up.

My artistic journey lasted seven months. I visited fifty cities and gave
156 representations as follows:

“La Dame aux Camélias” 65 performances
“Adrienne Lecouvreur” 17 „
“Froufrou” 41 „
“La Princesse Georges” 3 „
“Hernani” 14 „
“L’Etrangère” 3 „
“Phèdre” 6 „
“Le Sphinx” 7 „

Total receipts 2,667,600 francs
Average receipts 17,100 „

I conclude these memories of mine here, for this is really the first
halting place in my life; the real evolution of my physical and moral
being.

I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from
my family, and from my friends.

I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space,
and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the
feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my
shoulders.

The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my
wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.

In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will
was softened.

My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely
to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight
whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies.

I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great _artiste_ that I longed
to be.

And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life.

THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“THE MOST UNFORTUNATE WOMAN IN MODERN HISTORY.”

Lucretia Borgia: According to Original Documents and Correspondence of
Her Day.

By FERDINAND GREGOROVIUS, Author of “A History of the City of Rome in
the Middle Ages.” Translated from the Third German Edition by John
Leslie Garner. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $2.25 net; postage, 17 cents
additional.

Lucretia Borgia is the most unfortunate woman in modern history. Is
this because she was guilty of the most hideous crimes, or is it
simply because she has been unjustly condemned by the world to bear
its curse? The question has never been answered. Mankind is ever ready
to discover the personification of human virtues and human vices in
certain typical characters found in history and fable. The Borgias
will never cease to fascinate the historian and the psychologist. They
are a satire on a great form or phase of religion, debasing and
destroying it. They stand on high pedestals, and from their presence
radiates the light of the Christian ideal. In this form we behold and
recognize them. We view their acts through a medium which is permeated
with religious ideas. Without this, and placed on a purely secular
stage, the Borgias would have fallen into a position much less
conspicuous than that of many other men, and would soon have ceased to
be anything more than representatives of a large species. This is the
first translation from the German of this important work of
Gregorovius, in which a vast supply of information is furnished about
the family of this famous and interesting woman and about herself. The
book is illustrated with portraits and views, and offers valuable
knowledge upon the times and character of a woman about whose nature a
conflict of opinions has raged for centuries. About her beauty and
talents there are no two voices; on the question of her vices the
world has become divided. A patron of art and letters, as to her
private life the most hideous stories gained circulation, making her
name the most notorious of her renowned house, not excepting that of
her brother, the infamous Cesare Borgia.

In this translation English readers are offered the best known account
of this celebrated woman, written by the author of that monumental and
illuminating work, “The History of Rome in the Middle Ages.”

“The story is far more exciting than most romances, and treats of
Italian history and life about which comparatively little that is
authoritative can be found in English.”—_The Sun, New York._

REMINISCENCES OF A SCIENTIST

The Autobiography of Joseph Le Conte.

With portrait. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net.

Professor Le Conte was widely known as a man of science, and notably as
a geologist. His later years were spent at the University of California.
But his early life was passed in the South; there he was born and spent
his youth; there he was living when the civil war brought ruin to his
home and his inherited estate. His reminiscences deal with phases of
life in the South that have unfailing interest to all students of
American history. His account of the war as he saw it has permanent
value. He was in Georgia when Sherman marched across it. Professor Le
Conte knew Agassiz, and writes charmingly of his associations with him.

“Attractive because of its unaffected simplicity and
directness.”—_Chicago Chronicle._

“Attractive by virtue of its frank simplicity.”—_New York Evening
Post._

“Well worth reading even if the reader be not particularly interested
in geology.”—_New York American._

“This story of a beautiful, untiring life is worthy of consideration
by every lover of truth.”—_St. Paul Despatch._

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. LONDON.

“Destined to take rank as one of the two or three most remarkable
self-portrayals of a human life ever committed to posterity.”

—_Franklin H. Giddings, LL.D., in the Independent._

An Autobiography by Herbert Spencer.

With Illustrations. Many of them from the Author’s Own Drawings. Cloth,
8vo. Gilt Top. Two vols. in a box, $5.50 net. Postage, 40 cents
additional.

“It is rare, indeed, that a man who has so profoundly influenced the
intellectual development of his age and generation has found time to
record the history of his own life. And this Mr. Spencer has done so
simply, so frankly, and with such obvious truth, that it is not
surprising that Huxley is reported as having said, after reading it in
manuscript, that it reminded him of the ‘Confessions’ of Rousseau,
freed from every objectionable taint.”—_New York Globe._

“As interesting as fiction? There never was a novel so interesting as
Herbert Spencer’s ‘An Autobiography’.”—_New York Herald._

“It is rich in suggestion and observation, of wide significance and
appeal in the sincerity, the frankness, the lovableness of its human
note.”—_New York Mail and Express._

“The book, as a whole, makes Spencer’s personality a reality for us,
where heretofore it has been vaguer than his philosophical
abstractions.”—_John White Chadwick in Current Literature._

“In all the literature of its class there is nothing like it. It bears
the same relationship to autobiographical productions as Boswell’s
‘Life of Johnson’ bears to biographies.”—_Philadelphia Press._

“This book will always be of importance, for Herbert Spencer was a
great and original thinker, and his system of philosophy has bent the
thought of a generation, and will keep a position of commanding
interest.”—_Joseph O’Connor in the New York Times._

“Planned and wrought for the purpose of tracing the events of his life
and the growth of his opinions, his autobiography does more than that.
It furnished us, half unconsciously, no doubt, a more vivid
portraiture of his peculiarities than any outsider could possibly
provide. We pity his official biographer! Little can be left for him.
Here we have Spencer in habit as he was.”—_New York Evening Post._

VIVID, MOVING, SYMPATHETIC, HUMOROUS.

A Diary from Dixie.

By MARY BOYKIN CHESNUT. Being her Diary from November, 1861, to August,
1865. Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary. Illustrated.
8vo. Ornamental Cloth, $2.50 net; postage additional.

Mrs. Chesnut was the most brilliant woman that the South has ever
produced, and the charm of her writing is such as to make all
Southerners proud and all Northerners envious. She was the wife of
James Chesnut, Jr., who was United States Senator from South Carolina
from 1859 to 1861, and acted as an aid to President Jefferson Davis,
and was subsequently a Brigadier-General in the Confederate Army. Thus
it was that she was intimately acquainted with all the foremost men in
the Southern cause.

“In this diary is preserved the most moving and vivid record of the
Southern Confederacy of which we have any knowledge. It is a piece of
social history of inestimable value. It interprets to posterity the
spirit in which the Southerners entered upon and struggled through the
war that ruined them. It paints poignantly but with simplicity the
wreck of that old world which had so much about it that was beautiful
and noble as well as evil. Students of American life have often
smiled, and with reason, at the stilted and extravagant fashion in
which the Southern woman had been described south of Mason and Dixon’s
line—the unconscious self-revelations of Mary Chesnut explain, if they
do not justify, such extravagance. For here, we cannot but believe, is
a creature of a fine type, a ‘very woman,’ a very Beatrice, frank,
impetuous, loving, full of sympathy, full of humor. Like her
prototype, she had prejudices, and she knew little of the Northern
people she criticised so severely; but there is less bitterness in
these pages than we might have expected. Perhaps the editors have seen
to that. However this may be they have done nothing to injure the
writer’s own nervous, unconventional style—a style breathing character
and temperament as the flower breathes fragrance.”—_New York Tribune._

“It is written straight from the heart, and with a natural grace of
style that no amount of polishing could have imparted.”—_Chicago
Record-Herald._

“The editors are to be congratulated; it is not every day that one
comes on such material as this long-hidden diary.”—_Louisville Evening
Post._

“It is a book that would have delighted Charles Lamb.”—_Houston
Chronicle._

BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY.

The Journal of Latrobe.

Being the Notes and Sketches of an Architect, Naturalist, and Traveller
in the United States from 1796 to 1820. By BENJAMIN HENRY LATROBE,
Architect of the Capitol at Washington. Copiously illustrated with
reproductions from the original drawings by the author. 8vo. Ornamental
cloth, $3.50 net.

These are the memoirs of a personal friend of the first President of
the United States. He was a man of refinement and great intellectual
attainments, a soldier, civil engineer, philosopher, artist, humorist,
poet, and naturalist. The book is bright with story and anecdote,
criticism and comment.

“Benjamin Latrobe was a man of the world and a clever commentator on
what he saw going on around him. One of the best pen pictures of
Washington is Latrobe’s account of a visit to the Father of his
Country at Mt. Vernon in 1796.”—_Review of Reviews._

“Mr. Latrobe was a keen observer, and his notes of travel in the South
are valuable in an attempt to picture the life of a century
ago.”—_Chicago Tribune._

“Benjamin Latrobe visited Washington at Mt. Vernon and recorded what
he saw very fully. Then, late in life, he went to New Orleans by sea
and wrote full notes of his voyage and his impressions. Both diaries
are full of interest. Between them are placed in this volume papers
relating to the building of the Capitol. Prefixed to the volume is a
biographical introduction written by his son thirty years ago. The
illustrations are curious and interesting.”—_New York Sun._

“With what has been said of the volume it should be evident that it is
curious, interesting, and instructive to an unusual degree. To speak
of ‘The Journal of Latrobe’ without mention of its illustrations would
be an unpardonable oversight.”—_San Francisco Chronicle._

AN AMERICAN ADMIRAL.

Forty-five Years Under the Flag.

By WINFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY, Rear-Admiral, U. S. N. Illustrated. 8vo.
Cloth, uncut edges, and gilt top, $3.00 net.

About one-third of Admiral Schley’s volume is devoted to the Spanish
War, in which he became so great a figure. He tells his own story in
simple and effective words. His recollections are constantly
reinforced by references to dispatches and other documents.

Readers will be surprised at the extent of Admiral Schley’s
experiences. He left the Naval Academy just before the outbreak of the
Civil War and saw service with Farragut in the Gulf. Three chapters
are devoted to Civil War events. His next important service was
rendered during the opening of Corea to the commerce of the world, and
the chapter in which he describes the storming of the forts is one of
thrilling interest. Another important expedition in his life was the
rescue of Greely, to which three chapters are devoted. Two other
chapters pertain to the Revolution in Chili, and the troubles growing
out of the attack upon some of Admiral Schley’s men in the streets of
Valparaiso.

Altogether the book contains thirty-eight chapters. It has been
illustrated from material furnished by Admiral Schley and through his
suggestions, and makes an octavo volume of large size. It will appeal
to every true-hearted American.

The author says in his preface: “In times of danger and duty the
writer endeavored to do the work set before him without fear of
consequences. With this thought in mind, he has felt moved, as a duty
to his wife, his children, and his name, to leave a record of his long
professional life, which has not been without some prestige, at least
for the flag he has loved and under which he has served the best years
of his life.”

“Rear-Admiral W. S. Schley’s ‘Forty-five Years Under the Flag’ is the
most valuable contribution to the history of the American Navy that
has been written in many a year.”—_New York Times._

“The author’s career is well worthy of a book, and he has every reason
for pride in telling of his forty-five active years in all parts of
the world.”

—_Edwin L. Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald._

“It is a stirring story, told with the simple directness of a sailor.
Its reading carries the conviction of its truthfulness. The Admiral
could not have hoped to accomplish more.”—_Chicago Evening Post._

“He has told his own story, in his own way, from his own viewpoint,
and goes after his detractors, open and above board, with his big
guns.”

—_Washington Post._

“It is a work that will interest everyone, from the sixteen-year-old
schoolboy who is studying history and loves tales of stirring
adventure to the grandsire whose blood still pulses hotly with
patriotic pride at the recounting of valiant deeds of arms under our
starry flag.”—_Boston American._

“The Admiral tells the story well. His is a manly and straightforward
style. He leaves nothing to doubt, nothing open to controversy.”

—_Baltimore Sun._

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 244, changed “leave on the bench” to “leave on the beach”.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Memories of my life - Being my Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and Artist" ***

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