MEMOIRS OF

                            SARAH BERNHARDT




                         PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS
                                   OF
                              HENRY IRVING

                        _New and Cheaper Edition
                        Price Six Shillings Net_

                             BY BRAM STOKER

                             _Illustrated_

              Mr. William Archer in the _Tribune_.—“A book
              that counts .... Irving the manager and the
              man-of-the-world lives in these pages.... We
              have here, in brief, the ideal Irving from
              an inside point of view—the Irving of the
              inner circle.”

                       LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                        21 Bedford Street, W.C.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ADRIENNE LECOUVREUR”

  BY WALTER SPINDLER
]




                            _MY DOUBLE LIFE_
                                MEMOIRS
                                   OF
                            SARAH BERNHARDT


                 WITH MANY PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

[Illustration]

                                 LONDON
                           WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                                  1907




  _Copyright London 1907 by William Heinemann, and Washington, U.S.A.,
                        D. Appleton and Company_




                                CONTENTS


     CHAP.                                                          PAGE

        I. CHILDHOOD                                                   1

       II. AT BOARDING SCHOOL                                          6

      III. CONVENT LIFE                                               16

       IV. MY DÉBUT                                                   27

        V. THE SOLDIER’S SHAKO                                        38

       VI. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE         46

      VII. MY CAREER—FIRST LESSONS                                    59

     VIII. THE CONSERVATOIRE                                          64

       IX. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE     73

        X. MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT                                        88

       XI. MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE
             THEREFROM                                                98

      XII. AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN                    107

     XIII. FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON            118

      XIV. “LE PASSANT”—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT             135

       XV. THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR                                   151

      XVI. SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE          160

     XVII. PARIS BOMBARDED                                           172

    XVIII. A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES                   189

      XIX. MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE     216

       XX. VICTOR HUGO                                               226

      XXI. A MEMORABLE SUPPER                                        231

     XXII. AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN—SCULPTURE                  244

    XXIII. A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE
             AS PHÈDRE—THE DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION              259

     XXIV. ALEXANDRE DUMAS—“L’ETRANGÈRE”—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON   272

      XXV. “HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON                             280

     XXVI. THE COMÉDIE GOES TO LONDON                                291

    XXVII. LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE    303

   XXVIII. MY PERFORMANCE IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD
             ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE              309

     XXIX. THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S
             COMMENTS ON ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY             326

      XXX. MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE—PREPARATIONS FOR
             MY FIRST AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON          331

     XXXI. A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS”
             OF SARAH BERNHARDT                                      342

    XXXII. EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO
             NEW YORK                                                352

   XXXIII. ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM
             HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT
             MENLO PARK                                              361

    XXXIV. AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE                              380

     XXXV. MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN
             ESCAPADE ON THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER                      388

    XXXVI. SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES
             BETWEEN ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT     398

   XXXVII. NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE
             FALLS OF NIAGARA                                        414

  XXXVIII. THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE                 433

           INDEX                                                     443




                             LIST OF PLATES


                                                          _To face page_

 Sarah Bernhardt as Adrienne Lecouvreur                   _Frontispiece_

 Sarah Bernhardt and her Mother                                        4

 The Grand Champ Convent, from the Garden                             18

 Le Conservatoire National de Musique et de Déclamation,
   Paris                                                              66

 Sarah Bernhardt in the Hands of her Coiffeur, before
   going to the Conservatoire Examination                             82

 Sarah Bernhardt on Leaving the Conservatoire                         90

 An Early Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt; Sarah Bernhardt in
   _Les Femmes Savantes_; Sarah Bernhardt as the Duc de
   Richelieu                                                         100

 Sarah Bernhardt in _François le Champi_                             128

 Sarah Bernhardt in a Fancy Costume                                  136

 Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait in the Théâtre
   Français_                                                         176

 Skull in Sarah Bernhardt’s Library, with Autograph
   Verses by Victor Hugo                                             232

 Sarah Bernhardt at a Fancy-dress Ball                               240

 Sarah Bernhardt at Work on her _Médée_                              244

 Sarah Bernhardt Painting (1878–9)                                   252

 Sarah Bernhardt in her Coffin                                       256

 A Corner of the Library                                             264

 Library in Sarah Bernhardt’s House                                  268

 Sarah Bernhardt at Home. _From the Painting by Walter
   Spindler_                                                         276

 Sarah Bernhardt as Dona Sol in _Hernani_                            282

 A Corner of the Hall, with a Painting by Chartran of
   Sarah Bernhardt as Gismonda                                       288

 Sarah Bernhardt in Riding Costume                                   304

 “Ophelia.” Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt                             314

 Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Mlle. Louis
   Abbema_                                                           318

 Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Jules Bastien-
   Lepage_                                                           324

 Sarah Bernhardt (1879)                                              334

 Sarah Bernhardt as Andromaque                                       338

 Sarah Bernhardt in Travelling Costume (1880)                        342

 Sarah Bernhardt and Members of her Company out Shooting             400

 Bust of Victorien Sardou, by Sarah Bernhardt                        440

 Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s Handwriting                          442




                                   I
                               CHILDHOOD


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother, adorably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair
and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on
her cheeks when she looked down.

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

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

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

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

The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no
window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and
escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could
go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an
immense “bull’s eye” above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow
against the glass, and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no
box-weed, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone—cold, grey, ugly
stone—and panes of glass opposite me. “I want to go away! I don’t want
to stay here! It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the
ceiling of the street!” and I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up
in her arms, and, folding me in a rug, took me down into the courtyard.
“Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See—there is the ceiling of
the street!”

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

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

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

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

“Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!” I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the
pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing,
laughing, and tearing her wide lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight. She
took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the concierge,
she stammered out to her friend: “I can’t understand what it all means!
This is little Sarah! My sister Youle’s child!”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER
]

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

My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me,
and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little
brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so
fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by
one single person.

As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I was two years
recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time was nearly
always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my life, which
have left me only a vague memory of being petted and of a chronic state
of torpor.




                                   II
                           AT BOARDING SCHOOL


One day my mother took me on her knees and said to me, “You are a big
girl now, and you must learn to read and write.” I was then seven years
old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years
with the old nurse and two years ill. “You must go to school,” continued
my mother, playing with my curly hair, “like a big girl.” I did not know
what all this meant, and I asked what a school was.

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

“Are they ill?” I asked.

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

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

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

She bent down to me and said: “God has told me that He will send me some
flowers and a little baby.”

My delight was more and more boisterous. “Then I shall have a little
brother!” I exclaimed, “or else a little sister. Oh no, I don’t want
that; I don’t like little sisters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madame Fressard smiled rather ironically. “You know, Madame,” she said
to my mother, “we shall not be able to curl her hair like that.”

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

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

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

“Ah! from Marquis’s! What a spoiled little girl it is!” She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar
she looked surprised. “That’s cold cream,” said my mother. “I make it
myself, and I should like my little girl’s face and hands to be rubbed
with it every night when she goes to bed.”

“But——” began Madame Fressard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“_Tremble—trem-ble—trem-em-ble——_”

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

Madame Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline (whom I chanced to
meet a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon), would
then appear on the scene. Angry and implacable, she would give us all
kinds of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get
locked up for three days: that was followed by my being detained on the
first day we were allowed out. And in addition I would receive five
strokes with a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler strokes of Mlle.
Caroline’s! I reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five
years later. She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and
hold our hands straight out to her, and then bang came her wide ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, sharp blow which made the
tears spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was
beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a
very white complexion, and very black hair, which she wore in waved
_bandeaux_. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives
brought her to my house and said, “I am sure you will not recognise this
lady, and yet you know her very well.” I was leaning against the large
mantelpiece in the hall, and I saw this tall woman, still beautiful, but
rather provincial-looking, coming through the first drawing-room. As she
descended the three steps into the hall the light fell on her protruding
forehead, framed on each side with the hard, waved _bandeaux_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My father used to come to my aunt Rosine’s, who was then living at 6 Rue
de la Chaussée d’Antin. He was on friendly terms with Rossini, who lived
at No. 4 in the same street. He often brought him in, and Rossini made
me laugh with his clever stories and comic grimaces.

My father was as “handsome as a god,” and I used to look at him with
pride. I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him
for his seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded a
certain respect, and I noticed that even my exuberant aunt calmed down
in his presence.

I had recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that I could
now be moved without any fear of ill effects.

We had been waiting for my mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My aunt
offered to accompany us if my father would take me to the convent, but
he refused, and I can hear him now with his gentle voice saying:

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

My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied:

“It’s quieter there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity
more than anything else.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Aunt,” I replied.

“Are you still hungry?”

“No, Aunt.”

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

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

“Yes, Uncle,” I replied.

“Did you eat your meat?”

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

“You told your aunt an untruth, then.”

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

“What punishment has she given you?”

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

“Do you know them by heart?”

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

And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our Father” and the
“Creed,” and I copied it in the most devoted way, as he used to dictate
with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious indeed,
this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a
Carthusian monk. As I write these lines, ill and aged as he is, and bent
with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of
the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, of
his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all
that is best in me. I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect
for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have
thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my
aunt quarrelled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of
me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally,
too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very
straightforward and full of indulgence and common sense.

Recently I went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge.
A friend of mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words
he had dictated to be repeated to me.

To return to my story. After my uncle’s visit, Marie, the gardener’s
daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent, but with her
pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had
sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all
the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts, and I
would eat them when I had finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She
sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under
the table in case my aunt returned. But my aunt did not come again, as
she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano, whilst
my uncle taught his son mathematics.

Finally, my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great
excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk was packed in
readiness.

The Grand-Champs Convent, which I was about to enter, had a prescribed
uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my things with the
initials S. B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver spoon, fork, and
goblet, and these were all marked 32, which was the number under which I
was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woollen muffler in shades of
violet, which she had been knitting for me in secret for several days.
My aunt put round my neck a little scapulary which had been blessed, and
when my mother and father arrived everything was ready.

A farewell dinner was given, to which two of my mother’s friends, Aunt
Rosine, and four other members of the family were invited.

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

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

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

This was my aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.

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




                                  III
                              CONVENT LIFE


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

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

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

The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to
be seen, and windows from which children’s faces were gazing curiously
at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she
took us into the parlour. This was large, with a polished floor, and was
divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the
room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall, and a few
chairs and arm-chairs near the grating. On the walls were a portrait of
Pius IX., a full length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My
teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some
book the description of a prison, and that it was just like this. I
looked at my father and my mother, and began to distrust them. I had so
often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to rule
me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My aunt Faure had so
often repeated, “That child will come to a bad end, she has such mad
ideas,” &c. &c. “Papa, papa!” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror;
“I won’t go to prison. This is a prison, I am sure. I am frightened—oh,
I am so frightened!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:

  THE GRAND CHAMP CONVENT, FROM THE GARDEN
]

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, one of your own.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must eat your soup,” whispered my right hand neighbour, whose name
was Pepa.

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

“You must eat your soup, Mademoiselle,” she said.

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

She smiled, and said in a gentle voice, “We must like everything. I
shall be coming round again just now. Be a good girl and take your
soup.”

I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and ate
up the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed
her satisfaction. I was furious, and put my tongue out, and this made
all the table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end
of the table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the
eldest, said to her in a low voice, “It’s the new girl making grimaces.”
The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my
portion found its way to the plate of Dolores. I wanted to keep the
haricot beans, though, and we almost came to a quarrel over them. She
gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few beans which I
tried to keep on my plate.

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

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

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

I looked up on hearing Mother St. Sophie’s voice. My eyes were bathed in
tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet
face that, without altogether letting go, I ceased fighting for a
second, and all trembling and ashamed, said very quickly, “She commenced
it. She snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked woman, and tore
out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked, wicked woman.”
I then burst into sobs, and my hands loosed their hold. The next thing I
knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed, with Mother St.
Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice lecturing me
gently. All the others had gone, and I was quite alone with her and the
Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother St. Sophie had an
immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her, and Sister
Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the whole
convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little stool, I
listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to the
instructive story she told me. Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and
how I love to recall her to my memory!

I adored her as a child adores the being who has entirely won its heart,
without knowing, without reasoning, without even being aware that it was
so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since
then, however, I have understood and admired her, realising how unique
and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set exterior and happy
face of that holy woman. I have loved her ever since for all that she
awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the letters which she
wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over again. I love her
also because, imperfect as I am, it seems to me that I should have been
one hundred times more so had I not known and loved that pure creature.

Once only did I see her severe and felt that she was suddenly angry. In
the little room used as a parlour, leading into her cell, there was a
portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was stamped with a certain
nobility.

“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                                   IV
                                MY DÉBUT


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

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

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

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

Two days after the announcement made by Mother St. Alexis, the programme
of the _fête_ was communicated to us by Mother St. Sophie. The youngest
of the nuns was to read a few words of welcome to Monseigneur. This was
the delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a
pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by
Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled _Tobit Recovering his Eyesight_. It had been written by Mother
St. Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with
age and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of
the phrases. Scene I. Tobias’s farewell to his blind father. He vows to
bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabael, one of his relatives.
Scene II. Tobias, asleep on the banks of the Tigris, is being watched
over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a monster fish which had
attacked Tobias whilst he slept. When the fish is killed the angel
advises Tobias to take its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to
preserve these religiously. Scene III. Tobias’s return to his blind
father. The angel tells him to rub the old man’s eyes with the entrails
of the fish. The father’s eyesight is restored, and when Tobit begs the
Angel Raphael to accept some reward, the latter makes himself known,
and, in a song to the glory of God, vanishes to heaven.

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

I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy,
for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no
doubt that some _rôle_ would be given to me. The very thought of it made
me tremble beforehand. I began to get quite nervous; my hands became
quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I did not
approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother St.
Thérèse said in her calm voice:

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

                 _Tobit_             EUGÉNIE CHARMEL
                 _Tobias_            AMÉLIE PLUCHE
                 _Gabael_            RENÉE D’ARVILLE
                 _The Angel Raphael_ LOUISE BUGUET
                 _Tobias’s mother_   EULALIE LACROIX
                 _Tobias’s sister_   VIRGINIE DEPAUL.”

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

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

“You’ll make me rehearse, when I know my part, won’t you?” she asked,
and I answered, “Yes, certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whereupon Tobias, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue
muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about,
represented the Tigris.

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

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

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

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

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

The third scene began. The action took place in Father Tobit’s house.
Gabael, the Angel, and young Tobias were holding the entrails of the
fish in their hands and looking at them. The Angel explained how they
must be used for rubbing the blind father’s eyes. I felt rather sick,
for I was holding in my hand a skate’s liver and the heart and gizzard
of a fowl. I had never touched such things before, and every now and
then the nausea overcame me and the tears rose to my eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

Tobias’s mother then approached the Angel and said, “Oh, noble stranger,
take up your abode from henceforth with us. You shall be our guest, our
son, our brother!”

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

Finally the solemn day arrived.

I was so feverish with expectation that I could not sleep the last three
nights.

The dressing bell was rung for us earlier than usual, but I was already
up and trying to smooth my rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet
brush by way of making it behave better.

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

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

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

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

I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!

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

When my turn came he took my hand in his and said, “It is you, my child,
who are not baptized, is it not?”

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

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

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

“Very well; if I can, I will come again for the ceremony,” said the
Archbishop aloud. I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the
old man’s ring. I then ran away to the dormitory and cried for a long
time. I was found there later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.

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

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

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

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

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

I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a
great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing, “Papa is dead! Papa is
dead!”

Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlour,
and, making me stand in front of her, she said, “My poor little girl, I
have something to tell you that will cause you great sorrow. Papa is
dead.”

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

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

My mother had succeeded in arranging that my two sisters should be
baptized with me—Jeanne, who was then six years old, and Régina, who was
not three, but who had been taken as a boarder at the convent with the
idea that her presence might cheer me up a little.

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

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

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

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

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

When every one had gone and I went into the little cell in which I had
been living for the last week and wherein I was to live for another
week, I fell on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered up to God
my mother’s sorrow. “You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried, and that it
did not affect me!” Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild
exaggeration of everything that what was expected from me was the
renunciation of all affection, devotion, and pity.

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

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

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

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

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




                                   V
                          THE SOLDIER’S SHAKO


Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It was an abominable but
charming little hole of a place, with plenty of verdure, very few
houses, and a great many huts belonging to the mountain people. There
were plenty of donkeys to be hired, that took us up the mountains by
extraordinary paths.

I adore the sea and the plain, but I neither care for mountains nor for
forests. Mountains seem to crush me and forests to stifle me. I must, at
any cost, have the horizon stretching out as far as the eye can see and
skies to dream about.

I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose their crushing
effect. And consequently we went up always higher and higher.

Mamma used to stay at home with her sweet friend, Madame Guérard. She
used to read novels whilst Madame Guérard embroidered. They would sit
there together without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it
fade away, and beginning it over again. The old servant, Marguerite, was
the only domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used to accompany
us. Gay and daring, she always knew how to make the men laugh with her
prattle, the sense and crudeness of which I did not understand until
much later. She was the life of the party always. As she had been with
us from the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes
objectionably so; but I would not let her have her own way with me,
though, and I used to answer her back in most cutting fashion. She took
her revenge in the evening by giving us a dish of sweets for dinner that
I did not like.

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

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

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

Finally, it was time to return to the convent. My holiday was over, and
I was quite well again.

I was to go back to work once more. I accepted the situation willingly,
to the great surprise of mamma, who loved travelling, but detested the
actual moving from one place to another.

I was delighted at the idea of the re-packing of the parcels and trunks,
of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing again all the
villages, towns, people, and trees, which changed all the time. I wanted
to take my goats with me, but my mother nearly had a fit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A soldier’s shako.”

“Did it come from over the wall?”

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

We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.

“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic! It’s the Grand-Champs Convent!”

“How am I to get my shako back?”

These were the words we overheard, and then, as a soldier suddenly
appeared astride on our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified
children and angry exclamations from the nuns. In a second we were all
about twenty yards away from the wall, like a group of frightened
sparrows flying off to land a little farther away, inquisitive, and very
much on the alert.

“Have you seen my shako, young ladies?” called out the unfortunate
soldier, in a beseeching tone.

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

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

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

The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the wall and rushed
in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way. The sisters, beside
themselves, ran to the house calling for help. The chaplain, the Mother
Superior, Father Larcher, and every one else came running out. I believe
the soldier swore like a trooper, and it was really quite excusable.
Mother St. Sophie from below besought me to come down and to give up the
shako.

The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze and the
gymnasium rope.

His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the sisters had in
vain tried to send away. Finally the sister who was door-keeper sounded
the alarm bell, and five minutes later the soldiers from the Satory
barracks arrived, thinking that a fire had broken out. When the officer
in command was told what was the matter, he sent back his men and asked
to see the Mother Superior. He was brought to Mother St. Sophie, whom he
found under the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence. He ordered
the soldier to return immediately to the barracks. He obeyed after
clenching his fist at me, but on looking up he could not help laughing.
His shako came down to my eyes, and was only prevented by my ears, which
were bent over, from covering my face.

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

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

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

As for me, I felt like a fox with its tail cut.

I refused to come down immediately.

“I shall come down when every one has gone away,” I exclaimed.

All the classes received punishments.

I was left alone. The sun had set. The silence in the cemetery terrified
me. The dark trees took mournful or threatening shapes. The moisture
from the wood fell like a mantle over my shoulders, and seemed to get
heavier every moment. I felt abandoned by every one, and I began to cry.

I was angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother St. Sophie, with
the pupils who had excited me by their laughter, with the officer who
had humiliated me, and with the sister who had sounded the alarm bell.

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

“Why, César, don’t you know your friend?” I said very gently. He growled
in reply, and in a louder voice I said, “Fie, César, bad César; you
ought to be ashamed! Fancy barking at your friend!”

He now began to howl, and I was seized with terror. I pulled the ladder
up again, and sat down at the top. César lay down under the gymnasium,
his tail straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat bristling, growling
in a sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to help me. I prayed
fervently, vowed to say three supplementary _Aves_, three _Credos_, and
three _Paters_ every day.

When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice, “César! my
dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am the Angel Raphael!” Ah,
much César cared for him. He considered my presence, alone, at so late
an hour in the garden and on the gymnasium quite incomprehensible. Why
was I not in the refectory? Poor César, he went on growling, and I was
getting very hungry, and began to think things were most unjust. It was
true that I had been to blame for taking the soldier’s shako, but after
all, he had commenced. Why had he thrown his shako over the wall? My
imagination now came to my aid, and in the end I began to look upon
myself as a martyr. I had been left to the dog, and he would eat me. I
was terrified at the dead people behind me, and every one knew I was
very nervous. My chest too was delicate, and there I was, exposed to the
biting cold with no protection whatever. I began to think about Mother
St. Sophie, who evidently no longer cared for me, as she was deserting
me so cruelly. I lay with my face downwards on the plank, and gave
myself up to the wildest despair, calling my mother, my father, and
Mother St. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die there and then—— Between
my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by a voice. I got up, and,
peering through the gloom, caught a glimpse of my beloved Mother St.
Sophie. She was there, the dear saint, and had never left her rebellious
child. Concealed behind the statue of St. Augustine, she had been
praying whilst awaiting the end of this crisis, which in her simplicity
she had believed might prove fatal to my reason and perhaps to my
salvation. She had sent every one away and remained there alone, and she
too had not dined. I came down and threw myself, repentant and wretched,
into her motherly arms. She did not say a word to me about the horrible
incident, but took me quickly back to the convent. I was all damp with
the icy evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and my hands and feet
frozen.

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

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

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

It was for ever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but it was not
for ever that I left Mother St. Sophie. I seemed to take something of
her away with me. For a long time she was part of my life, and even to-
day, when she has been dead for years, she haunts my mind, bringing back
to me the simple thoughts of former days and making the simple flowers
of yore bloom again.

Life for me then commenced in earnest.

The cloister life is a life for every one. There may be a hundred or a
thousand individuals there, but every one lives a life which is the same
and the only life for all. The rumour of the outside world dies away at
the heavy cloister gate. The sole ambition is to sing more loudly than
the others at vespers, to take a little more of the form, to be at the
end of the table, to be on the list of honour. When I was told that I
was not to go back to the convent, it was to me as though I was to be
thrown into the sea when I could not swim.

I besought my godfather to let me go back to the convent. The dowry left
to me by my father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I wanted to
take the veil. “Very well,” replied my godfather; “you can take the veil
in two years’ time, but not before. In the meantime learn all that you
do not yet know (and that means everything) from the governess your
mother has chosen for you.”

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

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




                                   VI
           THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE


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

Hypnotised by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my
forehead pressed against the window-pane, gazing through the halo of
vapour formed by my breath at houses, palaces, carriages, jewels, and
pearls passing along in front of me—oh, what a number of pearls there
were! There were princes and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings!
Oh! how fast one’s imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always
allows it to roam on alone. In my fancy I proudly rejected the princes,
I rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared
that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite grey sky I had caught
a glimpse of the convent of Grand-Champs, of my white bedroom, and of
the small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin all
decorated with flowers by us. The king offered me a throne, but I
preferred the throne of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague
ambition to occupy it some far-off day in the distant future; the king
was heart-broken and dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu!_ I preferred to
the pearls that were offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I
was telling with my fingers; and no costume could compete in my mind
with the black barège veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy-
white cambric that encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of Grand-
Champs. I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I heard my
mother’s voice asking our old servant Marguerite if I were awake. With
one bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the sheet. Mamma
half opened the door very gently, and I pretended to wake up.

“How lazy you are to-day!” she said. I kissed her, and answered in a
coaxing tone, “It is Thursday, and I have no music lesson.”

“And are you glad?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I replied promptly.

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

“There, that’s a quaver!”

“No, there’s no quaver!”

“This is a flat!”

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

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

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

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

I felt myself turning pale.

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

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

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

Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and scolding. The
child had escaped from her just as she was about to bathe her, and had
announced, “I’m going into my sister’s bed.”

Jeanne’s mirth at this moment, which I felt was a very serious one for
me, made me burst out crying and sobbing. My mother, not understanding
the reason of this grief, shrugged her shoulders, told Marguerite to
fetch Jeanne’s slippers, and taking the little bare feet in her hands,
kissed them tenderly.

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

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

“Your eyes are as little as that,” she said, putting her small thumb on
the tip of her forefinger; “and it serves you right, because you’ve been
crying, and Mamma doesn’t like any one to cry. Do you, Mamma?”

“What have you been crying about?” asked the Duc de Morny. I did not
answer, in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. de Brabender gave me with
her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He was gentle
and kind, but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he occupied a high
place at court, and that my family considered his friendship a great
honour.

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

“Come, come,” exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in
English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his thin
moustache. Mlle. de Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her
scoldings were like words from heaven. When at last luncheon was over,
mamma told me, as she passed, to pour out the coffee. Marguerite helped
me to arrange the cups, and I went into the drawing-room. Maître C——,
the notary from Hâvre, whom I detested, was already there. He
represented the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a way which
had never been explained, but which seemed mysterious. My childish
hatred was instinctive, and I learnt later on that this man had been my
father’s bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly, this notary; his whole
face seemed to have moved up higher. It was as though he had been
hanging by his hair for a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his
cheeks, and his nose had got into the habit of trying to reach the back
of his head. He ought to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his
features turned up, but instead of this his face was smooth and
sinister-looking. He had red hair planted in his head like couch grass,
and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the
horrible man! What a torturing nightmare the very memory of him is, for
he was the evil genius of my father, and his hatred now pursued me. My
poor grandmother, since the death of my father, never went out, but
spent her time mourning the loss of her beloved son who had died so
young. She had absolute faith in this man, who besides was the executor
of my father’s will. He had the control of the money that my dear father
had left me. I was not to receive it until the day of my marriage, but
my mother was to use the interest for my education. My uncle, Félix
Faure, was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried in an arm-
chair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He was an old
friend of the family, and he always called me _ma fil_, which annoyed me
greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me stupid, and when I
handed him his coffee he said in a jeering tone: “And it is for you, _ma
fil_, that so many honest people have been hindered in their work. We
have plenty of other things to attend to, I can assure you, than to
discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah, if it had been her
sister there would have been no difficulty,” and with his benumbed
fingers he patted Jeanne’s head as she remained on the floor plaiting
the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated.

When the coffee had been drunk, the cups carried away and my sister
also, there was a short silence.

The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but my mother begged him to
stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she urged, and the Duc took his
seat again near my aunt, with whom it seemed to me he was carrying on a
slight flirtation.

Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of
her, and her beautiful clear-cut profile showing to advantage against
the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was
about to be discussed.

The hideous notary had risen.

My uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed to be the
exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had the same
_bourgeois_ mind, and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They were
both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I was
thin enough for a scarecrow. The door opened, and a pale, dark-haired
woman entered, a most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was
Madame Guérard, “the lady of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always
called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a patronising
way certainly, but Madame Guérard was devoted to me, and endured the
little slights to which she was treated very patiently for my sake. She
was tall and slender as a lath, very compliant and demure. She lived in
the flat above, and had come down without a hat; she was wearing an
indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown leaves.

M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable
notary made a very curt bow to Madame Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very
gracious, for the new-comer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his
head, as Madame Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her
from head to foot. Mlle. de Brabender shook hands cordially with her,
for Madame Guérard was fond of me.

My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and
then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a _savant_, with whom
my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”

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

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

I began to tremble, and drew closer to _mon petit Dame_ (as I had always
called Madame Guérard from my infancy) and to Mlle. de Brabender. They
each took my hand by way of encouraging me.

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

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

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

“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre
notary, “and you have not a sou.” I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender
and whispered, “I have the money that papa left.”

The horrid man overheard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He then took his departure, and I gazed at every one in perfect anguish.

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

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

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

“She is too thin to make an actress.”

“I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed.

“You don’t know what an actress is,” said my aunt.

“Oh yes, I do. Rachel is an actress.”

“You know Rachel?” asked mamma, getting up.

“Oh yes; she came to the convent once to see little Adèle Sarony. She
went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down
because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to
bring her round, and she was so pale, oh, so pale. I was very sorry for
her, and Sister St. Appoline told me what she did was killing her, for
she was an actress; and so I won’t be an actress—I won’t!”

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

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

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

“Send her to the Conservatoire!”

And that sentence, uttered carelessly, had come like a bomb into my
life.

I, the dreamy child, who that morning was ready to repulse princes and
kings; I, whose trembling fingers had that morning told over chaplets of
dreams, who only a few hours ago had felt my heart beating with emotion
hitherto unknown to me; I, who had got up expecting some great event to
take place—was to see everything disappear, thanks to that phrase as
heavy as lead and as deadly as a bullet.

“Send her to the Conservatoire!”

And I divined that this phrase was to be the sign-post of my life. All
those people had gathered together at the turning of the cross roads.
“Send her to the Conservatoire!” I wanted to be a nun, and this was
considered absurd, idiotic, unreasonable. “Send her to the
Conservatoire!” had opened out a field for discussion, the horizon of a
future. My uncle Félix Faure and Mlle. Brabender were the only ones
against this idea. They tried in vain to make my mother understand that
with the 100,000 francs that my father had left me I might marry. But
mother replied that I had declared I had a horror of marriage, and that
I should wait until I was of age to go into a convent.

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

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

“Then,” continued my mother, “she would enter the convent as a servant,
and I will not have that! My money is an annuity, so that I cannot leave
anything to my children. I therefore want them to have a career of their
own.”

My mother was now exhausted with so much talking, and lay back in an
arm-chair. I got very much excited, and my mother asked me to go away.

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

Mlle. de Brabender tried to console me. Madame Guérard said that this
career had its advantages. Mlle. de Brabender considered that the
convent would have a great fascination for so dreamy a nature as mine.
The latter was very religious and a great church-goer, _mon petit Dame_
was a pagan in the purest acceptation of that word, and yet the two
women got on very well together, thanks to their affectionate devotion
to me.

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

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

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

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

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

My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.

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

“Is Rachel going to act?” I asked.

“Oh no; she is ill.”

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

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

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

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

When the curtain slowly rose I thought I should have fainted. It was as
though the curtain of my future life were being raised. These columns
(_Britannicus_ was being played) were to be my palaces, the borders
above were to be my skies, and those boards were to bend under my frail
weight. I heard nothing of _Britannicus_, for I was far, far away, at
Grand-Champs, in my dormitory there.

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

My godfather shrugged his shoulders, and getting up, left the box,
banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience with me,
proceeded to review the house through her opera-glasses.

Mlle. de Brabender passed me her handkerchief, for I had dropped mine
and dared not pick it up.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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




                                  VII
                        MY CAREER—FIRST LESSONS


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

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

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

“Oh, no, Monsieur,” I answered.

This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Madame Guérard from under
his heavy eyelids, and she at once said: “No, she does not care for the
stage; but she does not want to marry, and consequently she will have no
money, as her father left her a hundred thousand francs which she can
only get on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have
some profession, for Madame Bernhardt has only an annuity, a fairly good
one, but it is only an annuity, and so she will not be able to leave her
daughters anything. On that account she wants Sarah to become
independent. She would like to enter a convent.”

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

“Fourteen and a half,” replied Madame Guérard.

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

The kind old man smiled.

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

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

“Oh, very beautiful,” she replied.

“You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and
my thanks for her having been so charmingly replaced.” He thereupon
kissed Madame Guérard’s hand, and she coloured slightly. This
conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of it,
every movement and every gesture of M. Auber’s, for this little man, so
charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking hand.
He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said: “Come,
courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some day
for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad. Life is well worth beginning
seriously, but gaily.”

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

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

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

“Well, most ideal of women?”

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

As the examination was to take place a month after this visit, it became
necessary to prepare for it. My mother did not know any theatrical
people. My godfather advised me to learn _Phèdre_, but Mlle. de
Brabender objected, as she thought it a little offensive, and refused to
help me if I chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend, wanted me to work
at Chimène in _Le Cid_, but first he declared that I clenched my teeth
too much for it. It was quite true that I did not make the _o_ open
enough and did not roll the _r_ sufficiently either. He wrote a little
note-book for me, which I am copying textually, as my poor dear Guérard
religiously kept everything concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a
quantity of papers which are useful now.

The following is our odious friend’s work:

  “Every morning instead of _do ... re ... mi ..._ practise _te ...
  de ... de ..._ in order to learn to vibrate....

  “Before breakfast repeat forty times over,
  _Un—très—gros—rat—dans—un—très—gros—trou_, in order to vibrate the
  _r_.

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

  “At night, when going to bed, repeat twenty times: _Didon dina, dit-
  on, du dos d’un dodu dindon._

  “And twenty times: _Le plus petit papa, petit pipi, petit popo, petit
  pupu._ Open the mouth square for the _d_ and pout for the _p_.”

He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. de Brabender, who
quite seriously wanted me to practise it. My governess was charming, and
I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when,
after making me go through the _te de de_ exercise, which went fairly
well, and then the _très gros rat_, &c., she started on the _saucisson_
(sausages)! Ah, no. There was a cacophony of hisses in her toothless
mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl. And when she began
with the _Didon_, accompanied by the _plus petit papa_, I thought my
dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her eyes, her face
was red, her moustache bristled up, she put on a sententious, hurried
manner; her mouth widened out and looked like the slit in a money-box,
or else it was creased up into a little ring, and she purred and hissed
and chirped and fooled without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my
wicker chair, choking with laughter, and great tears poured from my
eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out right and left until
they were tired, and rocked myself backwards and forwards, pealing with
laughter.

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

Ten days passed by, and I did none of M. Meydieu’s exercises, except the
_te de de_ at the piano. My mother came and woke me every morning for
this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn _Aricie_, but I
understood nothing of what he told me about the verses. He considered,
and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an intonation, and
that all the value of it resided in the rhyme. His theories were boring
to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I could not understand
Aricie’s character, for it did not seem to me that she loved Hippolyte
at all, and she appeared to me to be a scheming flirt. My godfather
explained to me that in olden times this was the way people loved each
other, and when I remarked that Phèdre appeared to love in a better way
than that, he took me by the chin and said: “Just look at this naughty
child. She is pretending not to understand, and would like us explain to
her....”

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

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

I then learnt _L’Ecole des Femmes_, and Mlle. de Brabender explained
Agnès to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole
story appeared to her of child-like simplicity, and when I said the
lines, “He has taken from me, he has taken from me the ribbon you gave
me,” she smiled in all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed
heartily.




                                  VIII
                           THE CONSERVATOIRE


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

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

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

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

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

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

When we were shown into this room I felt that every one was looking at
me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Madame Guérard drew me gently
along, and I turned to take Mlle. de Brabender’s hand. She came shyly
forward, blushing more and still more confused than I was. Every one
looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her
direction.

One of them got suddenly up and moved across to her mother. “Oh, mercy,
look at that old sight!” she said. My poor governess felt most
uncomfortable, and I was furious, I thought she was a thousand times
nicer than all those fat, dressed-up, common-looking mothers. Certainly
she was different from other people in her appearance, for Mlle. de
Brabender was wearing a salmon-coloured dress and an Indian shawl, drawn
tightly across her shoulders and fastened with a very large cameo
brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches, so close together that it
looked like a nun’s head-gear. She certainly was not at all like these
dreadful people in whose society we found ourselves, and among whom
there were not more than ten exceptions. The young men were standing in
compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I expect,
making remarks in doubtful taste.

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

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

This was explained to me by Léautaud, who called over the names of the
pupils and took down the names of those who were up to pass their
examination and those who were to act with them and give them the cues.
I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was to give me the cues for
Agnès. He mentioned several young men, but I interrupted him.

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

“Well, then, what will you recite, Mademoiselle?” asked Léautaud, with
the most _fouchtre_ accent possible.

“I will recite a fable,” I replied.

He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the title, _Deux
Pigeons_, which I gave him. I heard him still laughing under his heavy
moustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the
Conservatoire, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so much so
that Madame Guérard was anxious about me, as my health unfortunately was
very delicate. She made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of
eau-de-Cologne behind my ears.

[Illustration:

  LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE
  ET DE DECLAMATION, PARIS
]

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

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

Finally the call of my name made me jump as a sardine does when pursued
by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake my hair back, and _mon petit
Dame_ stroked my badly dressed silk. Mlle. de Brabender reminded me
about the _o_ and the _a_, the _r_, the _p_, and the _t_, and I then
went alone into the hall. I had never been alone an hour in my life. As
a little child I was always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the
convent I was always with one of my friends or one of the sisters; at
home either with Mlle. de Brabender or Madame Guérard, or if they were
not there in the kitchen with Marguerite. And now there I was alone in
that strange-looking room, with a platform at the end, a large table in
the middle, and, seated round this table, men who either grumbled,
growled, or jeered. There was only one woman present, and she had a loud
voice. She was holding an eyeglass, and as I entered she dropped it and
looked at me through her opera-glass. I felt every one’s gaze on my back
as I climbed up the few steps on to the platform. Léautaud bent forward
and whispered, “Make your bow and commence, and then stop when the
chairman rings.” I looked at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber.
I had forgotten that he was director of the Conservatoire, just as I had
forgotten everything else. I at once made my bow and began:

                _Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre,
                L’un d’eux s’ennuyant...._

A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a “ventriloquist” muttered,
“It isn’t an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting
fables!”

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

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

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

I began again:

                _Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre,
                L’un d’eux s’ennuyant au logis
                Fut assez...._

“Louder, my child, louder,” said a little man with curly white hair, in
a kindly tone. This was Samson.

I stopped again, confused and frightened, seized suddenly with such a
foolish fit of nervousness that I could have shouted or howled. Samson
saw this, and said to me, “Come, come; we are not ogres!” He had just
been talking in a low voice with Auber.

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

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

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

When I had recovered my will power I began my fable again, determined
not to mind what happened. My voice was more liquid on account of the
emotion, and the desire to make myself heard caused it to be more
resonant.

There was silence, and before I had finished my fable the little bell
rang. I bowed and came down the few steps from the platform, thoroughly
exhausted. M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.

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

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

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

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

“That’s all right. Get your handkerchief out, my poor Beauvallet, and I
shall entrust this child to you, my dear Provost.”

I understood, and, wild with joy, I exclaimed, “Then I have passed?”

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

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

“_Mon petit Dame!_ Mademoiselle, I have passed!” I exclaimed, and when
they shook hands and asked me no end of questions I could only reply,
“Oh, it’s quite true. I have passed, I have passed!”

I was surrounded and questioned.

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

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

A disagreeable girl exclaimed, “Can’t you stop that? And so they all
want you!” A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came
nearer and asked me gently what I had recited.

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

She was surprised, and so was every one; while, as for me, I was wildly
delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on my head, shook my
frock out, and, dragging my two friends along, ran away dancing. They
wanted to take me to the confectioner’s to have something, but I
refused. We got into a cab, and I should have liked to push that cab
along myself. I fancied I saw the words, “I have passed,” written up
over all the shops.

When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab had to stop, it seemed
to me that the people stared at me, and I caught myself tossing my head,
as though telling them all that it was quite true I had passed my
examination. I never thought any more about the convent, and only
experienced a feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first
venturesome enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had only depended
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265
Rue St. Honoré. I kept putting my head out of the window, and saying,
“Faster, cabby, faster, please!”

At last we reached the house, and I sprang out of the cab and hurried
along to tell the good news to my mother. On the way I was stopped by
the daughter of the hall-porter. She was a corset-maker, and worked in a
little room on the top floor of the house which was opposite our dining-
room, where I used to do my lessons with my governess, so that I could
not help seeing her ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never
spoken to her, but I knew who she was.

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

“Oh yes, I have passed,” I answered, and I could not resist stopping a
minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I
then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand,
anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petit
dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting
to my mother, who was leaning out of the window, “Yes, yes; she has
passed!”

I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with rage, for
I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with the joyful
surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on arriving at the
door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I felt sure she
would say, “Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are so foolish!”
and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and said, “It isn’t
true, it isn’t true; I have passed!” I had pictured to myself her face
brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather laughing
heartily and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Madame Guérard
sounding her trumpet and spoiling all the effects that I had prepared so
well.

I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived, that is
the greater part of my life, to spoil all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I related an
adventure and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I told a story with a
very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh, roll
her eyes, and murmur, “Oh dear, oh dear!” so that I always missed the
effect I was counting on. All this used to exasperate me to such a
degree that before beginning a story or a game I used to ask her to go
out of the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of
the blunder she would make if there.

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

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

She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my
mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived,
and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, “I
have passed!” every one shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had
made my effect, anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me
unawares. My sister Régina, whom the sisters would not have in the
convent, and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learnt this
in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every
occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet:

                   _Mon p’tit ventr’ éjouis toi
                   Tout ce ze gagn’ est pou’ toi...._

Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child, with her serious
air. Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played
over her thin lips and her mouth, which was too small. Nothing could be
more comic than to see her, looking grave and rough, dancing the jig.

She was funnier than ever that day, as she was excited by the general
joy. She was four years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was
both timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, and when
she was made to go into the dining-room she embarrassed people by her
crude remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers, and her kicks
and blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair, dark complexion,
blue eyes, too large for her face, and thick lashes which made a shadow
on her cheeks when she lowered the lids and joined her eyebrows when her
eyes were open. She would be four or five hours sometimes without
uttering a word, without answering any question she was asked, and then
she would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as she
could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good temper, for she
kissed me affectionately and opened her thin lips to smile. My sister
Jeanne kissed me and made me tell her about my examination. My godfather
gave me a hundred francs, and Meydieu, who had just arrived to find out
the result, promised to take me the next day to Barbédienne’s to choose
a clock for my room, as that was one of my dreams.




                                   IX
         A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE


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

A friend of my godfather’s made me an offer of marriage. This man was a
rich tanner and very kind, but so dark and with such long hair and such
a beard that he disgusted me. I refused him, and my godfather then asked
to speak to me alone. He made me sit down in my mother’s boudoir, and
said to me: “My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse Monsieur Bed——.
He has sixty thousand francs a year and expectations.” It was the first
time I had heard this use of the word, and when the meaning was
explained to me I wondered if that was the right thing to say on such an
occasion.

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

“I shall not marry him, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not love him.”

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

“After what?”

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

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

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

“Yes, mother, yes; he has told me. Let me think it over, will you?” I
said, sobbing; as I kissed her neck lingeringly. I then locked myself in
my bedroom, and for the first time for many days I regretted my convent.
All my childhood rose up before me, and I cried more and more, and felt
so unhappy that I wished I could die. Gradually, however, I began to get
calm again, and realised what had happened and what my godfather’s words
meant. Most decidedly I did not want to marry this man. Since I had been
at the Conservatoire I had learnt a few things vaguely, very vaguely,
for I was never alone, but I understood enough to make me not want to
marry without being in love. I was, however, destined to be attacked in
a quarter from which I should not have expected it. Madame Guérard asked
me to go up to her room to see the embroidery she was doing on a frame
for my mother’s birthday.

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

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

But it was not that at all, and I said in a very low voice, “I do not
love you, Monsieur.”

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

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

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

Well, I had just passed my first examination with remarkable success,
particularly in tragedy.

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

The second prize for tragedy was awarded me, to the great
dissatisfaction of the public, as it was thought that I ought to have
had the first prize. And yet it was only just that I should have the
second, on account of my age and the short time I had been studying. I
had a first accessit for comedy in _La fausse Agnès_.

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

I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Fine Arts Department, to be
so good as to receive me, and, as my mother always refused to accompany
me, Madame Guérard went with me. My little sister Régina begged me to
take her, and very unwisely I consented. We had not been in the
director’s office more than five minutes before my sister, who was only
six years old, began to climb on to the furniture. She jumped on to a
stool, and finally sat down on the floor, pulling towards her the paper
basket, which was under the desk, and proceeded to spread about all the
torn papers which it contained. On seeing this Camille Doucet mildly
observed that she was not a very good little girl. My sister, with her
head in the basket, answered in her husky voice, “If you bother me,
Monsieur, I shall tell every one that you are there to give out holy
water that is poison. My aunt says so.” My face turned purple with
shame, and I stammered out, “Please do not believe that, Monsieur
Doucet. My little sister is telling an untruth.”

Régina sprang to her feet, and clenching her little fists, rushed at me
like a little fury. “Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You
are telling an untruth. Why, she said it to Monsieur de Morny, and he
answered——”

I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de Morny
answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand over my sister’s
mouth and took her quickly away. She howled like a polecat, and we
rushed like a hurricane through the waiting-room, which was full of
people.

I then gave way to one of those violent fits of temper to which I had
been subject in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that passed
the door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such fury
that Madame Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her own body,
receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms, and feet, for in my
anger, grief, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My grief
was all the more profound from the fact that I was very fond of Camille
Doucet. He was gentle and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had
refused my aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being
refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing to do
with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet would think. And
then, too, I had not asked him about the Vaudeville.

All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this little monster,
who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who had just shattered my
first hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self-
willed looking face and her thin lips compressed, she was gazing at me
under her long lashes with half-closed eyes.

On reaching home I told my mother all that had happened, and she
declared that my little sister should have no dessert for two days.
Régina was greedy, but her pride was greater than her greediness. She
turned round on her little heels and, dancing her jig, began to sing,
“My little stomach isn’t at all pleased,” until I wanted to rush at her
and shake her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up,
on tip-toes. That’s it. Perfect! One, two, three, march!”

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

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

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

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

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

The year passed by without any great change in my life, but two months
before my second examination I had the misfortune to have to change my
professor. Provost was taken ill, and I went into Samson’s class. He
counted very much on me, but he was authoritative and persistent. He
gave me two very bad parts in two very bad pieces: Hortense in _L’Ecole
des Viellards_, by Casimir Delavigne, for comedy, and _La Fille du Cid_
for tragedy. This piece was also by Casimir Delavigne. I did not feel at
all in my element in these two _rôles_, both of which were written in
hard, emphatic language. The examination day arrived, and I did not look
at all nice. My mother had insisted on my having my hair done by her
hairdresser, and I had cried and sobbed on seeing this “Figaro” make
partings all over my head in order to separate my rebellious mane. Idiot
that he was, he had suggested this style to my mother, and my head was
in his stupid hands for more than hour and a half, for he never before
had to deal with a mane like mine. He kept mopping his forehead every
five minutes and muttering, “What hair! Good Heavens, it is horrible;
just like tow! It might be the hair of a white negress!” Turning to my
mother, he suggested that my head should be entirely shaved and the hair
then trained as it grew again. “I will think about it,” replied my
mother in an absent-minded way. I turned my head so abruptly to look at
her when she said this that the curling irons burnt my forehead. The man
was using the irons to _uncurl_ my hair. He considered that it curled
naturally in such a disordered style that he must get the natural curl
out of it and then wave it, as this would be more becoming to the face.

“Mademoiselle’s hair is stopped in its growth by this extreme curliness.
All the Tangier girls and negresses have hair like this. As Mademoiselle
is going on to the stage, she would look better if she had hair like
Madame,” he said, bowing with respectful admiration to my mother, who
certainly had the most beautiful hair imaginable. It was fair, and so
long that when standing up she could tread on it and bend her head
forward. It is only fair to say, though, that my mother was very short.

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

I looked perfectly hideous. My forehead, which I always saw more or less
covered with a golden fluff of hair, seemed to me immense, implacable.

I did not recognise my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them shadowed by
my hair. My head weighed two or three pounds. I was accustomed to fasten
my hair as I still do, with two hair-pins, and this man had put five or
six packets in it, and all this was heavy for my poor head.

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

On arriving at the Conservatoire, I hurried with _mon petit Dame_ to the
waiting-room, whilst my mother went direct to the theatre. I tore off
the lace which covered my hair, and, seated on a bench, after relating
the Odyssey of my hairdressing, I gave my head up to my companions. All
of them adored and envied my hair, because it was so soft and light and
golden. They were all sorry for me in my misery, and were touched by my
ugliness. Their mothers, however, were brimming over with joy in their
own fat.

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

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

Finally I stood up, triumphant, without any hair-pins and without any
sausages. But my poor hair was very heavy with the pomade the wretched
man had put on it, and it was full of the partings he had made for the
creation of the sausages. It fell now in mournful-looking, greasy flakes
round my face.

I shook my head for five minutes in mad rage. I then succeeded in making
the hair more loose, and I put it up as well as I could with a couple of
hair-pins.

The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth on the list. I could
not remember what I had to say. Madame Guérard moistened my temples with
cold water, and Mlle. de Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not
recognise me, and looked about for me everywhere. She had broken her leg
nearly three months before, and had to hobble about on a crutch-stick,
but she had resolved to come.

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

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF
  HER COIFFEUR, BEFORE GOING TO
  THE CONSERVATOIRE EXAMINATION.
  HER MOTHER IS ON THE LEFT
]

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

I heard a woman’s voice say, “Poor child; she ought not to have been
allowed to compete. She has an atrocious cold, her nose is running and
her face is swollen.”

I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the midst of very
feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a somnambulist, and on
reaching Madame Guérard and Mlle. de Brabender fainted away in their
arms. Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumour
that “the little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was
sitting far back in a box, feeling bored to death. When I came to myself
again I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s pretty face, with tears
hanging on her long lashes. I laid my head against hers and cried
quietly, but this time the tears were refreshing, not salt ones that
burnt my eyelids.

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

The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had
nothing at all, but mention was made of my last year’s second prize. I
felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment, as I quite
expected things to be like this. Several persons had protested in my
favour. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had pleaded a long
time. He wanted me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation.
He said that my examination results ought to be taken into account, and
they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class reports.
Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced that day by my
nasal voice, my swollen face, and my heavy flakes of hair. After half an
hour’s interval, during which I drank a glass of port wine and ate
cakes, the signal was given for the comedy competition. I was fourteenth
on the list for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My fighting
instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of injustice
made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize that day, but it
seemed to me that I ought to have received it nevertheless.

I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for comedy, and with
the exaggeration that I have always put into everything I began to get
excited, and I said to myself that if I did not get the first prize I
must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My mystic love and
weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever. I
decided that I would enter the convent if I did not get the first prize.
And the most foolish illogical strife imaginable was waged in my weak
girl’s brain. I felt a genuine vocation for the convent when distressed
about losing the prize, and a genuine vocation for the theatre when I
was hopeful about winning the prize.

With a very natural partiality, I discovered in myself the gift of
absolute self-sacrifice, renunciation, and devotion of every
kind—qualities which would win for me easily the post of Mother Superior
in the Grand-Champs Convent. Then with the most indulgent generosity I
attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the fulfilment of my
other dream, namely, to become the first, the most celebrated, and the
most envied of actresses. I told off on my fingers all my qualities:
grace, charm, distinction, beauty, mystery, piquancy.

Oh yes, I found I had all these, and when my reason and my honesty
raised any doubt or suggested a “but” to this fabulous inventory of my
qualities, my combative and paradoxical ego at once found a plain,
decisive answer which admitted of no further argument.

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

I never doubted for a moment but that it would be awarded to me
unanimously. When the competition was over, the committee met to discuss
the awards, and in the meantime I asked for something to eat. A cutlet
was brought from the pastrycook’s patronised by the Conservatoire, and I
devoured it, to the great joy of Madame Guérard and Mlle. de Brabender,
for I detested meat, and always refused to eat it.

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

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

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

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

On leaving the stage I went and sat down on the bench without uttering a
word, and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was
greatly complimented by every one. She was wearing a pale blue tarlatan
dress, with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the bodice and another in her
black hair. She was very tall, and her delicate white shoulders emerged
modestly from her dress, which was cut very low ... but in her case this
was without danger. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud
expression, was charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she
had more of a woman’s fascination than any of us. Her large brown eyes
shone with dilating pupils; her small round mouth gave a sly little
smile at the corners, and her wonderfully shaped nose had quivering
nostrils. The oval of her beautiful face was intercepted by two little
pearly, transparent ears of the most exquisite shape. She had a long,
flexible white neck, and the pose of her head was charming. It was a
beauty prize that the jury had conscientiously awarded to Marie Lloyd.

She had come on to the stage gay and fascinating in her _rôle_ of
Célimène, and in spite of the monotony of her delivery, the carelessness
of her elocution, the impersonality of her acting, she had carried off
all the votes because she was the very personification of Célimène, that
coquette of twenty years of age who was so unconsciously cruel.

She had realised for every one the ideal dreamed of by Molière. All
these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain, and this first
lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of great service to me in
my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd’s prize, and every time that I
have had a _rôle_ to create, the personage always appears before me
dressed from head to foot, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up.

But that is but the vision of a second; my mind has been thinking of the
soul that is to govern this personage. When listening to an author
reading his work, I try to define the intention of his idea, in my
desire to identify myself with that intention. I have never played an
author false with regard to his idea. And I have always tried to
represent the personage according to history, whenever it is a
historical personage, and as the novelist describes it if an invented
personage.

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

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

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




                                   X
              MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE


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

“Are you unhappy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is not
fair.”

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

I could not help laughing at this.

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

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

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

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

My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished
indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss of her, for
success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young friend
a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty nor yet
touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us that he
had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd’s triumph. He then came to me,
put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him. “Well, you
were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now in going on the stage? You
are thin and small, your face is pretty enough when near, but ugly in
the distance, and your voice does not carry!”

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

M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty
years of age, and Madame Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and timid: he had been awarded the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, used aristocratic
gestures, and was private secretary to M. de la Tour Desmoulins, a
prominent deputy at the time. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I
owe much to his kindness. My sister Jeanne whispered to me, “Sister’s
godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible.”
Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her away, and
we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to go back to
the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so
tired that I had to go to bed.

When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs,
my head heavy, and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I
tried to consider my wretched situation; but sleep, the great restorer,
came to the rescue, and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I
woke I could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it
was, and looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep
since three o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but
everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small
tray on which were a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing
paper was placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up,
for I never received any letters. With great difficulty, by my night-
light, I managed to read the following words, written by Madame Guérard:
“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother
that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged at
the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child,
but have faith in the future.—Your _petit Dame_.”

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

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

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

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

“She must have some fresh air,” he said. “I will treat you to a landau.”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT ON LEAVING
  THE CONSERVATOIRE
]

The drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart’s
content, as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

M. Thierry received me very kindly, and made a little nonsensical
speech. He then unfolded a paper which he handed to Madame Guérard,
asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract,
and _mon petit Dame_ explained that she was not my mother.

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

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

“Well, it’s settled then!” he said gaily.

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

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

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

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

“Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we feel sure of
you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked,
“What do you say, Excellency?”

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

There was a silence for a moment.

“Well, you have got a fine carriage!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He
was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in
France or anywhere else.

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

“Oh—well, I am glad to hear that,” answered the tragedian.

I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my
mother. She signed it without reading it.

I made my mind resolutely to be some one _quand-même_.

A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française my aunt gave a
dinner-party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet and
the Minister of Fine Arts, M. de Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people came. My
mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time I had
worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Every one paid me
great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I consented
willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I chose
Casimir Delavigne’s poem, “_L’Ame du Purgatoire_.” “That should be
spoken with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini when I came to
an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; “Mademoiselle
will begin again, and you could improvise, _cher maître_.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at Iphigénie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my
_début_ in that _rôle_.

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

I thought of my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading
_tragédienne_ of the Comédie Française, with Maubant, with——I trembled
as I thought of all this, for Madame Devoyod was said to be anything but
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my _rôle_.
“Oh yes,” I exclaimed with conviction. “Come and rehearse it. Would you
like to?” and he took me to the stage.

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

“I love that artiste,” I said.

“Do you know her story?” he asked.

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

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

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

“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.

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

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

               _Eurybate à l’autel, conduisez la victime_,

he said, “Mademoiselle Favart was very effective there.”

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

I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
three coarse words used by one or another of the artistes. I was not
accustomed to this somewhat brutal language. At home every one was
rather timorous. At my aunt’s people were a trifle affected, whilst at
the convent, it is unnecessary to say, I had never heard a word that was
out of place. It is true that I had been through the Conservatoire, but
I had not cultivated any of the pupils with the exception of Marie Lloyd
and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now a
Sociétaire of the Comédie Française.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réaumur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words _Massin, manufacturer of make-up
boxes_. I knocked, and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognised Léontine’s sister, as she had come several times to the
Conservatoire.

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

Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanour. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming, “How glad I am to see you! And so you are going to make your
début at the Comédie. I saw it in the papers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned her back on
my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely to
Madame Petit, said: “I hope, Madame ‘Gros-tas,’ I shall never see you
again.” She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Petit mutter
a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but the meaning of them was only
explained to me later on. We then went to the workshop, and found old
Massin at his bench, planing some small planks of white wood. His
hunchback daughter kept coming in and out, humming gaily all the time.
The father was glum and harsh, and had an anxious look. As soon as we
had ordered the box we took our leave. Madame Petit went out first;
Léontine’s sister held me back by the hand and said quietly, “Father is
not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted my sister to
be at the Théâtre Français.”

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




                                   XI
   MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM


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

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

I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. _Mon petit Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.

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

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

Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage, but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my “cue” on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried towards Agamemnon, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the
stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress.

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

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

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

She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so.

When my godfather arrived in the afternoon he exclaimed, “Good heavens!
My poor child, what thin arms you have!”

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

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

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

_L’Opinion Nationale_, September 12: “The same evening _Les Femmes
Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third _début_, and she
assumed the _rôle_ of Henriette. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of Junie [he had made a mistake, as it
was Iphigénie I had played] and of Valérie, both of which _rôles_ had
been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not much matter. She is a
_débutante_, and among the number presented to us it is only natural
that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the
comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they
are Sociétaires of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than
their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are
just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays at
the Comédie Française.”

[Illustration:

  AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF
  SARAH BERNHARDT
]

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT IN
  _LES FEMMES SAVANTES_
]

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE
  DUC DE RICHELIEU
]

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

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

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

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

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

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

The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice, “I did not do it on purpose,
sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old cow, and she just kicked for
nothing at all!” Régina was a fair-haired seraph, who might have made
the angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but
her language was by no means choice, and nothing in the world could
change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly group burst out laughing,
while all the members of the enemy’s camp shrugged their shoulders.
Bressant, who was the most charming of the comedians and a general
favourite, came up to me and said:

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

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

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

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

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

“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must apologise to her
before three Sociétaires, members of the committee. If she consents to
forgive you, the committee will then consider whether to fine you or to
cancel your engagement.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mother would never come,” I said.

“Then I will go and call on her,” he remarked.

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

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

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

Several days passed by, and I had nothing to do at the theatre. Finally
one morning I received a notice requesting me to be present at the
reading of a play,—_Dolorès_, by M. Bouilhet. This was the first time I
had been asked to attend the reading of a new piece. I was evidently to
have a _rôle_ to “create.” All my sorrows were at once dispersed like a
cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and she naturally
concluded that as I was asked to attend a reading my engagement was not
to be cancelled, and I was not to be asked again to apologise to Madame
Nathalie.

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

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

“Oh, you can pass, Mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The _rôle_ that you like so much is not going to be
for you after all.”

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

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

He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme youth—the
importance of the _rôle_—such responsibility for my young shoulders—and
finally that as Madame Favart had recovered from her illness, it was
more prudent that, &c. &c. I finished reading the letter through
blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of grief. I rushed
back again and sent my name in to the manager’s office. He could not see
me just then, but I said I would wait. After one hour, thoroughly
impatient, taking no notice of the office-boy and the secretary, who
wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door of M. Thierry’s office
and walked in. All that despair, anger against injustice, and fury
against falseness could inspire me with I let him have, in a stream of
eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The manager gazed at me in
bewilderment. He could not conceive of such daring and such violence in
a girl so young.

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

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

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

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

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

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




                                  XII
                 AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I at once rose, and he continued, “Will you come into my office,
Mademoiselle?”

Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humoured. He appeared
to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his ego, but
that did not matter to me.

After some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my
outburst at the Comédie, and made me a great many promises about the
_rôles_ I should have to play. He prepared my contract, and gave it me
to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my family council.

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

“Oh, very good,” he said; “but what nonsense to have emancipated a self-
willed girl. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.”

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

Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young artist very much in vogue just then, who had the
most delightful talent. I played in _La maison sans enfants_, and I took
her _rôle_ at a moment’s notice in _Le démon du jeu_, a piece which made
a great success. I was fairly good in both plays, but Montigny, in spite
of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage
manager played me no end of tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger
stirring within me, and I struggled with myself as much possible to keep
my nerves calm.

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

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

I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece, and was bad-
tempered all the time. Finally the first performance took place, and my
part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply was not noticed, and
at night my mother remarked, “My poor child, you were ridiculous in your
Russian princess _rôle_, and I was very much grieved!”

I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to kill
myself. I slept very badly that night, and towards six in the morning I
rushed up to Madame Guérard. I asked her to give me some laudanum, but
she refused. When she saw that I really wanted it, the poor dear woman
understood my design. “Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that
you will not tell any one what I am going to do, and then I will not
kill myself.” A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and, without
going further into it, I wanted to carry it out at once. She promised,
and I then told her that I was going at once to Spain, as I had longed
to see that country for a long time.

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

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

“No, no, I cannot go,” exclaimed Madame Guérard, nearly beside herself.
“There is my husband to think of, and my children.”

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

“Well, then, _mon petit Dame_, find me some one to go with me.”

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

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

“Caroline, will you start with me at once for Spain?” The bewildered
expression on the woman’s face showed that she had not comprehended, but
she replied at once, “I am coming, Mademoiselle.” She then closed her
window, and ten minutes later Caroline was tapping at the door. Madame
Guérard had sunk down aghast in an arm-chair.

M. Guérard had asked several times from his bedroom what was going on.

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

Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Madame Guérard’s, and she had
offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was agreeable and rather
daring, and she now accepted my offer at once. But as it would not do to
arouse the suspicions of the concierge, it was decided that I should
take her dresses in my trunk, and that she should put her linen into a
bag to be lent by _mon petit Dame_.

Poor dear Madame Guérard had given in. She was quite conquered, and soon
began to help in my preparations, which certainly did not take me long.

But I did not know how to get to Spain.

“You go through Bordeaux,” said Madame Guérard.

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

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

I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With Caroline’s help I
carried the empty trunk up to Madame Guérard’s, and Caroline emptied my
wardrobe and drawers, and then packed the trunk. I shall never forget
that delightful moment. It seemed to me as though the world was about to
be mine. I was going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was
about to travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I
should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and I should
cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I must have gone up and
down the staircase which separated our two flats. Every one was asleep
in my mother’s flat, and the rooms were so disposed that not a sound of
our going in and out could reach her.

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

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

“The conversation was very animated, and when the door opened Montigny
exclaimed in a fury, ‘I had given orders that I was not to be
disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on seeing old Monval’s
troubled look, and he knew something urgent was the matter. ‘Oh, what’s
happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the old stage manager
held out to him. On recognising my paper, with its grey border, he said,
‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’

“‘No,’ said Monval; ‘she has gone to Spain.’

“‘She can go to the deuce!’ exclaimed Montigny. ‘Send for Madame
Dieudonnée to take her part. She has a good memory, and half the _rôle_
must be cut. That will settle it.’

“‘Any trouble for to-night?’ I asked Montigny.

“‘Oh, nothing,’ he answered; ‘it’s that little Sarah Bernhardt who has
cleared off to Spain!’

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

“‘Yes.’

“‘She’s rather amusing.’

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

This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident.

                  *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man disappeared, and the house was soon invaded by the police. I
leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante forty years ago were
like. I answered all the questions asked me by a vice-consul, who was an
Hungarian and spoke French. I had seen the man, and he had a silk
handkerchief on his head. He had a beard, and on his shoulder a
_poncho_, but that was all I knew. The Hungarian vice-consul, who, I
believe, represented France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the colour
of the brigand’s beard, silk handkerchief, and _poncho_. It had been too
dark for me to distinguish the colours exactly. The worthy man was very
much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he remained
thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders for a message to be taken
to his home. It was to ask his wife to send a carriage, and to get a
room ready in order to receive a young foreigner in distress. I prepared
to go with him, and after paying my bill at the hotel we started off in
the worthy Hungarian’s carriage, and I was welcomed by his wife with the
most touching cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she
poured out for me, and during breakfast told her who I was and where I
was going. She then told me in return that her father was an important
manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and a great friend of
my father’s. She took me to the room that had been prepared for me, made
me go to bed, and told me that while I was asleep she would write me
some letters of introduction for Madrid.

I slept for ten hours without waking, and when I roused up was
thoroughly rested in mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my
mother, but this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante.
I wrote a letter, therefore, to my poor dear mother, telling her that I
was in the house of friends of my father, &c. &c.

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

My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in Paris. _Mon petit
Dame_ was waiting for me downstairs in the concierge’s room. She was
very excited to see me looking so well, and kissed me with her eyes full
of tears of joy. The concierge and family poured forth their
compliments. Madame Guérard went upstairs before me to inform my mother
of my arrival, and I waited a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by
our old servant Marguerite.

My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed me, then turned me round
and examined me. Régina, with her hands behind her back, leaned against
the stove gazing at me furiously.

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

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

Finally Madame Guérard appeared again, and I went with her. Oh, how
repentant I was, and how deeply affected. I knocked gently at the door
of the room, which was hung with pale blue rep. My mother looked very
white, lying in her bed. Her face was thinner, but wonderfully
beautiful. She stretched out her arms like two wings, and I rushed
forward to this white, loving nest. My mother cried silently, as she
always did. Then her hands played with my hair, which she let down and
combed with her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred
questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did too, so that we had
the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses. I found that my
mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy, that she was now
getting better, but was not yet well. I therefore took up my abode again
with her, and for the time being went back to my old bedroom. Madame
Guérard had told me in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side
had at last agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left
a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day. My mother,
at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me have half this sum,
and she had at last consented, saying that she should use the interest
of the other half, but that this latter half would always be at my
disposal if I changed my mind and consented to marry.

I was therefore determined to live my life as I wished, to go away from
home and be quite independent. I adored my mother, but our ideas were
altogether different. Besides, my godfather was perfectly odious to me,
and for years and years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining
with us every day, and of playing whist every evening. He was always
hurting my feelings in one way or another. He was a very rich old
bachelor, with no near relatives. He adored my mother, but she had
always refused to marry him. She had put up with him at first, because
he was a friend of my father’s. After my father’s death she had
continued to put up with him, because she was then accustomed to him,
until finally she quite missed him when he was ill or travelling. But,
placid as she was, my mother was authoritative, and could not endure any
kind of constraint. She therefore rebelled against the idea of another
master. She was very gentle but determined, and this determination of
hers ended sometimes in the most violent anger. She used then to turn
very pale, and violet rings would come round her eyes, her lips would
tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes take a fixed gaze, the
words would come at intervals from her throat, all chopped up—hissing
and hoarse. After this she would faint; and the veins of her throat
would swell, and her hands and feet turned icy cold. Sometimes she would
be unconscious for hours, and the doctors told us that she might die in
one of these attacks, so that we did all in our power to avoid these
terrible accidents. My mother knew this, and rather took advantage of
it, and, as I had inherited this tendency to fits of rage from her, I
could not and did not wish to live with her. As for me, I am not placid.
I am active and always ready for fight, and what I want I always want
immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar to my mother. The
blood begins to boil under my temples before I have time to control it.
Time has made me wiser in this respect, but not sufficiently so. I am
aware of this, and it causes me to suffer.

I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid, but I asked
our old friend Meydieu to find me a flat. The old man, who had tormented
me so much during my childhood, had been most kind to me ever since my
_début_ at the Théâtre Français, and, in spite of my row with Nathalie,
and my escapade when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to see the best in
me. When he came to see us the day after my return home, I remained
talking with him for a time in the drawing-room, and confided my
intentions to him. He quite approved, and said that my intercourse with
my mother would be all the more agreeable because of this separation.




                                  XIII
             FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON


I took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to my mother, and Madame
Guérard undertook to have it furnished for me. As soon as my mother was
well again, I talked to her about it, and I was not long in making her
agree with me that it was really better I should live by myself and in
my own way. When once she had accepted the situation everything went
along satisfactorily. My sisters were present when we were talking about
it. Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused to speak
to me or look at me ever since my return three weeks ago, suddenly
jumped on to my lap.

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

I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was still on good terms with an actor of the Porte Saint Martin
Theatre, who had been appointed stage manager there, Marc Fournier being
at that time manager of the theatre. A piece entitled _La biche au bois_
was then being given. It was a spectacular play, and was having a great
success. A delightful actress from the Odéon Theatre, Mlle. Debay, had
been engaged for the principal _rôle_. She played tragedy princesses
most charmingly. I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I
thoroughly enjoyed _La biche au bois_. Madame Ulgade sang admirably in
her _rôle_ of the young prince, and amazed me. Mariquita charmed me with
her dancing. She was delightful and so animated in her dances, so
characteristic, and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse,
I knew every one.

But to my surprise and terror, one evening towards five o’clock, on
arriving at the theatre to get the tickets for our seats, he exclaimed
on seeing me:

“Why here is our Princess, our little _biche au bois_. Here she is! It
is the Providence that watches over theatres who has sent her.”

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

“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for Mademoiselle
Debay from the Odéon Theatre plays this _rôle_ of Princess, and
Mademoiselle Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon and the Odéon is an
imperial theatre, so that it cannot be any disgrace after your studies.”

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

There was but little time to spare. Josse made me rehearse my _rôle_,
which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often and I had an
extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, soon running into quarters of an
hour, and these quarters of an hour made half-hours, and then entire
hours. I kept looking at the clock, the large clock in the manager’s
room, where Madame Ulgade was making me rehearse. She thought my voice
was pretty, but I kept singing out of tune, and she helped me along and
encouraged me all the time.

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

When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me, through Josse, a
three years’ engagement, but I asked to be allowed to think it over.
Josse had introduced me to a dramatic author, Lambert Thiboust, a
charming man who was certainly not without talent. He thought I was just
the ideal actress for his heroine in _La bergère d’Ivry_, but M. Faille,
an old actor, who had just become manager of the Ambigu Theatre, was not
the only person to consult, for a certain M. de Chilly had some interest
in the theatre. De Chilly had made his name in the _rôle_ of Rodin in
_Le Juif errant_, and after marrying a rather wealthy wife, had left the
stage, and was now interested in the business side of theatrical
affairs. He had, I think, just given the Ambigu up to Faille.

De Chilly was then helping on a charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She
was gentle and very _bourgeoise_, rather pretty, but without any real
beauty or grace.

Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he was negotiating with Laurence
Gérard, but that he was ready to do as the author wished in the matter.
The only thing he stipulated was that he should hear me before deciding.
I was willing to humour the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a
manager as he had been an artiste. I gave a short performance for him at
the Ambigu Theatre. The stage was only lighted by the wretched
_servante_, a little transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I
could see M. Faille balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his
waistcoat and the fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils.
This disgusted me horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near him, his
handsome face smiling as he looked at me encouragingly.

I had selected _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_; I did not want to recite
verse, because I was to perform in a play in prose. I believe I was
perfectly charming, and Lambert Thiboust thought so too, but when I had
finished poor Faille got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said something
in a low voice to the author, and took me to his office.

“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager, “you are no good on
the stage!”

I resented this, but he continued:

“Oh no, no good,” and as the door then opened he added, pointing to the
new-comer, “here is M. de Chilly, who was also listening to you, and he
will say just the same as I say.”

M. de Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five days later Mile. Debay was well again, and took her _rôle_ as
usual.

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

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

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

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

He was silent for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a
letter. “Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said.

It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager of
the Odéon Theatre in conjunction with Chilly.

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

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

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

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

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

I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said, “I shall see you
again, less officially, at your aunt’s on Thursday. I have received an
invitation this morning to dine there, so you will be able to tell me
what Duquesnel says.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognise
me. He signed to me to sit down, and without a word handed me a pen and
showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me. Madame Guérard
interposed, laying her hand on mine.

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

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

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

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

I felt the colour coming into my face, for this man was odious.
Duquesnel whispered to me, “There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s a
good fellow; don’t take offence.”

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

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

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

I went away at once, and hurried to my mother’s to tell her, for I knew
this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with
_mon petit Dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my dressing-
room.

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

One morning about seven o’clock a message came from the convent to fetch
me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman’s death agony.
Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look that I
suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands, which were holding the
crucifix, and they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be
there when she was placed in her coffin. On arriving at the convent the
next day, at the hour fixed, I found the sisters in such a state of
consternation that I was alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered?
They pointed to the door of the cell, without uttering a word. The nuns
were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary looking
being imaginable. My poor governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a
man’s face. Her moustache had grown longer, and she had a beard nearly
half an inch long. Her moustache and beard were sandy, whilst the long
hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the
teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy moustache. It was
like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face
of my friend. It was the mask of a man, whilst the little delicate hands
were those of a woman.

There was an awe-struck expression in the eyes of the nuns, in spite of
the assurance of the nurse who had dressed the poor dead body, and had
declared to them that the body was that of a woman. But the poor little
sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.

The day after this dismal ceremony I made my _début_ at the Odéon in _Le
jeu de l’amour et du hasard_. I was not suited for Marivaux’s plays, as
they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not
then and still are not among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too
slight, so that I made no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing
along the corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging
me. Chilly pointed to me and remarked:

“_Une flûte pour les gens du monde, il n’y a même pas de mie._”

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

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

This man was always courteous, but truthful. This _début_ of mine had
not given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appeai-ance,
and he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that
any one could say from my first trial.

I remained at the Odéon, and worked very hard. I was ready to take any
one’s place at a moment’s notice, for I knew all the _rôles_. I made
some success, and the students had a predilection for me. When I came on
to the stage I was always greeted by applause from these young men. A
few old sticklers used to turn towards the pit and try and command
silence, but no one cared a straw for them.

Finally my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of
putting _Athalie_ on again, with Mendelssohn’s choruses.

Beauvallet, who had been odious as a professor, was charming as a
comrade. By special permission from the Ministry he was to play Joad.
The _rôle_ of Zacharie was assigned to me. Some of the Conservatoire
pupils were to take the spoken choruses, and the female pupils who
studied singing undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad
that Duquesnel and Chilly were in despair.

Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but not choice in his language,
muttered some terrible words. We began over and over again, but it was
all to no purpose. The spoken choruses were simply abominable. When
suddenly Chilly exclaimed:

“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. They will be right
enough with her pretty voice!”

Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his moustache to hide a
smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protégée_ after all. He nodded
his head in an indifferent way, in answer to his partner’s questioning
look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Every one
applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the
poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable
little triumph for me! Oh, quite a little one, but still full of promise
for my future. The audience, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and
its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was
rewarded by three rounds of applause.

At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said, “_Thou_ art adorable!”
His _thou_ rather annoyed me, but I answered mischievously, using the
same form of speech:

“_Thou_ findest me fatter?”

He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used
the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable.

Oh, that Odéon Theatre! It is the theatre I loved most. I was very sorry
to leave it, for every one liked each other there, and every one was
gay. The theatre is a little like the continuation of school. The young
artistes came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and very
polite and young himself. During rehearsal we often went off, several of
us together, to play ball in the Luxembourg, during the acts in which we
were not “on.” I used to think of my few months at the Comédie
Française. The little world I had known there had been stiff, scandal-
mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at the Gymnase. Hats
and dresses were always discussed there, and every one chattered about a
hundred things that had nothing to do with art.

At the Odéon I was happy. We thought of nothing but putting plays on,
and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I liked that
very much.

For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at
Auteuil. I went to the theatre in a _petit duc_, which I drove myself. I
had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me because they
had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a
whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the
quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine,
and the gaiety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold cracked
steps of the theatre with veritable joy, and rushed up to my dressing-
room, wishing every one I passed good morning on my way. When I had
taken off my coat and gloves I went on to the stage, delighted to be
once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light (a _servante_
hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a
bench) thrown on the faces of the artistes for a few seconds.

There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere, full of
microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more
brilliant than that darkness.

One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought
she would have died with horror and disgust. “Oh, you poor child,” she
murmured, “how can you live in that!” When once she was outside again
she began to breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh yes, I
could live in it, and I really only lived well in it. Since then I have
changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that gloomy
workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the precious stones
supplied to us by the poets.

The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed
hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed
to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in _Le Marquis de Villemer_
and _François le Champi_. In the former I took the part of the foolish
baroness, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely
twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played
Mariette, and made a great success.

Those rehearsals of the _Marquis de Villemer_ and _François le Champi_
have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Madame George
Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk
much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always dreamy, and
her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the kindest
expression. She had perhaps had a medium-sized figure, but she was no
longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection,
for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT IN
  _FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI_
]

I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as
long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.

Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to
George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I
ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped
beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I. that I disliked him for it.
By resembling him it seemed to me that he made him seem less far away,
and brought him nearer to every one.

Madame Sand introduced me to him, in spite of my wishes. He looked at me
in an impertinent way: he displeased me. I scarcely replied to his
compliments, and went closer to George Sand.

“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing.

George Sand stroked my cheek gently.

“She is my little Madonna,” she answered; “do not torment her.”

I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the Prince.
Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his
conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He
sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle
crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not
very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things
about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew
such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that
George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called
the Prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same
time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an
artiste, named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in _François le Champi_,
came into the green-room. Prince Napoleon, Madame George Sand, the
curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and myself were
there. This artiste was common, and something of an anarchist. He bowed
to Madame Sand, and addressing the Prince, said:

“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.”

The Prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out, and, throwing them on
the floor, remarked, “I thought this seat was clean.”

The actor coloured, picked up the gloves, and went away, murmuring some
revolutionary threat.

I played the part of Hortense in _Le testament de César_, by Girodot,
and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas’s _Kean_.

On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece[1] the
audience was most aggravating. Dumas _père_ was quite out of favour on
account of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics
for some time past had been exciting every one, and the return of Victor
Hugo from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box he was
greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began
shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak.
“My young friends,” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are
quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in
your box.”

Footnote 1:

  February 18, 1868.

Dumas protested vehemently. Several persons in the orchestra took his
side, for he had invited a lady into his box, and whoever that lady
might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner.
I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the
hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our
great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing,
and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had
disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when
Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering, “No, no,
this lady shall not leave the box!”

Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted,
shouted, “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few
seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could then
be heard again in the midst of an infernal uproar. We had been ready to
commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited. Chilly and
Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.

“_Courage, mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We
will commence anyhow, let what will happen.”

“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold
as ice, and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him,
“if I get too frightened?”

“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on
playing, and don’t faint upon any account!”

The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird
cries, cat-calls, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy
Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!”

My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing Kean, had been received
badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the
year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I
stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. At the very same instant
the cheers of my dear friends the students drowned the laughter of the
aggravators. This gave me courage, and I even felt a desire to fight.
But it was not necessary, for after the second endlessly long harangue,
in which I give an idea of my love for Kean, the house was delighted,
and gave me an ovation.

“Ignotus” wrote the following paragraph in the _Figaro_:

“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume which
increased the tumult, but her rich voice, that astonishing voice of
hers, appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little
Orpheus.”

After _Kean_ I played in _La loterie du mariage_. When we were
rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I
usually sat. I had a little arm-chair there from my dressing-room, and
put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a
little gas-burner there, and I could work whilst waiting for my turn to
go on the stage. I loved embroidery and tapestry work. I had a quantity
of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up one or the
other as I felt inclined.

Madame Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created
for the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large,
dark, gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went
up at the corners with an imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth,
and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living
incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her
pretty hands were long and rather soft, whilst her slow and rather heavy
walk completed the illusion. She was the great _tragédienne_ of the
Odéon Theatre. She approached me, with her measured tread, followed by a
young man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.

“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance for you to
make a poet happy!” She then introduced François Coppée. I invited the
young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His
handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A
thrill of emotion went through me, for I adore Napoleon I.

“Are you a poet, Monsieur?” I asked.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was.

“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle. Agar is sure
that you will play it with her.”

“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it for him. It is a
little masterpiece, and I am sure you will make a gigantic success.”

“Oh, and you too. You will be so beautiful in it!” said the poet, gazing
rapturously at Agar.

I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few
minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the
beautiful _tragédienne_. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my arm-
chair, wanted to give it me back. On my refusing it she pulled me down
on to her lap. The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away
together, our three heads almost touching. It was decided that after
reading the piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable
of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from both
managers to play it at a benefit that was to take place after our next
production.

The young man was delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a
grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as
far as the little landing which projected over the stage. I watched them
as they went, the magnificent statue-like woman and the slender outline
of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was
certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I
could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this
matronly woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she too
appeared to be in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them
clasp each other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward
movement, the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and
kissed it fervently.

Agar came back to me with a faint colour in her cheeks. This was rare
with her, for she had a marble-like complexion. “Here is the
manuscript!” she said, giving me a little roll of paper.

The rehearsal was over, and I wished Agar good-bye, and on my way home
read the piece. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to
the theatre to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming
downstairs.

“Do come back again, please!” I exclaimed.

“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as
though you have won a big lottery prize.”

“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office, I
produced the manuscript,

“Read this, please,” I continued.

“I’ll take it with me,” he said.

“Oh no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?”

“No, no,” he replied; “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming
poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued,
sitting down in his arm-chair. He began to read whilst I looked at the
newspapers.

“It’s delicious!” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece.”

I sprang to my feet in joy.

“And you will get Chilly to accept it?”

“Oh yes, you can make your mind easy. But when do you want to play it?”

“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said, “and Agar too.”

“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a _rôle_ that just
suits your fancy.”

“Yes, my dear ‘_Duq_,’” I acknowledged. “I too want it put on at once.
Do you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the
benefit of Madame —— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any
difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.”

“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the
scenery, though?” he muttered meditatively, biting his nails, which were
then his favourite meal when disturbed in his mind.

I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home, and on
the way I put my plan before him.

We might have the scenery of _Jeanne de Ligneris_, a piece that had been
put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered at by the
public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers,
statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them
to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost he would shriek, as he
had done in his _rôle_ of Rodin. Agar and I would supply our own
costumes.

When I arrived at Duquesnel’s house, he asked me to go in and discuss
the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after
kissing the prettiest face one could possibly dream of, I told its owner
about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at
once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. Whilst she was
talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming
head, with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the face, with
its two little pink dimples. Her hair was soft and light, and formed a
halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists, finishing
with the loveliest hands imaginable, hands that were later on quite
famous.

On leaving my two friends I drove straight to Agar’s to tell her what
had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of hers, a
priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted with my
story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a timid
ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced.

“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and
shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.”




                                  XIV
              LE PASSANT—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT


The rehearsals of _Le Passant_ commenced very soon after this, and were
delightful, for the timid young poet was a most interesting and
intelligent talker.

The first performance took place as arranged, and _Le Passant_ was a
veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and Agar
and myself had eight curtain calls. We tried in vain to bring the author
forward, as the audience wished to see him. François Coppée was not to
be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become famous within a
few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and myself, we were
simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay for our
costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times
consecutively to full houses.

We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the house of Princess
Mathilde.

Oh, that first performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain
for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now.
It had been arranged between Duquesnel and the official sent from the
Court that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where
we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the
requirements of the piece. Count de Laferrière was to introduce me to
the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar
was to be introduced by Princess Mathilde, to whom she was then sitting
as Minerva.

M. de Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state carriage, and
Madame Guérard accompanied me.

M. de Laferrière was a very agreeable man, with rather stiff manners. As
we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an
instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been
introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and Comte de Laferrière
explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me, “Good luck!”
Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and
called out, “Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of good-
for-nothings!”

On arriving at the Palace we all three got out of the carriage, and were
shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground floor.

“I will go and inform his Majesty that you are here,” said M. de
Laferrière, leaving us.

When alone with Madame Guérard I thought I would rehearse my three
curtseys.

“_Mon petit Dame_,” I said, “tell me whether they are right.”

I made the curtseys, murmuring, “Sire ... Sire ...” I began over again
several times, looking down at my dress as I said “Sire ...” when
suddenly I heard a stifled laugh.

I stood up quickly, furious with Madame Guérard, but I saw that she too
was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind
me—was the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing
quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was
embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been
curtseying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence
right, and saying, “There ... that’s too low.... There; is that right,
Guérard?”

“Good Heavens!” I now said to myself. “Has he heard it all?”

In spite of my confusion, I now made my curtsey again, but the Emperor
said, smiling:

“Oh! no; it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for the
Empress, who is expecting you.”

Oh, that “just now.” I wondered when it had been?

I could not question Madame Guérard, as she was following at some
distance with M. de Laferrière. The Emperor was at my side, talking to
me of a hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way,
on account of that “just now.”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT IN A FANCY COSTUME

  BY WALTER SPINDLER
]

I liked him much better thus, quite near, than in his portraits. He had
such fine eyes, which he half closed whilst looking through his long
lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale and his
voice faint, but seductive.

We found the Empress seated in a large arm-chair. Her body was sheathed
in a grey dress, and seemed to have been moulded into the material. I
thought her very beautiful. She too was more beautiful than her
portraits. I made my three curtseys under the laughing eyes of the
Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough,
hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.

From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her
graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been
introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room,
where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for
the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps where Agar had to
pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love and longing for
ideal love.

This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to
represent the first three steps of a huge flight leading up to a
Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for
some shrubs, flowers and plants, which I arranged along the three steps.

The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of
age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar
mounted the steps to try the effect. He was delicious, with his
magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those of his mother, and with his
father’s long eyelashes. He was witty like the Emperor, whom people
surnamed “Louis the Imbecile,” and who certainly had the most refined,
subtle, and at the same time the most generous wit.

We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we
should return two days later for a rehearsal before their Majesties.

How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the
rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of
us in the most charming manner, but her voice was very ugly. She told
the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits, and to
show us over the Palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much
about this, but _mon petit Dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the
offer that I gave in to them.

I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been
uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor’s study
and the staircases. This inspection of the Palace bored me terribly. A
few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at
Winterhalter’s portrait representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked
beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for
it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her Majesty.

The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young Prince
did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for we had made
it a dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the
_soirée_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a
_bal déguisé_ which was to be given for the Imperial child. Our
performance was in honour of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the
Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.”

A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had
remarkably small feet, and in order to make them look still smaller she
encased them in shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully
beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a
dress of pale blue satin embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair she
was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her small
feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppée’s piece my
eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two little feet
moving restlessly about. Finally I saw one of the shoes pushing its
little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of the Empress
come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at the toe, and I
was very anxious to know how it would get back, for under such
circumstances the foot swells, and cannot go into a shoe that is too
narrow. When the piece was over we were recalled twice, and as it was
the Empress who started the applause, I thought she was putting off the
moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little sore foot trying in
vain to get back into its shoe. The curtains were drawn, and as I had
told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched through them its various
phases.

The Emperor rose, and every one followed his example. He offered his arm
to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet
risen. The Emperor’s face lighted up with that smile which I had already
seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and
other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a
rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of
Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her Majesty’s
distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped
the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw
that the Empress leaned more heavily on the Prince’s arm than she would
have liked, for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.

We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and
fêted so much that we were delighted with our evening.

After _Le Passant_ and the prodigious success of that adorable piece, a
success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me,
and began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was
great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the
students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and
long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes on arriving at the theatre
as I was getting out of my carriage I received a shower of flowers which
simply covered me, and I was delighted, and used to thank my
worshippers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so
that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather
chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant and
would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well
that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who
were very kindly disposed towards me nevertheless, as they too used to
spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and
less headstrong. How many times one or another of these old subscribers
would come and give me a word of advice. “Mademoiselle, you were
charming in _Junie_,” one of them observed; “but you bite your lips, and
the Roman women never did that!”

“My dear girl,” another said, “you were delicious in _François le
Champi_, but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany
with her hair curled.”

A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day rather curtly, “It is a
want of respect, Mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!”

“But, Monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at
the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backwards.”

“The artistes we had before you, Mademoiselle, who were quite as
talented as you, if not more so, had a way of going across the stage
without turning their back on the public.”

And he turned quickly on his heel and was going away, when I stopped
him.

“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass,
without turning your back on me?”

He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and
disappeared, slamming the door after him.

I lived some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor, which
was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture which
my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure against
fire, as this furniture, he told me, constituted a small fortune. I
decided to follow his advice, and asked _mon petit Dame_ to take the
necessary steps for me. A few days later she told me that some one would
call about it on the 12th.

On the day in question, towards two o’clock, a gentleman called, but I
was in an extremely nervous condition, and said: “No, I must be left
alone to-day. I do not wish to see any one.”

I had refused to be disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a
frightfully depressed state.

That same evening I received a letter from the fire insurance company,
La Foncière, asking which day their agent might call to have the
agreement signed. I replied that he might come on Saturday.

On Friday I was so utterly wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come
and lunch with me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to
perform on Tuesdays and Fridays, days on which répertoire plays only
were given. As I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was
feared that I should be over-tired.

My mother on arriving thought I looked very pale.

“Yes,” I replied. “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in
a very nervous state and most depressed.”

The governess came to fetch my little boy, to take him out for a walk,
but I would not let him go.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “The child must not leave me to-day. I am afraid
of something happening.”

What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than, with my
love for my family, I was dreading.

I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It
was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a
spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was
very tall indeed, six feet, but she looked like a giantess. She was thin
and very upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of
her, feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock
herself, although she was always accompanied by the nurse whom I had
engaged for her. Above this long body was her little face, with two
immense pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep at
night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in grey, and this
neutral colour gave something unreal to her general appearance.

My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My
grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire arm-chair,
questioned me:

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have
not heard you laugh all day.”

I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the
trouble I was dreading would come through her.

“Are you not there?” she insisted.

“Yes, I am here,” I answered; “but please do not talk to me.”

She did not utter another word, but with her two hands on her lap sat
there for hours. I sketched her strange, fatidical face.

It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being
present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend
Rose Baretta was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a
most charming and witty man, Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came too. He was
a young journalist already very much in vogue. I told them about my
forebodings with regard to that day, and begged them not to leave me
before midnight.

“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked spirits who
are watching me will have missed their chance.”

They agreed to humour my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who was to have gone
to some first night at one of the theatres, remained with us. Dinner was
more animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o’clock when we
left the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went
away for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I
found my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative
water. I asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible
headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the
night, and then to go to bed. She thanked me, and obeyed.

I went back to the drawing-room, and, sitting down to the piano, played
“Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s “Last Thought.” I had not
come to the end of this last melody when I stopped, suddenly hearing in
the street cries of “Fire! Fire!”

“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer.

“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It is not
midnight yet, and I am expecting my own misfortune.”

Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts
were coming from. He stepped out on to the balcony, and then came
quickly in again.

“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

I rushed to the window, and saw the flames coming from the two windows
of my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room in to the corridor,
and then to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and
his nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door,
the bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women
quickly, wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed to the
door with my precious burden. I then ran downstairs, and, crossing the
street, took him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop opposite, just at the
corner of the Rue Caumartin.

The kind man took my little slumberer in and let him lie on a couch,
where the child continued his sleep without any break. I left him in
charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back to the
flaming house. The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived,
and at all costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was
impossible to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with
smoke.

Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower in his button-
hole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon on the
first floor, but when once there my knees shook; it seemed as thought my
heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen door, at
the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple turn of
the key. My amiable companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but not
strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or
something, but just at that moment, a new-comer wrenched the door open
by a violent plunge with his shoulder against it. This new arrival was
no other than M. Sohège, a friend of mine. He was a most charming and
excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known in Paris, very
lively and kind, and always ready to do any one a service. I took my
friends to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, out of
breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her. This
maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from
Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in
the street, the noise of the fire-engines, which had arrived at last,
and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the
maid, whilst I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and
why we were in her room.

“Very good,” she said; and then she added calmly, “Will you give me the
box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of
it is here.”

“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning to come in
here. We have not any time to lose.”

“Well, do as you like. I shall not leave without my box!”

With the help of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer we put my grandmother
on Sohège’s back in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she
was extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was
afraid she might get them injured. Sohège therefore took her in his
arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke
stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a
faint.

When I came to myself I was in my mother’s bed. My little boy was asleep
in my sister’s room, and my grandmother was installed in a large arm-
chair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression on
her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at last
my mother was angry, and reproached her in Dutch with only caring for
herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward as though
to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which surrounded
her. Her thin body, wrapped in an Indian shawl of many colours, the
hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all contributed to
make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did
not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he had six big
children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the youngest, my uncle,
five years. This second wife had never had any children of her own, and
had been indifferent, even harsh, towards those of her husband; and
consequently she was not liked in the family. I had taken charge of her
because small-pox had broken out in the family with whom she had been
boarding. She had then wished to stay with me, and I had not had courage
enough to oppose her.

On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she behaved so badly
that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I resolved not to keep
her with me. News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage,
and burnt everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very
last book in my library. My greatest sorrow was that I had lost a
magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist
very much _à la mode_ under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father,
and a very pretty pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewellery,
and all that was found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a
huge shapeless mass, which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set
with diamonds and pearls, given to me by Kalil Bey after a performance
at his house. The ashes of this had to be sifted in order to find the
stones. The diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted.

I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had
left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other
useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own
it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a
shell of gold set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh,
how beautiful it was, and how droll! It used to wander round my flat,
accompanied by a smaller tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its
servant, and I used to amuse myself for hours watching Chrysagère,
flashing with a hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon.
Both my tortoises died in this fire.

Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to see me a few
weeks later, for he had just received a summons from La Foncière, the
fire insurance company, whose papers I had refused to sign the day
before the catastrophe. The company claimed a heavy sum of money from me
for damages done to the house itself. The second storey was almost
entirely destroyed, and for many months the whole building had to be
propped up. I did not possess the 40,000 francs claimed. Duquesnel
offered to give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free
me from all difficulties. De Chilly was very willing to agree to
anything that would be of service to me. The benefit was a wonderful
success, thanks to the presence of the adorable Adelina Patti. The young
singer, who was then the Marquise de Caux, had never before sung at a
benefit performance, and it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news
that “La Patti” was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the
afternoon to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving to
me her sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was announced, every seat
in the house was promptly taken at prices which were higher than those
originally fixed. She had no reason to regret her friendly action, for
never was any triumph more complete. The students greeted her with three
cheers as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this
noise of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her two
little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating as to
whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She looked so pretty, so
smiling, and when she trilled out the gem-like notes of her wonderful
voice the whole house was delirious with excitement.

Every one sprang up, and the students stood on their seats, waved their
hats and handkerchiefs, nodded their young heads in their feverish
enthusiasm for art, and “encored” with intonations of the most touching
supplication.

The divine singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing
the Cavatina from _Il Barbière de Seville_, “_Una voce poco fa_.”

I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the theatre
escorted by the students, who followed her carriage for a long way,
shouting over and over again, “Long live Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that
evening’s performance I was able to pay the insurance company. I was
ruined all the same, or very nearly so.

I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped for room
there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade. It was a
dismal house, and the flat was dark. I was wondering how I should get
out of my difficulties, when one morning M. C——, my father’s notary, was
announced. This was the man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that
he should be shown in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so
long a time. He told me that he had just returned from Hamburg, that he
had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and had now come
to put himself at my service. In spite of my distrust, I was touched by
this, and I related to him the whole drama of my fire. I did not know
how it had started, but I vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having
placed my lighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of
my bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was on this
little piece of furniture that she always placed my water-bottle and
glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples, for I adore
eating apples when I wake in the night. On opening the door there was
always a terrible draught, as the windows were left open until I went to
bed. On closing the door after her the lace bed-curtains had probably
caught fire. I could not explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had
several times seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I
supposed that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to
bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was going to
undress myself she prepared everything, and then came in and told me,
but this time she had not done so. Usually, too, I just went into the
room myself to see that everything was right, and several times I had
been obliged to move the candle. That day, however, was destined to
bring me misfortune of some kind, though it was not a very great one.

“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?”

“No; I was to sign my policy the day after the event.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the man of law, “and to think that I have been told you
set the flat on fire yourself in order to receive a large sum of money!”

I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this effect in a
newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I already had a certain
disdain for tittle-tattle.

“Oh well, I must arrange matters for you if things are like this,” said
Maître C——	. “You are really better off than you imagine as regards the
money on your father’s side,” he continued. “As your grandmother leaves
you an annuity, you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to insure
your life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of the
purchaser.”

I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted at such a windfall.
This man promised to send me two days after his return 120,000 francs,
and he kept his word. My reason for giving the details of this little
episode, which after all belongs to my life, is to show how differently
things turn out from what seems likely according to logic or according
to our own expectations. It is quite certain that the accident which had
just then happened to me scattered to the winds the hopes and plans of
my life. I had arranged for myself a luxurious home with the money that
my father and mother had left me. I had kept by me and invested a
sufficient amount of money so as to be sure to complete my monthly
salary for the next two years: I reckoned that at the end of the two
years I should be in a position to demand a very high salary. And all
these arrangements had been upset by the carelessness of a domestic. I
had rich relatives and very rich friends, but not one amongst them
stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch into which I had
fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going on to the stage.
And yet Heaven knows what tears it had cost me to take up this career
that had been forced upon me. My Uncle Faure came to see me at my
mother’s house, but my aunt would not listen to a word about me. I used
to see my cousin secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister. My rich
friends considered that I was wildly extravagant, and could not
understand why I did not place the money I had inherited in good, sound
investments.

I received a great deal of verse on the subject of my fire. Most of it
was anonymous. I have kept it all, however, and I quote the following
poem, which is rather nice:

                 Passant, te voilà sans abri:
                   La flamme a ravagé ton gite.
                 Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;
                   Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,
                 S’exhalant en gémissements
                   Sur tout ce que le feu dévore.
                 Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...
                   Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!

                 Ne regrette pas ces colliers
                   Qu’ont à leur cou les riches dames!
                 Tu trouveras dans les halliers,
                   Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!
                 Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir
                   Qui sur l’envers du fossé pousse!
                 Et le cadre de ton miroir
                   Est une bordure de mousse!

                 Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus,
                   Tu paraîtras cent fois plus belle!
                 Sur les bras jolis de Vénus,
                   Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!
                 Garde ton charme si puissant!
                   Ton parfum de plante sauvage!
                 Laisse les bijoux, O Passant,
                   A celles que le temps ravage!

                 Avec ta guitare à ton cou,
                   Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!
                 Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....
                   Par la plaine et par la montagne!
                 Passe, comme la plume au vent!
                   Comme le son de ta mandore!
                 Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant,
                   Les flancs d’une barque sonore!

The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue sent me the
following letter, which I quote word for word:

  “MADAME,—If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in our
  large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on
  the first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a
  small boudoir, and a bath-room. It is of course understood that this
  suite of rooms would be yours free of charge if you would consent to
  do as I ask.—Yours, etc.

  “(P.S.) You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants
  for your drawing-room.”

This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one of my friends
to go and give the low fellow his answer.

I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without
comfort and luxury.

I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not without sorrow. I
had been offered a magnificent engagement in Russia, and I should have
to accept it. Madame Guérard was my sole confidant, and I did not
mention my plan to any one else. The idea of Russia terrified her, for
at that time my chest was very delicate, and cold was my most cruel
enemy. It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer
arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the clever and,
for him, profitable combination which was to change my whole life once
more.

I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome.
It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There
were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my
grandmother to live at a home kept by lay sisters and nuns. She was a
Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her
religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took her
own maid with her, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was
accustomed.

When I went to see her she told me that she was much better off there
than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your boy too
noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing my
mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her. She
was happy, and that was the essential thing.

I now played successfully in _Le Bâtard_, in which I had great success,
in _L’Affranchi_, in _L’Autre_ by George Sand, and in _Jean-Marie_, a
little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant
success. Porel played the part of Jean-Marie. He was at that time
slender, and full of hope. Since then his slenderness has developed into
plumpness and his hope into certitude.




                                   XV
                        THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR


Evil days then came upon us. Paris began to get feverish and excited.
The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and
gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant
groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were
yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew, whilst we did not
know!

I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was
ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me
shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset
by the distant cries of human voices.

Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime,
abetted, forgiven, and glorified!

Recently, I visited a huge steel works. I will not say in what country,
for all countries have been hospitable to me, and I am neither a spy nor
a traitress. I only set forth things as I see them. Well, I visited one
of these frightful manufactories, in which the most deadly weapons are
made. The owner of it all, a multi-millionaire, was introduced to me. He
was pleasant, but no good at conversation, and he had a dreamy,
dissatisfied look. My cicerone informed me that this man had just lost a
huge sum of money, nearly sixty million francs.

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed; “how has he lost it?”

“Oh well, he has not exactly lost the money, but has just missed making
the sum, so it amounts to the same thing.”

I looked perplexed, and he added, “Yes; you remember that there was a
great deal of talk about war between France and Germany with regard to
the Morocco affair?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this prince of the steel trade expected to sell cannons for it,
and for a month his men were very busy in the factory, working day and
night. He gave enormous bribes to influential members of the Government,
and paid some of the papers in France and Germany to stir up the people.
Everything has fallen through, thanks to the intervention of men who are
wise and humanitarian. The consequence is that this millionaire is in
despair. He has lost sixty or perhaps a hundred million francs.”

I looked at the wretched man with contempt, and I wished heartily that
he could be suffocated with his millions, as remorse was no doubt
utterly unknown to him.

And how many others merit our contempt just as this man does! Nearly all
those who are known as “suppliers to the army,” in every country in the
world, are the most desperate propagators of war.

Let every man be a soldier in the time of peril. Yes, a thousand times
over, yes! Let every man be armed for the defence of his country, and
let him kill in order to defend his family and himself. That is only
reasonable. But that there should be, in our times, young men whose sole
dream is to kill in order to make a position for themselves, that is
inconceivable!

It is indisputable that we must guard our frontiers and our colonies,
but since all men are soldiers, why not take these guards and defenders
from among “all men”? We should only have schools for officers then, and
we should have no more of those horrible barracks which offend the eye.
And when sovereigns visit each other and are invited to a review, would
they not be much more edified as to the value of a nation if it could
show a thousandth part of its effective force chosen haphazard among its
soldiers, rather than the elegant evolutions of an army prepared for
parade? What magnificent reviews I have seen in all the different
countries I have visited! But I know from history that such and such an
army as was prancing about there so finely before us had taken flight,
without any great reason, before the enemy.

On July 19 war was seriously declared, and Paris then became the theatre
of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and delicate as I
was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men gone wild, who
were yelling the “Marseillaise” and rushing along the streets in close
file, shouting over and over again, “To Berlin! To Berlin!”

My heart used to beat wildly, for I too thought that they were going to
Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked
us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that
they were getting ready for this great deed without sufficient respect
and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when I saw
all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding
their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful
anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly, and I was
wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the horrible
catastrophe that was to take place.

The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did not want to
leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of excitement. My
weakness increased, though, day by day, and on July 27 I was taken away
in spite of myself. Madame Guérard, my man-servant, and my maid
accompanied me, and I also took my child with me.

In all the railway stations there were posters everywhere, announcing
that the Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command of the army.

At Eaux-Bonnes I was compelled to remain in bed. My condition was
considered very serious by Dr. Leudet, who told me afterwards that he
certainly thought I was going to die. I vomited blood, and had to have a
piece of ice in my mouth all the time. At the end of about twelve days,
however, I began to get up, and after this I soon recovered my strength
and my calmness, and went for long rides on horseback.

The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great joy and a
certain emotion felt by every one on hearing that the young Prince
Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck, in the
engagement commanded by General Frossard.

Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence in the
issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked on such an
adventure. But, alas! the fine, glorious progress which my brain had
been so active in imagining was cut short by the atrocious news from
Saint-Privat. The political news was posted up every day in the little
garden of the Casino at Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get
information. Detesting, as I did, tranquillity, I used to send my man-
servant to copy the telegrams. Oh, how grievous was that terrible
telegram from Saint-Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful
butchery; of the heroic defence of Marshal Canrobert; and of Bazaine’s
first treachery in not going to the rescue of his comrade.

I knew Canrobert, and was very fond of him. Later on he became one of my
faithful friends, and I shall always remember the exquisite hours spent
in listening to his accounts of the bravery of others—never of his own.
And what an abundance of anecdotes, what wit, what charm!

This news of the battle of Saint-Privat caused my feverishness to
return. My sleep was full of nightmares, and I had a relapse. The news
was worse every day. After Saint-Privat came Gravelotte, where 36,000
men, French and German, were cut down in a few hours. Then came the
sublime but powerless efforts of MacMahon, who was driven back as far as
Sedan; and finally Sedan.

Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August had finished the
night before, amidst a tumult of weapons and dying groans. But the
groans of the dying men were mingled still with hopeful cries. But the
month of September was cursed from its very birth. Its first war-cry was
stifled back by the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny.

A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen compelled to
capitulate, and the Emperor of France forced to hand his sword over to
the King of Prussia!

Ah! that cry of grief, that cry of rage, uttered by the whole nation. It
can never be forgotten!

On September 1, towards ten o’clock, Claude, my man-servant, knocked at
my door. I was not asleep, and he gave me a copy of the first telegrams:

“Battle of Sedan commenced. MacMahon wounded,” &c. &c.

“Ah! go back again,” I said, “and as soon as a fresh telegram comes,
bring me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great and
quite different, is going to happen. We have suffered so terribly this
last month, that there can only be something good now, something fine,
for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering equally. Go at once,
Claude,” I added, and then, full of confidence, I soon fell asleep
again, and was so tired that I slept until one o’clock. When I awoke, my
maid Félicie, the most delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my
bed. Her pretty face and her large dark eyes were so mournful that my
heart stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my
hands the copy of the last telegram:

“The Emperor Napoleon has just handed over his sword....”

Blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to control its flow.
I lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped through my lips with the
groans of my whole being.

For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Leudet sent for one of
my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Maunoir. He came at once,
bringing with him his young wife. She too was very ill, worse in reality
than I was, in spite of her fresh look, for she died six months later.
Thanks to their care and to the energetic treatment of Dr. Leudet, I
came through alive from this attack.

I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about to be
proclaimed, and I did not want my mother and my sisters to remain in the
capital. Independently of this, every one at Eaux-Bonnes was seized with
a desire to get away, invalids and tourists alike. A post-chaise was
found, the owner of which agreed, for an exorbitant price, to drive me
to the nearest station without delay. When once in it, we were more or
less comfortably seated as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to
find five seats in the express from there. My man-servant was allowed to
travel with the engine-driver. I do not know where Madame Guérard and my
maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my little boy,
there were already nine persons. An ugly old man tried to push my child
out when I had put him in, but I pushed him back again energetically in
my turn.

“No human force will make us get out of this carriage,” I said. “Do you
hear that, you ugly old man? We are here, and we shall stay.”

A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three ordinary persons,
exclaimed:

“Well! that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It’s shameful to
let eleven persons get into a compartment where there are only seats for
eight!”

“Will you get out, then?” I retorted, turning to her quickly, “for
without you there would only be seven of us.”

The stifled laughter of the other travellers showed me that I had won
over my audience. Three young men offered me their places, but I
refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The three young men had
risen, and they declared that they would also stand. The stout lady
called a railway official. “Come here, please!” she began.

The official stopped an instant at the door.

“It is perfectly shameful,” she went on. “There are eleven in this
compartment, and it is impossible to move.”

“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men. “Just look for
yourself. We are standing up, and there are three seats empty. Send some
more people in here.”

The official went away laughing and muttering something about the woman
who had complained. She turned to the young man and began to talk
abusively to him. He bowed very respectfully in reply, and said:

“Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We will seat
seven on the other side, including the child, and then you will only be
four on your side.”

The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways at the stout
lady and murmured, “Four! Four!” His look and tone showed that he
considered the stout lady took up more than one seat. This look and tone
were not lost on the young man, and before the ugly old man had
comprehended he said to him, “Will you come over here and have this
corner? All the thin people will be together then,” he added, inviting a
placid, calm-looking young Englishman of eighteen to twenty years of age
to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman had the torso of a prize-
fighter, with a face like that of a fair-haired baby. A very young
woman, opposite the stout one, laughed till the tears came. All six of
us then found room on the thin people’s side of the carriage. We were a
little crushed, but had been considerably enlivened by this little
entertainment, and we certainly needed something to enliven us. The
young man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way was tall
and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost white, and
this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and youthfulness. My
boy was on his knee during the night. With the exception of the child,
the stout lady, and the young Englishman, no one went to sleep. The heat
was overpowering, and the war was of course discussed. After some
hesitation, one of the young men told me that I resembled Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt. I answered that there was every reason why I should resemble
her. The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had
recognised me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman, Baron van
Zelern or von Zerlen, I do not remember exactly which, and the young man
with white hair was Félix Faure. He told me that he was from Hâvre, and
that he knew my grandmother very well. I kept up a certain friendship
with these three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit became my
enemy. All three are now dead—Albert Delpit died a disappointed man, for
he had tried everything and succeeded in nothing, the Dutch baron was
killed in a railway accident, and Félix Faure was President of the
French Republic.

The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself in her turn.

“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Madame Laroque.”

“Of Bordeaux?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My mother’s brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux, so that we
were able to talk of our family. Altogether the journey did not seem
very long, in spite of the heat, the overcrowding, and our thirst.

The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands warmly with each
other. The stout lady’s husband was awaiting her; he handed her, in
silence, a telegram. The unfortunate woman read it, and then, uttering a
cry, burst into sobs and fell into his arms. I gazed at her, wondering
what sorrow had come upon her. Poor woman, I could no longer see
anything ridiculous about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought
that we had been laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already
singled her out.

On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her some
time during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my
health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family,
with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the
siege. My mother, my little boy and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt
Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother’s maid were all ready to
start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the
possibility of doing so another. The stations were invaded by families
like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my man-
servant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later with
his clothes torn, after receiving no end of kicks and blows.

“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me; “it is quite
impossible. I should not be able to protect her. Besides, Madame will
not be alone; there is Madame’s mother, the other ladies, and the
children. It is really quite impossible.”

I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and
asked them to accompany me. I told my steward to be ready, as well as my
other man-servant and my mother’s footman. He in his turn invited his
younger brother, who was a priest, and who was very willing to go with
us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in
all, but only nine who were really travelling. Our eight protectors were
none too many, for those who were taking tickets were not human beings,
but wild beasts haunted by fear and spurred on by a desire to escape.
These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading
to the train, and then the train which would ensure their escape. The
presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious
character made people refrain sometimes from blows.

When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been
reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the
train started. A shudder of terror ran through me, for I suddenly felt
so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated from the
little child who was dearer to me than the whole world.

Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured,
“My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you
be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?”

It was Madame Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was
there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting
that I had let him go away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be
fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I
might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in
Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that
every one who was fit ought to remain in Paris. In spite of my weakness,
I felt that I was fit, and with reason, as I proved later on. I
therefore remained, not knowing at all what I was going to do.

For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the life around me, and
missing the affection.




                                  XVI
            SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE


The defence, however, was being organised, and I decided to use my
strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was,
where could we instal an ambulance?

The Odéon Theatre had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to
get permission to organise an ambulance in that theatre, and, thanks to
Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was gratified. I went to the
War Office and made my declaration and my request, and my offers were
accepted for a military ambulance. The next difficulty was that I wanted
food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier
arrived very soon, with a note from the Prefect containing the following
lines:

  “MADAME,—If you could possibly come at once, I would wait for you
  until six o’clock. If not I will receive you to-morrow morning at
  eight. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the
  Chamber at nine in the morning, and, as your note seems to be urgent,
  I am anxious to do all I can to be of service to you.

                                                     “COMTE DE KÉRATRY.”

I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced to me at my
aunt’s house, the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini,
but he was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had
introduced me to his mother. I had recited poetry at her _soirées_. The
young lieutenant had gone to Mexico, and for some time we had kept up a
correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again.
I asked Madame Guérard whether she thought that the Prefect were a near
relative of my young friend’s. “It may be so,” she replied, and we
discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the
Tuileries Palace, where the Prefect had his offices. My heart was very
heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one
April morning, I had been there with Madame Guérard. Then, as now, a
footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April
sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the
State carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a
busy, joyful coming and going of the officers then, and elegant salutes
had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November
sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up
one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps,
advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their
drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations I heard now such phrases as:
“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, _la gueule de bois_!” “Well, any
news?” “Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!” &c. &c.

The Palace was no longer the same.

The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women
leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odour of
tobacco, of greasy clothes, of dirty hair, made the atmosphere seem
heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her
blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella’s good
fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young
Prince Imperial, too! I could see him helping me to arrange the pots of
verbena and marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong
enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome
face completely disappeared. Then, too, I could see the Emperor Napoleon
III. with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of
the curtseys intended for him.

And the fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the
carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a
foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And
the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the battle-
field. Two horses had been killed under him, and he had not received so
much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword. And we at
home had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving up of the
sword. And yet what courage it must have required for so brave a man to
carry out such an act. He had wanted to save a hundred thousand men, to
spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred thousand
mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do him
justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas, alas! he was too
confiding!

I stopped a minute before entering the Prefect’s suite of rooms. I was
obliged to wipe my eyes, and in order to change the current of my
thoughts I said to _mon petit Dame_.

“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first
time?”

“Oh yes!” she replied warmly.

“So much the better,” I said, “for I want this old Prefect to think me
pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for!”

On entering his room, my surprise was great when I recognised in him the
lieutenant I knew. He had become captain, and then Prefect of Police.
When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and
came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out.

“Ah, you had forgotten me!” he said, and then he turned to greet Madame
Guérard in a friendly way.

“But I never thought I was coming to see you!” I replied; “and I am
delighted,” I continued, “for you will let me have everything I ask
for.”

“Only that!” he remarked with a burst of laughter. “Well, will you give
your orders, Madame?” he continued.

“Yes. I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy,
potatoes, eggs, coffee,” I said straight away.

“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the Count-Prefect. “You speak so
quickly that I am gasping.”

I was quiet for a moment, and then I continued:

“I have started an ambulance at the Odéon, but as it is a military
ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five wounded
men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men are being
sent to me, and I shall have to give them food.”

“You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes,” said the
Prefect. “There is food in the Palace which was being stored by the
unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I
will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as
regards these I will give orders that your ambulance shall be included
in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will
give you an order for salt and other things, which you will be able to
get from the Opéra.”

“From the Opéra?” I repeated, looking at him incredulously. “But it is
only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet.”

“Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding
opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase
leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with
what you want.”

“There is still something else I want to ask,” I said.

“Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,” he replied.

“Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a stock of powder
in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a
shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that
is not the aim and object of an ambulance.”

“You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing could be more
stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about
that, though,” he continued, “for I shall have to deal with a crowd of
stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way.
You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential
householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you
satisfied?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. “You have been most
kind and charming. Thank you very much.”

I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as
though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guérard
saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently.

“My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.”

I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand.

“What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?” he asked.

I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.

“I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand at
all.”

I was still pointing to the coat.

“Give it me, will you?” I said.

“My overcoat?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want it for?”

“For my wounded men when they are convalescent.”

He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this
uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.

“There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a poor fellow, for
instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to
stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier’s cape is not warm
enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon
sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I
tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s
overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge,
and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity
again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like
a very warm one.”

I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young
Prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his
overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the
largest pocket.

“Will you allow me to keep my muffler?” he asked.

I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent.

Our host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the
overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his
eyes:

“Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?”

I thanked him again, and went away feeling very happy.

Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the
signatures of the householders and tradesmen residing near the Odéon.

On entering the Prefect’s room I was petrified to see him, instead of
advancing to meet me, rush towards a cupboard, open the door, and fling
something hastily into it. After this he leaned against the door as
though to prevent my opening it.

“Excuse me,” he said, in a witty, mocking tone, “but I caught a violent
cold after your first visit. I have just put my overcoat—oh, only an
ugly old overcoat, not a warm one,” he added quickly, “but still an
overcoat—inside there, and there it now is, and I will take the key out
of the lock.”

He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came forward and
offered me a chair. But our conversation soon took a more serious turn,
for the news was very bad. For the last twelve days the ambulances had
been crowded with wounded men. Everything was in a bad way, home
politics as well as foreign politics. The Germans were advancing on
Paris. The army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta, Chanzy,
Bourbaki, and Trochu were organising a desperate defence. We talked for
some time about all these sad things, and I told him about the painful
impression I had had on my last visit to the Tuileries, of my
remembrance of every one, so brilliant, so considerate, and so happy
formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at present. We were silent for a
moment, and then I shook hands with him, told him I had received all he
had sent, and returned to my ambulance.

The Prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of brandy; 30,000
eggs, all packed in boxes with lime and bran; a hundred bags of coffee
and boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert biscuits, a thousand tins of
preserves, and a quantity of other things.

M. Menier, the great chocolate manufacturer, had sent me five hundred
pounds of chocolate. One of my friends, a flour dealer, had made me a
present of twenty sacks of flour, ten of which were maize flour. This
flour dealer was the one who had asked me to be his wife when I was at
the Conservatoire. Félix Potin, my neighbour when I was living at 11
Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels
of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two sacks
of lentils, and twenty sugar-loaves. From M. de Rothschild I had
received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of his own wine for
the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected present. Léonie
Dubourg, an old school-fellow of mine at the Grand-Champs convent, sent
me fifty tin boxes each containing four pounds of salt butter. She had
married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated his own farms,
which it seems were very numerous. I was very much touched at her
remembering me, for I had never seen her since the old days at the
convent. I had also asked for all the overcoats and slippers of my
various friends, and I had bought up a job lot of two hundred flannel
vests. My Aunt Betsy, my blind grandmother’s sister, who is still living
in Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed to get for me,
through the charming Ambassador for the Netherlands, three hundred
night-shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a hundred pairs of sheets.
I received lint and bandages from every corner of Paris, but it was more
particularly from the Palais de l’Industrie that I used to get my
provisions of lint and of linen for binding wounds. There was an
adorable woman there, named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all
the ambulances. All that she did was done with a cheerful gracefulness,
and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused sorrowfully, but
still in a gracious manner. She was at that time over thirty years of
age, and although unmarried she looked more like a very young married
woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes, and a laughing mouth, a
deliciously oval face, little dimples, and, crowning all this grace,
this dreamy expression, and this coquettish, inviting mouth, a wide
forehead like that of the Virgins painted by the early painters, rather
prominent, encircled by hair worn in smooth, wide, flat bandeaux,
separated by a faultless parting. The forehead seemed like the
protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle. Hocquigny was adored
and made much of by every one, but she remained invulnerable to all
homage. She was happy in being beloved, but she would not allow any one
to express affection for her.

At the Palais de l’Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated doctors
and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as the convalescents, were
all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny. As she and I were great
friends, she confided to me her observations and her sorrowful disdain.
Thanks to her, I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organised
my ambulance with a very small staff. My cook was installed in the
public _foyer_. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she
could make soups and herb-tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief
attendant. I had given him two assistants, and Madame Guérard, Madame
Lambquin, and I were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we
each went to bed one night in three. I preferred this to taking on some
woman whom I did not know. Madame Lambquin belonged to the Odéon, where
she used to take the part of the duennas. She was plain and had a common
face, but she was very talented. She talked loud and was very plain-
spoken. She called a spade a spade, and liked frankness and no under
meaning to things. At times she was a trifle embarrassing with the
crudeness of her words and her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert,
and devoted. My various friends who were on service at the
fortifications came to me in their free time to do my secretarial work.
I had to keep a book, which was shown every day to a sergeant who came
from the Val-de-Grâce military hospital, giving all details as to how
many men came into our ambulance, how many died, and how many recovered
and left. Paris was in a state of siege; no one could go far outside the
walls, and no news from outside could be received. The Germans were not,
however, round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then to
see me, and I had as head surgeon Dr. Duchesne, who gave up his whole
time, night and day, to the care of my poor men during the five months
that this truly frightful nightmare lasted.

I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion. It was
no longer the country in danger that kept my nerves strung up, but the
sufferings of all her children. There were all those who were away
fighting, those who were brought in to us wounded or dying; the noble
women of the people, who stood for hours and hours in the _queue_ to get
the necessary dole of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones
at home. Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theatre
windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and stamping
their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing—for that winter was
the most cruel one we had had for twenty years. Frequently one of these
poor, silent heroines was brought in to me, either in a swoon from
fatigue or struck down suddenly with congestion caused by cold. On
December 20 three of these unfortunate women were brought into the
ambulance. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost the big toe of
her right foot. The second was an enormously stout woman, who was
suckling her child, and her poor breasts were harder than wood. She
simply howled with pain. The youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen
to eighteen years of age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I
had had her placed to send her home. On December 24, there were fifteen
degrees of cold. I often sent Guillaume, our attendant, out with a
little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh! the suffering they must have
endured—those heart-broken mothers, those sisters and _fiancées_—in
their terrible dread. How excusable their rebellion seems during the
Commune, and even their bloodthirsty madness!

My ambulance was full. I had sixty beds, and was obliged to improvise
ten more. The soldiers were installed in the green-room and in the
general _foyer_, and the officers in a room which had been formerly the
refreshment-room of the theatre.

One day a young Breton, named Marie Le Gallec, was brought in. He had
been struck by a bullet in the chest and another in the wrist. Dr.
Duchesne bound up his chest firmly, and attended to his wrist. He then
said to me very simply:

“Let him have anything he likes—he is dying.”

I bent over his bed, and said to him:

“Tell me what would give you pleasure, Marie Le Gallec.”

“Soup,” he answered promptly, in the most comic way.

Madame Guérard hurried away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a
bowl of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the bowl on the little four-
legged wooden shelf, which was so convenient for the meals of our poor
sufferers. The wounded man looked up at me and said, “Barra.” I did not
understand, and he repeated, “Barra.” His poor chest caused him to hiss
out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his emphatic
request.

I sent immediately to the Marine Office, thinking that there would
surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my difficulty and my
ignorance of the Breton dialect.

I was informed that the word “barra” meant bread. I hurried at once to
Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up, and taking
it from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let
the pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle
of the broth, and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand
upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier
smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the
young priest from St. Sulpice who had my ambulance in charge arrived. I
had sent for him on hearing the doctor’s sad verdict. He laid his hand
gently on the young man’s shoulder, thus stopping the movement of his
arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the holy
cup.

“Oh,” he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the
steaming soup, he put his hands together.

We had arranged the two screens which we used for isolating the dead or
dying around his bed. He was left alone with the priest whilst I went on
my rounds to calm those who were chaffing, or help the believers raise
themselves for prayer. The young priest soon pushed aside the partition,
and I then saw Marie Le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his
abominable bread sop. He soon fell asleep but awoke before long and
asked for something to drink, and then died in a slight fit of choking.
Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came
into my ambulance, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely
upset me.

I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age, but I
could nevertheless see the cowardice of some of the men and the heroism
of many of the others. A young Savoyard, eighteen years old, had had his
forefinger shot off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he had done it
himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that. I noticed,
though, that, in spite of our nursing and care, the wound did not heal.
I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw that the
bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Madame Lambquin, who was
sitting up that night with Madame Guérard.

“Good; I will keep my eye on him. You go to sleep, my child, and rely on
me.”

The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught the young
man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife. I called him, and
told him that I should have to report this to the Val-de-Grâce Hospital.

He began to weep, and vowed to me that he would never do it again, and
five days later he was well. I signed the paper authorising him to leave
the ambulance, and he was sent to the army of the defence. I often
wondered what became of him. Another of our patients bewildered us too.
Each time that his wound seemed to be just on the point of healing up,
he had a violent attack of dysentery, which prevented him getting well.
This seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne, and he asked me to watch the
man. At the end of a considerable time we were convinced that our
wounded man had thought out the most comical scheme.

He slept next the wall, and therefore had no neighbour on the one side.
During the night he managed to file the brass of his bedstead. He put
the filings in a little pot which had been used for ointment of some
kind. A few drops of water and some salt mixed with this powdered brass
formed a poison which might have cost its inventor his life. I was
furious at this stratagem. I wrote to the Val-de-Grâce, and an ambulance
conveyance was sent to take this unpatriotic Frenchman away.

But side by side with these despicable men what heroism we saw! A young
captain was brought in one day. He was a tall fellow, a regular
Hercules, with a superb head and a frank expression. On my book he was
inscribed as Captain Menesson. He had been struck by a bullet at the top
of the arm, just at the shoulder. With a nurse’s assistance I was trying
as gently as possible to take off his cloak, when three bullets fell
from the hood which he had pulled over his head, and I counted sixteen
bullet holes in the cloak. The young officer had stood upright for three
hours, serving as a target himself, whilst covering the retreat of his
men as they fired all the time on the enemy. This had taken place among
the Champigny vines. He had been brought in unconscious, in an ambulance
conveyance. He had lost a great deal of blood, and was half dead with
fatigue and weakness. He was very gentle and charming, and thought
himself sufficiently well two days later to return to the fight. The
doctor, however, would not allow this, and his sister, who was a nun,
besought him to wait until he was something like well again.

“Oh, not quite well,” she said, smiling, “but just well enough to have
strength to fight.”

Soon after he came into the ambulance the Cross of the Legion of Honour
was brought to him, and this was a moment of intense emotion for every
one. The unfortunate wounded men who could not move turned their
suffering faces towards him, and, with their eyes shining through a mist
of tears, gave him a fraternal look. The stronger amongst them held out
their hands to the young giant.

It was Christmas-eve, and I had decorated the ambulance with festoons of
green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels in front of the Virgin
Mary, and the young priest from St. Sulpice came to take part in our
poor but poetical Christmas service. He repeated some beautiful prayers,
and the wounded men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad
solemn songs full of charm.

Porel, the present manager of the Vaudeville Theatre, had been wounded
on the Avron Plateau. He was then convalescent and was one of my
patients, together with two officers now ready to leave the ambulance.
That Christmas supper is one of my most charming and at the same time
most melancholy memories. It was served in the small room which we had
made into a bedroom. Our three beds were covered with draperies and
skins which I had had brought from home, and we used them as seats.
Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five metres of _boudin blanc_ (“white-
pudding”), the famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers who were
well enough were delighted with this delicacy. One of my friends had had
twenty large _brioche_ cakes made for me, and I had ordered some large
bowls of punch, the coloured flames from which amused the grown-up sick
children immensely. The young priest from St. Sulpice accepted a piece
of _brioche_, and after taking a little white wine left us. Ah, how
charming and good he was, that poor young priest! And how well he
managed to make Fortin, the insupportable wounded fellow, cease talking.
Gradually the latter began to get humanised, until finally he began to
think the priest was a good sort of fellow. Poor young priest! He was
shot by the Communists. I cried for days and days over the murder of
this young St. Sulpice priest.




                                  XVII
                            PARIS BOMBARDED


The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy held Paris day by
day in a still closer grip. Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold
enveloped the city, and poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only slightly
wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal, their brain
numbed and their body half frozen.

No more news could be received from outside, but thanks to the United
States Minister, who had resolved to remain in Paris, a letter arrived
from time to time. It was in this way that I received a thin slip of
paper, as soft as a primrose petal, bringing me the following message:
“Every one well. Courage. A thousand kisses.—Your mother.” This
impalpable missive dated from seventeen days previously.

And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at The Hague all
this time, and my mind, which had been continually travelling in their
direction, had been wandering along the wrong route, towards Hâvre,
where I thought they were settled down quietly at the house of a cousin
of my father’s mother.

Where were they, and with whom?

I had two aunts at The Hague, but the question was, were they there? I
no longer knew what to think, and from that moment I never ceased
suffering the most anxious and torturing mental distress.

I was doing all in my power just then to procure some wood for fires.
Comte de Kératry had sent me a large provision before his departure to
the provinces in a balloon on October 9. My stock was growing very
short, and I would not allow what we had in the cellars to be touched,
so that in case of an emergency we should not be absolutely without any.
I had all the little footstools belonging to the theatre used for
firewood, all the wooden cases in which the properties were kept, a good
number of old Roman benches, arm-chairs and curule chairs, that were
stowed away under the theatre, and indeed everything which came to hand.
Finally, taking pity on my despair, pretty Mlle. Hocquigny sent me ten
thousand kilograms of wood, and then I took courage again.

I had been told about some new system of keeping meat, by which the meat
lost neither its juice nor its nutritive quality. I sent Madame Guérard
to the _Mairie_ in the neighbourhood of the Odéon, where such provisions
were distributed, but some brute answered her that when I had removed
all the religious images from my ambulance I should receive the
necessary food. M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary holding an
influential post, had been to inspect my ambulance. The important
personage had requested me to have the beautiful white Virgins which
were on the mantelpieces and tables taken away, as well as the Divine
Crucified—one hanging on the wall of each room in which there were any
of the wounded. I refused in a somewhat insolent and very decided way to
act in accordance with the wish of my visitor, whereupon the famous
Republican turned his back on me and gave orders that I should be
refused everything at the _Mairie_. I was very determined, however, and
I moved heaven and earth until I succeeded in getting inscribed on the
lists for distribution of food, in spite of the orders of the chief. It
is only fair to say that the mayor was a charming man. Madame Guérard
returned, after her third visit, with a child pushing a hand-barrow
containing ten enormous bottles of the miraculous meat. I received the
precious consignment with infinite joy, for my men had been almost
without meat for the last three days, and the beloved _pot-au-feu_ was
an almost necessary resource for the poor wounded fellows. On all the
bottles were directions as to opening them: “Let the meat soak so many
hours,” &c. &c.

Madame Lambquin, Madame Guérard, and I, together with all the staff of
the infirmary, were soon grouped anxiously and inquisitively around
these glass receptacles.

I told the head attendant to open the largest of the bottles, in which
through the thick glass we could see an enormous piece of beef
surrounded by thick, muddled-looking water. The string fastened round
the rough paper which hid the cork was cut, and then, just as the man
was about to put the corkscrew in, a deafening explosion was heard and a
rank odour filled the room. Every one rushed away terrified. I called
them all back, scared and disgusted as they were, and showed them the
following words on the directions: “Do not be alarmed at the bad odour
on opening the bottle.” Courageously and with resignation we resumed our
work, though we felt sick all the time from the abominable exhalation. I
took the beef out and placed it on a dish that had been brought for the
purpose. Five minutes later this meat turned blue and then black, and
the stench from it was so unbearable that I decided to throw it away.
Madame Lambquin was wiser, though, and more reasonable.

“No, oh no, my dear girl,” she said; “in these times it will not do to
throw meat away, even though it may be rotten. Let us put it in the
glass bottle again and send it back to the _Mairie_.”

I followed her wise advice, and it was a very good thing I did, for
another ambulance, installed at Boulevard Medicis, on opening these
bottles of meat had been as horrified as we were, and had thrown the
contents into the street. A few minutes after the crowd had gathered
round in a mob, and, refusing to listen to anything, had yelled out
insults addressed to “the aristocrats,” “the clericals,” and “the
traitors,” who were throwing good meat, intended for the sick, into the
street, so that the dogs were enjoying it, while the people were
starving with hunger, &c. &c.

It was with the greatest difficulty that the wretched, mad people had
been prevented from invading the ambulance, and when one of the
unfortunate nurses had gone out, later on, she had been mobbed and
beaten until she was left half dead from fright and blows. She did not
want to be carried back to her own ambulance, and the druggist begged me
to take her in. I kept her for a few days, in one of the upper tier
boxes of the theatre, and when she was better she asked if she might
stay with me as a nurse. I granted her wish, and kept her with me
afterwards as a maid.

She was a fair-haired girl, gentle and timid, and was pre-destined for
misfortune. She was found dead in the Père Lachaise cemetery after the
skirmish between the Communists and the Versailles troop. A stray bullet
struck her in the back of the neck as she was praying at the grave of
her little sister, who had died two days before from small-pox. I had
taken her with me to St. Germain, where I had gone to stay during the
horrors of the Commune. Poor girl! I had allowed her to go to Paris very
much against my own will.

As we could not count on this preserved meat for our food, I made a
contract with a knacker, who agreed to supply me, at rather a high
price, with horse flesh, and until the end this was the only meat we had
to eat. Well prepared and well seasoned, it was very good.

Hope had now fled from all hearts, and we were living in the expectation
of we knew not what. An atmosphere of misfortune seemed to hang like
lead over us, and it was a sort of relief when the bombardment commenced
on December 27. At last we felt that something new was happening! It was
an era of fresh suffering. There was some stir, at any rate. For the
last fortnight the fact of not knowing anything had been killing us.

On January 1, 1871, we lifted our glasses to the health of the absent
ones, to the repose of the dead, and the toast choked us with such a
lump in our throats.

Every night we used to hear the dismal cry of “Ambulance! Ambulance!”
underneath the windows of the Odéon. We went down to meet the pitiful
procession, and one, two, or sometimes three conveyances would be there,
full of our poor, wounded soldiers. There would be ten or twelve rows of
them, lying or sitting up on the straw. I said that I had room for one
or two, and, lifting the lantern, I looked into the conveyance, and the
faces would then turn slowly towards the lamp. Some of the men would
close their eyes, as they were too weak to bear even that feeble light.
With the help of the sergeant who accompanied the conveyance and our
attendant, one of the unfortunates would with difficulty be lifted into
the narrow litter on which he was to be carried up to the ambulance.

Oh, what sorrowful anguish it was for me when, on lifting the patient’s
head, I discovered that it was getting heavy, oh, so heavy! And when
bending over that inert face I felt that there was no longer any breath!
The sergeant would then give the order to take him back, and the poor
dead man was put in his place and another wounded man was lifted out.

The other dying men would then move back a little, in order not to
profane the dead.

Ah, what grief it was when the sergeant said: “Do try to take one or two
more in! It is a pity to drag these poor chaps about from one ambulance
to another. The Val-de-Grâce is full.”

“Very well, I will take two more,” I would say, and then I wondered
where we should put them. We had to give up our own beds, and in this
way the poor fellows were saved. Ever since January 1 we had all three
been sleeping every night at the ambulance. We had some loose dressing-
gowns of thick grey flannel, not unlike the soldiers’ cloaks. The first
of us who heard a cry or a groan sprang out of bed, and if necessary
called the other two.

On January 10, Madame Guérard and I were sitting up at night, on one of
the lounges in the green-room, awaiting the dismal cry of “Ambulance!”
There had been a fierce affray at Clamart, and we knew there would be
many wounded. I was telling her of my fear that the bombs which had
already reached the Museum, the Sorbonne, the Salpétrière, the Val-de-
Grâce, &c., would fall on the Odéon.

“Oh, but, my dear Sarah,” said the sweet woman, “the ambulance flag is
waving so high above it that there could be no mistake. If it were
struck it would be purposely, and that would be abominable.”

“But, Guérard,” I replied, “why should you expect these execrable
enemies of ours to be better than we are ourselves? Did we not behave
like savages at Berlin in 1806?”

“But at Paris there are such admirable public monuments,” she urged.

“Well, and was not Moscow full of masterpieces? The Kremlin is one of
the finest buildings in the world. That did not prevent us giving that
admirable city up to pillage. Oh no, my poor _petit Dame_, do not
deceive yourself. Armies may be Russian, German, French, or Spanish, but
they _are_ armies—that is, they are beings which form an impersonal
‘whole,’ a ‘whole’ that is ferocious and irresponsible. The Germans will
bombard the whole of Paris if the possibility of doing so should be
offered them. You must make up your mind to that, my dear Guérard——”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  _From the portrait in the Théâtre Français_
]

I had not finished my sentence when a terrible detonation roused the
whole neighbourhood from its slumbers. Madame Guérard and I had been
seated opposite each other. We found ourselves standing up close
together in the middle of the room, terrified. My poor cook, her face
quite white, came to me for safety. The detonations continued rather
frequently. The bombarding had commenced from our side that night. I
went round to the wounded men, but they did not seem to be much
disturbed. Only one, a boy of fifteen, whom we had surnamed “pink baby,”
was sitting up in bed. When I went to him to soothe him he showed me his
little medal of the Holy Virgin.

“It is thanks to her that I was not killed,” he said. “If they would put
the Holy Virgin on the ramparts of Paris the bombs would not come.”

He lay down again then, holding his little medal in his hand, and the
bombarding continued until six in the morning. “Ambulance! Ambulance!”
we then heard, and Madame Guérard and I went down. “Here,” said the
sergeant, “take this man. He is losing all his blood, and if I take him
any farther he will not arrive living.” The wounded man was put on the
litter, but as he was German, I asked the sub-officer to take all his
papers and hand them in at the Ministry. We gave the man the place of
one of the convalescents, whom I installed elsewhere. I asked him his
name, and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer, and that he was a soldier
of the Silesian Landwehr. He then fainted from weakness caused by loss
of blood. But he soon came to himself again with our care, and I then
asked him whether he wanted anything, but he did not answer a word. I
supposed that he did not speak French, and, as there was no one at the
ambulance who spoke German, I waited until the next day to send for some
one who knew his language. I must own that the poor man was not welcomed
by his dormitory companions. A soldier named Fortin, who was twenty-
three years of age and a veritable child of Paris, a comical fellow,
mischievous, droll, and good-natured, never ceased railing against the
young German, who on his side never flinched. I went several times to
Fortin and begged him to be quiet, but it was all in vain. Every fresh
outbreak of his was greeted with wild laughter, and his success put him
into the gayest of humours, so that he continued, getting more and more
excited. The others were prevented from sleeping, and he moved about
wildly in his bed, bursting out into abusive language when too abrupt a
movement intensified his suffering. The unfortunate fellow had had his
sciatic nerve torn by a bullet, and he had to endure the most atrocious
pain.

After my third fruitless appeal for silence I ordered the two men
attendants to carry him into a room where he would be alone. He sent for
me, and when I went to him promised to behave well all night long. I
therefore countermanded the order I had given, and he kept his word. The
following day I had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a
young Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a shell,
and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity.

One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to see whether the
Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man’s face lighted up on hearing
his own language, and then, turning to me, he said:

“I understand French quite well, Madame, and if I listened calmly to the
horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was because I know that
you cannot hold out two days longer, and I can understand his
exasperation.”

“And why do you think that we cannot hold out?”

“Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats.”

Dr. Duchesne had just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible wound
which the patient had in his thigh.

“Well,” he said, “my friend, as soon as your fever has decreased you
shall eat an excellent wing of chicken.” The German shrugged his
shoulders, and the doctor continued, “Meanwhile drink this, and tell me
what you think of it.”

Dr. Duchesne gave him a glass of water, with a little of the excellent
cognac which the Prefect had sent me. That was the only _tisane_ that my
soldiers took. The Silesian said no more, but he put on the reserved,
circumspect manner of people who know and will not speak.

The bombardment continued, and the ambulance flag certainly served as a
target for our enemies, for they fired with surprising exactitude, and
altered their firing directly a bomb fell any distance from the
neighbourhood of the Luxembourg. Thanks to this, we had more than twelve
bombs one night. These dismal shells, when they burst in the air, were
like the fireworks at a _fête_. The shining splinters then fell down,
black and deadly. Georges Boyer, who at that time was a young
journalist, came to call on me at the ambulance, and I told him about
the terrifying splendours of the night.

“Oh, how much I should like to see all that!” he said.

“Come this evening, towards nine or ten o’clock, and you will see,” I
replied.

We spent several hours at the little round window of my dressing-room,
which looked out towards Châtillon. It was from there that the Germans
fired the most.

We listened, in the silence of the night, to the muffled sounds coming
from yonder; there would be a light, a formidable noise in the distance,
and the bomb arrived, falling in front of us or behind, bursting either
in the air or on reaching its goal. Once we had only just time to draw
back quickly, and even then the disturbance in the atmosphere affected
us so violently that for a second we were under the impression that we
had been struck.

The shell had fallen just underneath my dressing-room, grazing the
cornice, which it dragged down in its fall to the ground, where it burst
feebly. But what was our amazement to see a little crowd of children
swoop down on the burning pieces, just like a lot of sparrows on fresh
manure when the carriage has passed! The little vagabonds were
quarrelling over the _débris_ of these engines of warfare. I wondered
what they could possibly do with them.

“Oh, there is not much mystery about it,” said Boyer; “these little
starving urchins will sell them.”

This proved to be true. One of the men attendants, whom I sent to find
out, brought back with him a child of about ten years old.

“What are you going to do with that, my little man?” I asked him,
picking up the piece of shell, which was warm and still dangerous, on
the edge where it had burst.

“I am going to sell it,” he replied.

“What for?”

“To buy my turn in the _queue_ when the meat is being distributed.”

“But you risk your life, my poor child. Sometimes the shells come
quickly, one after the other. Where were you when this one fell?”

“Lying down on the stone of the wall that supports the iron railings.”
He pointed across to the Luxembourg Gardens, opposite the stage entrance
to the Odéon.

We bought up all the _débris_ that the child had, without attempting to
give him advice which might have sounded wise. What was the use of
preaching wisdom to this poor little creature, who heard of nothing but
massacres, fire, revenge, retaliation, and all the rest of it, for the
sake of honour, for the sake of religion, for the sake of right?
Besides, how was it possible to keep out of the way? All the people
living in the Faubourg St. Germain were liable to be blown to pieces, as
the enemy very luckily could only bombard Paris on that side, and not at
every point. No; we were certainly in the most dangerous neighbourhood.

One day Baron Larrey came to see Frantz Mayer, who was very ill. He
wrote a prescription which a young errand boy was told to wait for and
bring back very, very quickly. As the boy was rather given to loitering,
I went to the window. His name was Victor, but we called him “Toto.” The
druggist lived at the corner of the Place Medicis. It was then six
o’clock in the evening. Toto looked up, and on seeing me he began to
laugh and jump as he hurried to the druggist’s. He had only five or six
more yards to go, and as he turned round to look up at my window I
clapped my hands and called out, “Good! Be quick back!” Alas! Before the
poor boy could open his mouth to reply he was cut in two by a shell
which had just fallen. It did not burst, but bounced a yard high, and
then struck poor Toto right in the middle of the chest. I uttered such a
shriek that every one came rushing to me. I could not speak, but pushed
every one aside and rushed downstairs, beckoning for some one to come
with me. “A litter”—“the boy”—“the druggist”—I managed to articulate.
Ah, what a horror, what an awful horror! When we reached the poor child
his intestines were all over the ground, his chest and his poor little
red chubby face had the flesh entirely taken off. He had neither eyes,
nose, nor mouth; nothing, nothing but some hair at the end of a
shapeless, bleeding mass, a yard away from his head. It was as though a
tiger had torn open the body with its claws and emptied it with fury and
a refinement of cruelty, leaving nothing but the poor little skeleton.

Baron Larrey, who was the best of men, turned slightly pale at this
sight. He saw plenty such, certainly, but this poor little fellow was a
quite useless holocaust. Ah, the injustice, the infamy of war! Will the
much dreamed of time never come when wars are no longer possible; when
the monarch who wants war will be dethroned and imprisoned as a
malefactor? Will the time never come when there will be a cosmopolitan
council, where a wise man of every country will represent his nation,
and where the rights of humanity will be discussed and respected? So
many men think as I do, so many women talk as I do, and yet nothing is
done. The pusillanimity of an Oriental, the ill humour of a sovereign,
may still bring thousands of men face to face. And there will still be
men who are so learned, chemists who spend their time in dreaming about,
and inventing a powder to blow everything up, bombs that will wound
twenty or thirty men, guns repeating their deadly task until the bullets
fall, spent themselves, after having torn open ten or twelve human
breasts.

A man whom I liked very much was busy experimenting how to steer
balloons. To achieve that means a realisation of my dream, namely, to
fly in the air, to approach the sky, and have under one’s feet the
moist, down-like clouds. Ah, how interested I was in my friend’s
researches! One day, though, he came to me very much excited with a new
discovery.

“I have discovered something about which I am wild with delight!” he
said. He then began to explain to me that his balloon would be able to
carry inflammable matter without the least danger, thanks to this and
thanks to that.

“But what for?” I asked, bewildered by his explanations and half crazy
with so many technical words.

“What for?” he repeated; “why, for war!” he replied. “We shall be able
to fire and to throw terrible bombs to a distance of a thousand, twelve
hundred, and even fifteen hundred yards, and it would be impossible for
us to be harmed at such a distance. My balloons, thanks to a substance
which is my invention, with which the covering would be coated, would
have nothing to fear from fire nor yet from gas.”

“I do not want to know anything more about you or your invention,” I
said, interrupting him brusquely. “I thought you were a humane savant,
and you are a wild beast. Your researches were in connection with the
most beautiful manifestation of human genius, with those evolutions in
the sky which I loved so dearly. You want now to transform these into
cowardly attacks turned against the earth. You horrify me! Do go!”

With this I left my friend to himself and his cruel invention, ashamed
for a moment. His efforts have not succeeded, though, according to his
wishes.

The remains of the poor lad were put into a small coffin, and Madame
Guérard and I followed the pauper’s hearse to the grave. The morning was
so cold that the driver had to stop and take a glass of hot wine, as
otherwise he might have died of congestion. We were alone in the
carriage, for the boy had been brought up by his grandmother, who could
not walk at all, and who knitted vests and stockings. It was through
going to order some vests and socks for my men that I had made the
acquaintance of Mère Tricottin, as she was called. At her request I had
engaged her grandson, Victor Durieux, as an errand boy, and the poor old
woman had been so grateful that I dared not go now to tell her of his
death.

Madame Guérard went for me to the Rue de Vaugirard, where the old woman
lived. As soon as she arrived the poor grandmother could see by her sad
face that something had happened.

“_Bon Dieu_, my dear Madame, is the poor little thin lady dead?” This
referred to me. Madame Guérard then told her, as gently as possible, the
sad news. The old woman took off her spectacles, looked at her visitor,
wiped them, and put them on her nose again. She then began to grumble
violently about her son, the father of the dead boy. He had taken up
with some low girl, by whom he had had this child, and she had always
foreseen that misfortune would come upon them through it.

She continued in this strain, not sorrowing for the poor boy, but
abusing her son, who was a soldier in the Army of the Loire.

Although the grandmother seemed to feel so little grief, I went to see
her after the funeral.

“It is all over, Madame Durieux,” I said. “But I have secured the grave
for a period of five years for the poor boy.”

She turned towards me, quite comic in her vexation.

“What madness!” she exclaimed. “Now that he’s with the _bon Dieu_ he
won’t want for anything. It would have been better to have taken a bit
of land that would have brought something in. Dead folks don’t make
vegetables grow.”

This outburst was so terribly logical that, in spite of the odious
brutality of it, I yielded to Mère Tricottin’s desire, and gave her the
same present I had given to the boy. They should each have their bit of
land. The child, who had had a right to a longer life, should sleep his
eternal sleep in his, whilst the old woman could wrest from hers the
remainder of her life, for which death was lying in wait.

I returned to the ambulance, sad and unnerved. A joyful surprise was
awaiting me. A friend of mine was there, holding in his hand a very
small piece of tissue paper, on which were the following two lines in my
mother’s handwriting: “We are all very well, and at Homburg.” I was
furious on reading this. At Homburg? All my family at Homburg, settling
down tranquilly in the enemy’s country. I racked my brains to think by
what extraordinary combination my mother had gone to Homburg. I knew
that my pretty Aunt Rosine had a lady friend there, with whom she stayed
every year, for she always spent two months at Homburg, two at Baden-
Baden, and one month at Spa, as she was the greatest gambler that the
_bon Dieu_ ever created. Anyhow, those who were so dear to me were all
well, and that was the important point. But I was nevertheless annoyed
with my mother for going to Homburg.

I heartily thanked the friend who had brought me the little slip of
paper. It was sent to me by the American Minister, who had put himself
to no end of trouble in order to give help and consolation to the
Parisians. I then gave him a few lines for my mother, in case he might
be able to send them to her.

The bombardment of Paris continued. One night the brothers from the
Ecole Chrétienne came to ask us for conveyances and help, in order to
collect the dead on the Châtillon Plateau. I let them have my two
conveyances, and I went with them to the battle-field. Ah, what a
terrible memory! It was like a scene from Dante! It was an icy cold
night, and we could scarcely move along. Finally, by the light of
torches and lanterns, we saw that we had arrived. I got out of the
vehicle with the infirmary attendant and his assistant. We had to move
slowly, as at every step we trod upon the dying or the dead. We passed
along murmuring, “Ambulance! Ambulance!” When we heard a groan we turned
our steps in the direction whence it came. Ah, the first man that I
found in this way! He was half lying down, his body supported by a heap
of dead. I raised my lantern to look at his face, and found that his ear
and part of his jaw had been blown off. Great clots of blood, coagulated
by the cold, hung from his lower jaw. There was a wild look in his eyes.
I took a wisp of straw, dipped it in my flask, drew up a few drops of
brandy, and blew them into the poor fellow’s mouth between his teeth. I
repeated this three or four times. A little life then came back to him,
and we took him away in one of the vehicles. The same thing was done for
the others. Some of them could drink from the flask, which made our work
shorter. One of these unfortunate men was frightful to look at. A shell
had taken all the clothes from the upper part of his body, with the
exception of two ragged sleeves, which hung from the arms at the
shoulders. There was no trace of a wound, but his poor body was marked
all over with great black patches, and the blood was oozing slowly from
the corners of his mouth. I went nearer to him, for it seemed to me that
he was breathing. I had a few drops of the vivifying cordial given to
him, and he then half opened his eyes and said, “Thank you.” He was
lifted into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from an attack of
hæmorrhage, covering all the other wounded men with a stream of dark
blood.

Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn. The lanterns had
burnt out, but we could now distinguish each other. There were about a
hundred persons there: sisters of charity, military and civil male
hospital attendants, the brothers from the Ecole Chrétienne, other
priests, and a few ladies who, like myself, had given themselves up
heart and soul to the service of the wounded.

The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the night had
hidden in the shadows appeared then in the tardy, wan light of that
January morning.

There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport them all,
and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness. Other vehicles kept
arriving, but there were so many wounded, so very many. A number of
those who had only slight wounds had died of cold.

On returning to the ambulance I met one of my friends at the door. He
was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded
at the fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was
entered as Désiré Bloas, boatswain’s mate, age 27. He was a magnificent
fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words. As soon as he was in
bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to shave him, as his bushy whiskers
had been ravaged by a bullet that had lodged itself in the salivary
gland, carrying with it hair and flesh into the wound. The surgeon took
up his pincers to extract the pieces of flesh which had stopped up the
opening of the wound. He then had to take some very fine pincers to
extract the hairs which had been forced in. When the barber laid his
razor very gently near the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid and
an oath escaped his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered,
“Pardon, Mademoiselle.” I was very young, but I appeared much younger
than my age; I looked like a very young girl, in fact. I was holding the
poor fellow’s hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds
of consoling words that spring from a woman’s heart to her lips when she
has to soothe moral or physical suffering.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed,
“you gave me courage.”

When he was more at his ease I asked him if he would like something to
eat.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?” asked Madame
Lambquin.

“Sweets,” replied the powerful-looking fellow, smiling.

Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest.
He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but he seemed to have a
terrible grudge against his father, for one day, when I asked him
whether his father was still living, he looked up with his fearless eyes
and appeared to fix them on a being only visible to himself, as though
challenging him, with an expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas!
the brave fellow was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that
later.

The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their effect on
the _morale_ of the Parisians. Bread had just been rationed out: there
were to be 300 grammes for adults and 150 grammes for children. A silent
fury took possession of the people at this news. Women were the most
courageous, the men were excited. Quarrels grew bitter, for some wanted
war to the very death, and others wanted peace.

One day when I entered Frantz Mayer’s room to take him his meal, he went
into the most ridiculous rage. He threw his piece of chicken down on the
ground, and declared that he would not eat anything, nothing more at
all, for they had deceived him by telling him that the Parisians had not
enough food to last two days before surrendering, and he had been in the
ambulance seventeen days now, and was having chicken. What the poor
fellow did not know was that I had bought about forty chickens and six
geese at the beginning of the siege, and I was feeding them up in my
dressing-room in the Rue de Rome. Oh, my dressing-room was very pretty
just then; but I let Frantz believe that all Paris was full of chickens,
ducks, geese, and other domestic bipeds.

The bombardment continued, and one night I had to have all my patients
transported to the Odéon cellars, for when Madame Guérard was helping
one of the sick men to get back into bed, a shell fell on the bed
itself, between her and the officer. It makes me shudder even now to
think that three minutes sooner the unfortunate man would have been
killed as he lay in bed, although the shell did not burst.

We could not stay long in the cellars. The water was getting deeper in
them, and rats tormented us. I therefore decided that the ambulance must
be moved, and I had the worst of the patients conveyed to the Val-de-
Grâce Hospital. I kept about twenty men who were on the road to
convalescence. I rented an immense empty flat for them at 58 Rue
Taitbout, and it was there that we awaited the armistice.

I was half dead with anxiety, as I had had no news from my own family
for a long time. I could not sleep, and had become the very shadow of my
former self.

Jules Favre was entrusted with the negotiations with Bismarck. Oh, those
two days of preliminaries! They were the most unnerving days of any for
the besieged. False reports were spread. We were told of the maddest and
most exorbitant demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly were
not tender to the vanquished.

There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two
hundred million francs in cash immediately, for our finances were in
such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be
able to make up the sum of two hundred millions.

Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and
brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions. This fine
deed was soon forgotten, and there are even people who gainsay it.

Ah, the ingratitude of the masses is a disgrace to civilised humanity!
“Ingratitude is the evil peculiar to the white races,” said a Red-skin,
and he was right.

When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for twenty days, a
frightful sadness took possession of us all, even of those who most
ardently wished for peace.

Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror. It was the
brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable treaty of peace.

Oh, that 31st of January 1871! I remember so well that I was anæmic from
privation, undermined by grief, tortured with anxiety about my family,
and I went out with Madame Guérard and two friends towards the Parc
Monceau. Suddenly one of my friends, M. de Plancy, turned as pale as
death. I looked to see what was the matter, and noticed a soldier
passing by. He had no weapons. Two others passed, and they also had no
weapons. And they were so pale too, these poor disarmed soldiers, these
humble heroes; there was such evident grief and hopelessness in their
very gait; and their eyes, as they looked at us women, seemed to say,
“It is not our fault!” It was all so pitiful, so touching. I burst out
sobbing, and went back home at once, for I did not want to meet any more
disarmed French soldiers.

I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in search of my family.
I asked Paul de Rémusat to get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order
to obtain from him a passport for leaving Paris. But I could not go
alone. I felt that the journey I was about to undertake was a very
dangerous one. M. Thiers and Paul de Rémusat had warned me of this. I
could see, therefore, that I should be constantly in the society of my
travelling companion, and on this account I decided not to take a
servant with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to Madame
Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely to let
her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad and dangerous. Mad
it certainly was, and dangerous too.

I did not insist, but I sent for my son’s governess, Mlle. Soubise. I
asked her whether she would go with me, and did not attempt to conceal
from her any of the dangers of the journey. She jumped with joy, and
said she would be ready within twelve hours. This girl is at present the
wife of Commandant Monfils Chesneau. And how strange life is, for she is
now teaching the two daughters of my son, her former pupil.

Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and in appearance like a Creole. She
had very beautiful dark eyes, with a gentle, timid expression, and the
voice of a child. Her head, however, was full of adventure, romance, and
day-dreams. In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young
girls, for, although I was older than she was, my slenderness and my
face made me look younger. It would have been absurd to try to take a
trunk with us, so I took a bag for us both. We only had a change of
linen and some stockings. I had my revolver, and I offered one to Mlle.
Soubise, but she refused it with horror, and showed me an enormous pair
of scissors in an enormous case.

“But what are you going to do with them?” I asked.

“I shall kill myself if we are attacked,” she replied.

I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was taking a
revolver, determined to protect myself by killing others; she was
determined to protect herself by killing herself.




                                 XVIII
                A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES


On February 4 we started on this journey, which was to have lasted three
days, and lasted eleven. At the first gate at which I presented myself
for leaving Paris I was sent back in the most brutal fashion.
Permissions to go outside the city had to be submitted for signature at
the German outposts. I went to another gate, but it was only at the
postern gate of Poissonniers that I could get my passport signed.

We were taken into a little shed which had been transformed into an
office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked me up and down,
and then said:

“Are you Sarah Bernhardt?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And this young lady is with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you think you are going to cross easily?”

“I hope so.”

“Well then, you are mistaken, and you would do better to stay inside
Paris.”

“No; I want to leave. I’ll see myself what will happen, but I want to
leave.”

He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something I did not
understand in German, and then went out, leaving us alone without our
passports.

We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I suddenly heard a
voice I knew. It was that of one of my friends, René Griffon, who had
heard of my departure, and had come after me to try to dissuade me. The
trouble he had taken was all in vain, though, as I was determined to
leave. The general returned soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know
what might happen to us.

“Everything!” returned the officer. “And worse than everything!”

Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about
us. This rather annoyed me, for, as I did not understand, I imagined
that he was urging the general to prevent us from starting. I
nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats.
A few minutes later a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the
shed.

“There you are!” said the German officer roughly. “I am sending you to
Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an
hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station-master, the
Commandant X. After that may God take care of you!”

I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my friend,
who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station,
where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The
coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him,
and drove away at full speed. I advanced towards the group, wondering to
whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed, “What, you here!
Where have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret, the
tenor in vogue at the Opéra. He was going to his young wife, I believe,
of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his
friends, who was travelling with him, and whose name I do not remember;
General Pelissier’s son, and a very old man, so pale, and so sad-looking
and woebegone, that I felt quite sorry for him. He was a M. Gerson, and
was going to Belgium to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His two
sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was
married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the
orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as
possible afterwards.

Ah, the poor fellow, he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly
ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy.

Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer named
Théodore Joussian, a wine dealer. Oh, he did not require any
introduction.

“How do you do, Madame?” he began. “How fortunate that you are going to
travel with us. Ah, the journey will be a difficult one. Where are you
going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all the
routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and
thieves. Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German sharpshooters!
Sh—— We must speak quietly, though; these sly fellows are very quick of
hearing!” He then pointed to the German officers who were walking up and
down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went on. “If I had my uniform and my gun
they would not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussian. I have no
fewer than six helmets at home....”

The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see
which of the men before me could be the station-master.

A tall young German, with his arm in a sling, came towards me with an
open letter. It was the one which the general’s coachman had handed to
him, recommending me to his care. He held out his sound arm to me, but I
refused it. He bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by
Mlle. Soubise.

On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which
knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o’clock
in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water,
since the evening before. I was very much touched by this
thoughtfulness, and we did honour to the very simple but refreshing meal
offered us by the young officer.

Whilst we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing me. He was
very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a
compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man, who was crippled for
life, and my hatred for war increased still more.

He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French, “I think I can give you
news of one of your friends.”

“What is his name?” I asked.

“Emmanuel Bocher.”

“Oh yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How is he?”

“He is still a prisoner, but he is very well.”

“But I thought he had been released,” I said.

“Some of those who were taken with him were released, on giving their
word never to take up arms against us again, but he refused to give his
word.”

“Oh, the brave soldier!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself.

The young German looked at me with his clear sad eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply, “the brave soldier!”

When we had finished our luncheon I rose to return to the other
travellers.

“The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two hours,” said
the young officer. “If you would like to rest, ladies, I will come for
you at the right time.” He went away, and before long I was sound
asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue.

Mlle. Soubise touched me on the shoulder to rouse me. The train was
ready to start, and the young officer walked with me to it. I was a
little amazed when I saw the carriage in which I was to travel. It had
no roof, and was filled with coal. The officer had several empty sacks
put in, one on the top of the other, to make our seats less hard. He
sent for his officer’s cloak, begging me to take it with us and send it
him back, but I refused this odious disguise most energetically. It was
a deadly cold day, but I preferred dying of cold to muffling up in a
cloak belonging to the enemy.

The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the train
started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages. The
subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as brutish and
rude as the German officers were polite and courteous.

The train stopped without any plausible reason, it started again to stop
again, and it then stood still for an hour on this icy cold night. On
arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine-driver, the soldiers, and
every one else got out. I watched all these men, whistling, bawling to
each other, spitting, and bursting into laughter as they pointed to us.
Were they not the conquerors and we the conquered?

At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the distant sound
of foreign music and the hurrahs of Germans who were making merry. All
this hubbub came from a white house about five hundred yards away. We
could distinguish the outlines of human beings locked in each other’s
arms, waltzing and turning round and round in a giddy revel.

It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue until
daylight.

I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to stretch my limbs. We
went towards the white house, and then, as I did not want to tell him my
plan, I asked him to wait there for me.

Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the threshold
of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a cigarette, was
just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me in German.

“I am French,” I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking my
language, for they could all talk French.

He asked me what I was doing there. My nerves were overstrung. I told
him feverishly of our lamentable Odyssey since our departure from
Gonesse, and finally of our waiting two hours in an icy cold carriage
while the stokers, engine-drivers, and conductors were all dancing in
this house.

“But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages, and it
was I who gave permission to these men to dance and drink. The guard of
the train told me that he was taking cattle and goods, and that he did
not need to arrive before eight in the morning, and I believed him——”

“Well, Monsieur,” I said, “the only cattle in the train are the eight
French passengers, and I should be very much obliged if you would give
orders that the journey should be continued.”

“Make your mind easy about that, Madame,” he replied. “Will you come in
and rest? I am here just now on a round of inspection, and am staying
for a few days in this inn. You shall have a cup of tea, and that will
refresh you.”

I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road and a lady in
the railway carriage.

“But that makes no difference,” he said. “Let us go and fetch them.”

A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone. His
head was on his knees, and he was asleep. I asked him to fetch Mlle.
Soubise.

“And if your other travelling companions will come and take a cup of tea
they will be welcome,” said the officer. I went back with him, and we
entered by the little door through which I had seen him come out. It was
a fairly large room which we entered, on a level with the meadow; there
were some mats on the floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on
which were two large maps of France. One of these was studded over with
pins and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor William,
mounted and fastened up with four pins. All this belonged to the
officer.

On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a bride’s
wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On each side of the
glass shade was a china vase containing a branch of box. All this,
together with the table and the bed, belonged to the landlady, who had
given up her room to the officer.

There were five cane chairs round the table, a velvet arm-chair, and a
wooden bench covered with books against the wall. A sword and belt were
lying on the table, and two horse-pistols.

I was philosophising to myself on all these heterogeneous objects, when
the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young Gerson, and that
unbearable Théodore Joussian. (I hope he will forgive me if he is living
now, poor man, but the thought of him still irritates me.)

The officer had some boiling hot tea made for us, and it was a veritable
treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold.

When the door was opened for the tea to be brought in Théodore Joussian
caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and other people.

“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter, “we are at His
Majesty William’s; there is a reception on, and it’s _chic_—I can tell
you that!” With this he smacked his tongue twice. Villaret reminded him
that we were the guests of a German, and that it was preferable to be
quiet.

“That’s enough, that’s enough!” he replied, lighting a cigarette.

A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of the
deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner half
opened the door.

I could see the officer giving orders to two sub-officers, who in their
turn separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine-driver, and
the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that I was sorry for
them. They were kicked in the back, they received blows with the flat of
the sword on the shoulder; a blow with the butt end of a gun knocked the
guard of the train down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I have
ever seen. All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went back
towards our carriage with a hang-dog look and a threatening mien.

We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to what might
happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The officer evidently had a
similar idea, for he ordered one of the sub-officers to accompany us as
far as Amiens. This sub-officer got into our carriage, and we set off
again. We arrived at Amiens at six in the morning. Daylight had not yet
succeeded in piercing through the night clouds. Light rain was falling,
which was hardened by the cold. There was not a carriage to be had, not
even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hôtel du Cheval-Blanc, but a man
who happened to be there said to me: “It’s no use, my little lady;
there’s no room there, even for a lath like you. Go to the house over
there with a balcony; they can put some people up.”

With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had gone off without
saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson had disappeared silently in a
covered country cart hermetically closed. A stout, ruddy, thick-set
matronly woman was waiting for them, but the coachman looked as though
he were in the service of well-to-do people. General Pelissier’s son,
who had not uttered a word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared
like a ball from the hands of a conjurer.

Théodore Joussian politely offered to accompany us, and I was so weary
that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag and began to walk at
full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so
breathless with the walk that he could not talk, which was a great
relief to me.

Finally we arrived at the house and entered, but my horror was great on
seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed into a dormitory.
We could scarcely walk between the mattresses laid down on the ground,
and the grumbling of the people was by no means promising.

When once we were in the office a young girl in mourning told us that
there was not a room vacant. I sank down on a chair, and Mlle. Soubise
leaned against the wall with her arms hanging down, looking most
dejected.

The odious Joussian then yelled out that they could not let two women as
young as we were be out in the street all night. He went to the
proprietress of the hotel and said something quietly about me. I do not
know what it was, but I heard my name distinctly. The young woman in
mourning then looked up with moist eyes.

“My brother was a poet,” she said. “He wrote a very pretty sonnet about
you after seeing you play in _Le Passant_ more than ten times. He took
me, too, to see you, and I enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all
over, though.” She lifted her hands towards her head and sobbed, trying
to stifle back her cries. “It’s all over!” she repeated. “He is dead!
They have killed him! It is all over! All over!”

I got up, moved to the depth of my being by this terrible grief. I put
my arms round her and kissed her, crying myself, and whispering to her
words of comfort and hope.

Calmed by my words and touched by my sisterliness, she wiped her eyes,
and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise followed. I signed to
Joussian in an authoritative way to stay where he was, and we went up
the two flights of stairs of the hotel in silence. At the end of a
narrow corridor she opened a door. We found ourselves in rather a big
room, reeking with the smell of tobacco. A small night-lamp, placed on a
little table by the bed, was the only light in this large room. The
wheezing respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked
towards the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp I saw a man
half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man was aged-looking
rather than really old. His beard and hair were white, and his face bore
traces of suffering. Two large furrows were formed from the eyes to the
corners of the mouth. What tears must have rolled down that poor
emaciated face!

The girl went quietly towards the bed, signed to us to come inside the
room, and then shut the door. We walked across on tip-toes to the far
end of the room, our arms stretched out to maintain our equilibrium. I
sat down with precaution on a large Empire couch, and Soubise took a
seat beside me. The man in bed half opened his eyes.

“What is it, my child?” he asked.

“Nothing, father; nothing serious,” she replied. “I wanted to tell you,
so that you should not be surprised when you woke up. I have just given
hospitality in our room to two ladies who are here.”

He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look at us at the end
of the room.

“The lady with fair hair,” continued the girl, “is Sarah Bernhardt, whom
Lucien liked so much, you remember?”

The man sat up, and shading his eyes with his hand peered at us. I went
near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then made a gesture with his
hand. His daughter understood the gesture, and brought him an envelope
from a small bureau. The unhappy father’s hands trembled as he took it.
He drew out slowly three sheets of paper and a photograph. He fixed his
gaze on me and then on the portrait.

“Yes, yes; it certainly is you, it certainly is you,” he murmured.

I recognised my photograph, taken in _Le Passant_, smelling a rose.

“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, “you were this
child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about you.”

He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent,
a very pretty sonnet, which he refused to give me. He then unfolded a
second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The
third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our
victories over the enemy.

“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the father. “He
has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his head. The first
shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued firing on the
scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear off, and the
third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again.
His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And now—it’s
all over!”

The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert
hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale
cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his
lips. The girl had fallen on her knees, and buried her head in the bed-
clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were completely
upset. Ah! those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed to buzz in
my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I stretched my hands
out into space and closed my eyes.

Soon there was a distant rumbling noise, which increased and came
nearer; then yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, the dull
sound of horses’ feet dashing out human brains; armed men passed by like
a destructive whirlwind, shouting, “_Vive la guerre!_” And women on
their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out, “War is infamous! In
the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you,
in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over
your cradles, let this cease!”

But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched
my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in
the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A
man whom I did not know, but whom some one called doctor, laid me gently
down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my thoughts.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise. “You fainted,
and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been
very frightened!”

I turned my face to the doctor.

“Yes, dear lady,” he said. “You must be very prudent now for the next
forty-eight hours, and then you may set out again. But you have had a
great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must take
care.”

I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologised to the
owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my
face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.

Two days later I left our sad but kindly hosts. My travelling companions
had all disappeared. When I went downstairs I kept meeting Prussians,
for the unfortunate proprietor had been invaded compulsorily by the
German army. He looked at each soldier and at every officer, trying to
find out whether he were not in presence of the one who had killed his
poor boy. He did not tell me this, but it was my idea. It seemed to me
that such was his thought and such the meaning of his gaze.

In the vehicle in which I drove to the station the kind man had put a
basket of food. He also gave me a copy of the sonnet and a tracing of
his son’s photograph.

I left the desolate couple with the deepest emotion, and I kissed the
girl on taking our departure. Soubise and I did not exchange a word on
our journey to the railway station, but we were both preoccupied with
the same distressing thoughts.

At the station we found that the Germans were masters there too. I asked
for a first-class compartment to ourselves, or for a _coupé_, whatever
they liked, provided we were alone.

I could not make myself understood.

I saw a man, oiling the wheels of the carriages, who looked to me like a
Frenchman. I was not mistaken. He was an old man who had been kept on,
partly out of charity and partly because he knew every nook and corner,
and, being Alsatian, spoke German. This good man took me to the booking
office, and explained my wish to have a first-class compartment to
myself. The man who had charge of the ticket office burst out laughing.
There was neither first nor second class, he said. It was a German
train, and I should have to travel like every one else. The wheel-oiler
turned purple with rage, which he quickly suppressed. (He had to keep
his place. His consumptive wife was nursing their son, who had just been
sent home from the hospital with his leg cut off and the wound not yet
healed up. There were so many in the hospital.) All this he told me as
he took me to the station-master. The latter spoke French very well, but
he was not at all like the other German officers I had met.

He scarcely saluted me, and when I expressed my desire he replied
curtly:

“It is impossible. Two places shall be reserved for you in the officers’
carriage.”

“But that is what I want to avoid,” I exclaimed. “I do not want to
travel with German officers.”

“Well then, you shall be put with German soldiers,” he growled angrily,
and, putting on his hat, he went out slamming the door. I remained
there, amazed and confused by the insolence of this ignoble brute. I
turned so pale, it appears, and the blue of my eyes became so clear,
that Soubise, who was acquainted with my fits of anger, was very much
alarmed.

“Do be calm, Madame, I implore!” she said. “We are two women alone in
the midst of hostile people. If they liked to harm us they could, and we
must accomplish the aim and object of our journey; we must see little
Maurice again.”

She was very clever, this charming Mlle. Soubise, and her little speech
had the desired effect. To see the child again was my aim and object. I
calmed down, and vowed that I would not allow myself to get angry during
this journey, which promised to be fertile in incidents, and I almost
kept my word. I left the station-master’s office, and found the poor
Alsatian waiting at the door. I gave him a couple of louis, which he hid
away quickly, and then shook my hand as though he would shake it off.
“You ought not to have that so visible, Madame,” he said, pointing to
the little bag I had hanging at my side, “it is very dangerous.”

I thanked him, but did not pay any attention to his advice. As the train
was about to start we entered the only first-class compartment there
was; in it were two young German officers. They saluted, and I took this
as a good omen. The train whistled, and I thought what good luck we had,
as no one else would get in! Well, the wheels had not turned round ten
times when the door opened violently and five German officers leaped
into our carriage.

We were nine then, and what torture it was! The station-master waved a
farewell to one of the officers, and both of them burst out laughing as
they looked at us. I glanced at the station-master’s friend. He was a
surgeon-major, and was wearing the ambulance badge on his sleeve. His
wide face was congested, and a ring of sandy bushy beard surrounded the
lower part of it. Two little bright, light-coloured eyes in perpetual
movement lit up this ruddy face and gave him a sly look. He was broad-
shouldered and thick-set, and gave one the idea of having strength
without nerves. The horrid man was still laughing when the station and
its master were far away from us, but what the other one had said was
evidently very droll.

I was in a corner seat, with Soubise opposite me. A young German officer
sat beside me, and the other young officer was next to my friend. They
were both very gentle and polite, and one of them was quite delightful
in his youthful charm.

The surgeon-major took off his helmet. He was very bald, and had a very
small, stubborn-looking forehead. He began to talk in a loud voice to
the other officers.

Our two young bodyguards took very little part in the conversation.
Among the others was a tall, affected young man, whom they addressed as
baron. He was slender, very elegant, and very strong. When he saw that
we did not understand German he spoke to us in English. But Soubise was
too timid to answer, and I speak English very badly. He therefore
resigned himself regretfully to talking French.

He was agreeable, too agreeable; he certainly had not bad manners, but
he was deficient in tact. I made him understand this by turning my face
towards the scenery we were passing.

We were very much absorbed in our thoughts, and had been travelling for
a long time, when I suddenly felt suffocated by smoke which was filling
the carriage. I looked round, and saw that the surgeon-major had lighted
his pipe, and, with his eyes half closed, was sending up puffs of smoke
to the ceiling.

My eyes were smarting, and I was choking with indignation, so much so
that I was seized with a fit of coughing, which I exaggerated in order
to attract the attention of the impolite man. The baron, however,
slapped him on the knee and endeavoured to make him comprehend that the
smoke inconvenienced me. He answered by an insult which I did not
understand, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to smoke. Exasperated
by this, I lowered the window on my side. The intense cold made itself
felt in the carriage, but I preferred that to the nauseous smoke of the
pipe. Suddenly the surgeon-major got up, putting his hand to his ear,
which I then saw was filled with cotton-wool. He swore like an ox-
driver, and, pushing past every one and stepping on my feet and on
Soubise’s, he shut the window violently, cursing and swearing all the
time quite uselessly, for I did not understand him. He went back to his
seat, continued his pipe, and sent out enormous clouds of smoke in the
most insolent way. The baron and the two young Germans who had been the
first in the carriage appeared to ask him something and then to
remonstrate with him, but he evidently told them to mind their own
business and began to abuse them. Very much calmer myself on seeing the
increasing anger of the disagreeable man, and very much amused by his
earache, I again opened the window. He got up again, furious, showed me
his ear and his swollen cheek, and I caught the word “periostitis” in
the explanation he gave me on shutting the window again and threatening
me. I then made him understand that I had a weak chest, and that the
smoke made me cough.

The baron acted as my interpreter, and explained this to him; but it was
easy to see that he did not care a bit about that, and he once more took
up his favourite attitude and his pipe. I left him in peace for five
minutes, during which time he was able to imagine himself triumphant,
and then with a sudden jerk of my elbow I broke the pane of glass.
Stupefaction was depicted on the major’s face, and he became livid. He
got straight up, but the two young men rose at the same time, whilst the
baron burst out laughing in the most brutal manner.

The surgeon moved a step in our direction, but he found a rampart before
him; another officer had joined the two young men, and he was a strong,
hardy-looking fellow, just cut out for an obstacle. I do not know what
he said to the surgeon-major, but it was something clear and decisive.
The latter, not knowing how to expend his anger, turned on the baron,
who was still laughing, and abused him so violently that the latter
calmed down suddenly and answered in such a way that I quite understood
the two men were calling each other out. That affected me but little,
anyhow. They might very well kill each other, these two men, for they
were equally ill-mannered.

The carriage was now quiet and icy cold, for the wind blew in wildly
through the broken pane. The sun had set. The sky was getting cloudy. It
was about half-past five, and we were approaching Tergnier. The major
had changed seats with his friend, in order to shelter his ear as much
as possible. He kept moaning like a half-dead cow.

Suddenly the repeated whistling of a distant locomotive made us listen
attentively. We then heard two, three, and four crackers bursting under
our wheels. We could perfectly well feel the efforts the engine-driver
was making to slacken speed, but before he could succeed we were thrown
against each other by a frightful shock. There were cracks and creaks,
the hiccoughs of the locomotive spitting out its smoke in irregular
fits, desperate cries, shouts, oaths, sudden downfalls, a lull, then a
thick smoke, broken by the flames of a fire. Our carriage was standing
up, like a horse kicking up its hind legs. It was impossible to get our
balance again.

Who was wounded and who was not wounded? We were nine in the
compartment. For my part, I fancied that all my bones were broken. I
moved one leg and then I tried the other. Then, delighted at finding
them unbroken, I tried my arms in the same way. I had nothing broken,
and neither had Soubise. She had bitten her tongue, and it was bleeding,
and this had frightened me. She did not seem to understand anything. The
tremendous shaking had made her dizzy, and she lost her memory for some
days. I had a rather deep scratch between my eyes. I had not had time to
stretch out my arms, and my forehead had knocked against the hilt of the
sword which the officer seated by Soubise had been holding upright.

Assistance arrived from all sides.

For some time the door of our compartment could not be opened.

Darkness had come on when it finally yielded, and a lantern shone feebly
on our poor broken-up carriage.

I looked round for our one bag, but on finding it I let it go
immediately, for my hand was red with blood. Whose blood was it?

Three men did not move, and one of them was the major. His face looked
to me livid. I closed my eyes, in order not to know, and I let the man
who had come to our aid pull me out of the compartment. One of the young
officers got out after me. He took Soubise, who was almost in a fainting
condition, from his friend. The imbecile baron then got out; his
shoulder was out of joint. A doctor came forward among the rescuers. The
baron held his arm out to him, telling him at the same time to pull it,
which he did at once. The French doctor took off the officer’s cloak,
told two of the railway-men to hold him, and then, pushing against him
himself, pulled at the poor arm. The baron was very pale, and gave a low
whistle. When the arm was back in its place, the doctor shook the
baron’s other hand. “Cristi!” he said, “I must have hurt you very much.
You are most courageous.” The German saluted, and I helped him on again
with his cloak.

The doctor was then fetched away, and I saw that he was taken back to
our compartment. I shuddered in spite of myself. We were now able to
find out what had been the cause of our accident. A locomotive attached
to two vans of coal had been shunting on to a side line in order to let
us pass, when one of the vans got off the rails, and the locomotive
tired its lungs with whistling the alarm, whilst men ran to meet us,
scattering crackers. Everything had been in vain, and we had run against
the overturned van.

What were we to do? The roads, softened by the recent wet weather, were
all broken up by the cannons. We were about four miles from Tergnier,
and a thin penetrating rain was making our clothes stick to our bodies.

There were four carriages, but they were for the wounded. Other
carriages would come, but there were the dead to be carried away. An
improvised litter was just being borne along by two workmen. The major
was lying on it, so livid that I clenched my hands until my nails
entered the flesh. One of the officers wanted to question the doctor who
was following.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “Please, please do not. I do not want to know. The
poor fellow!”

I stopped my ears, as though some one was about to shout out something
horrible to me, and I never knew his fate.

We were obliged to resign ourselves to setting out on foot. We went
about two kilometres as bravely as possible, and then I stopped, quite
exhausted. The mud which clung to our shoes made these very heavy. The
effort we had to make at every step to get our feet out of the mire
tired us out. I sat down on a milestone, and declared that I would not
go any farther.

My sweet companion wept: the two young German officers who had acted as
bodyguards made a seat for me by crossing their hands, and so we went
nearly another mile. My companion could not walk any farther. I offered
her my place, but she refused it.

“Well then, let us wait here!” I said, and, quite at the end of our
strength, we rested against a little broken tree.

It was now night, and such a cold night!

Soubise and I huddled close together, trying to keep each other warm. I
began to fall asleep, seeing before my eyes the wounded men of
Châtillon, who had died seated against the little shrubs. I did not want
to move again, and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly delicious.

A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of the young men
hailed it, and when a price was agreed upon I felt myself picked up from
the ground, lifted into the vehicle, and carried along by the jerky,
rolling movement of two loose wheels, which climbed the hills, sank into
the mire, and jumped over the heaps of stones, whilst the driver whipped
up his beasts and urged them on with his voice. He had a “don’t care,
let what will happen” way of driving, which was characteristic of those
days.

I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep, for I was not really asleep,
but I did not want to answer any questions. I gave myself up to this
prostration of my whole being with a certain amount of enjoyment.

A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at Tergnier. The
cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had to get out. I pretended to be
still sleeping heavily. But it was no use, for I had to wake up. The two
young men helped me up to my room.

I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart before the
departure of our excellent young companions, who were sorry to leave us.
I signed for each of them a voucher, on a sheet of the hotel paper, for
a photograph. Only one of them ever claimed it. This was six years
later, and I sent it to him.

The Tergnier hotel could only give us one room. I let Soubise go to bed,
and I slept in an arm-chair, dressed as I was.

The following morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told
that there was no train.

We had to work marvels to procure a vehicle, but finally Dr. Meunier, or
Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That was something,
but there was no horse. The poor doctor’s horse had been requisitioned
by the enemy. A wheelwright for an exorbitant price let me have a colt
that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild when the harness
was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after being well lashed,
but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He stood still on his
four legs, which were trembling furiously, and refused to move. With his
neck stretched towards the ground, his eye fixed, and his nostrils
dilating, he would not budge any more than a stake in the earth. Two men
then held the light carriage back; the halter was taken off the colt’s
neck; he shook his head for an instant, and, thinking himself free and
without any impediments, began to advance. The men were scarcely holding
the vehicle. He gave two little kicks, and then began to trot. Oh, it
was only a very short trot. A boy then stopped him, some carrots were
given to him, his mane was stroked, and the halter was put on again. He
stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping into the gig and holding the
reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged him to move on. The colt, not
feeling any resistance, began to trot along for about a quarter of an
hour, and then came back to us at the door of the hotel.

I had to leave a deposit of four hundred francs with the notary of the
place, in case the colt should die.

Ah, what a journey that was with the boy, Soubise, and me sitting close
together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt!
The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is
raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop,
because the poor beast could not go any farther, it was five in the
afternoon, and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was
certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away
from a sordid-looking house. I knocked, and an old woman, enormous in
size, opened the door.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse.”

She looked out on to the road and saw our turn-out.

“Hey, father!” She called out in a husky voice, “come and look here!”

A stout man, quite as stout as she was, but older, came hobbling heavily
along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out
laughing and said to me in an insolent way:

“Well, what do you want?”

I repeated my phrase: “Hospitality for an hour,” &c. &c.

“Perhaps we can do it, but it’ll want paying for.”

I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge.

“Oh, but in these times, you know, it’s well worth forty francs.”

“Very good,” I said, “agreed; forty francs.”

He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and sent his son
towards the boy, who was coming along holding the colt by his mane. He
had taken off the halter very considerately and thrown my rug over its
steaming sides. On reaching the house the poor beast was quickly
unharnessed and taken into a little enclosure, at the far end of which a
few badly-joined planks served as a stable for an old mule, which was
aroused by the fat woman with kicks and turned out into the enclosure.
The colt took its place, and when I asked for some oats for it she
replied:

“Perhaps we could get it some, but that isn’t included in the forty
francs.”

“Very well,” I said, and I gave our boy five francs to fetch the oats,
but the old shrew took the money from him and handed it to her lad,
saying:

“You go; you know where to find them, and come back quick.”

Our boy remained with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down as well as
he could. I went back to the house, where I found my charming Soubise
with her sleeves turned up and her delicate hands washing two glasses
and two plates for us. I asked if it would be possible to have some
eggs.

“Yes, but——”

I interrupted our monstrous hostess.

“Don’t tire yourself, Madame, I beg,” I said. “It is understood that the
forty francs are your tip, and that I am to pay for everything else.”

She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying to find
words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought me five eggs,
and I began to make an omelette, as my culinary glory is an omelette.

The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the boy and made
them serve him something to eat in our presence, for I was afraid that
the ogress would give him too economical a meal.

When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive of
course of the forty francs, the matron put on her spectacles, and taking
one of the gold pieces, looked at it on one side, then on the other,
made it ring on a plate and then on the ground. She did this with each
of the three gold pieces. I could not help laughing.

“Oh, there’s nothing to laugh at,” she grunted. “For the last six months
we’ve had nothing but thieves here.”

“And you know something about theft!” I said.

She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the laughing
expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This was very fortunate,
as they were people capable of doing us harm. I had taken the
precaution, when sitting down to table, of putting my revolver near me.

“You know how to fire that?” asked the lame man.

“Oh yes, I shoot very well,” I answered, though it was not true.

Our steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and we proceeded on
our way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful. He stamped, kicked a
little, and began to go at a pretty steady pace.

Our disagreeable hosts had indicated the way to St. Quentin, and we set
off, after our poor colt had made various attempts at standing still. I
was dead tired and fell asleep, but after about an hour the vehicle
stopped abruptly and the wretched beast began to snort and put his back
up, supporting himself on his four stiff, trembling legs.

It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky full of tears seemed to be
falling slowly over the earth. We had stopped in the middle of a field
which had been ploughed up all over by the heavy wheels of cannons. The
rest of the ground had been trampled by horses’ feet and the cold had
hardened the little ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there,
which glittered dismally in the thick atmosphere.

We got down from the vehicle, to try to discover what was making our
little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry of horror, for, only
about five yards away, some dogs were pulling wildly at a dead body,
half of which was still underground. It was a soldier, and fortunately
one of the enemy. I took the whip from our young driver and lashed the
horrid animals as hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing
their teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable work,
growling sullenly at us.

Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle. We went on
with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these devastated
plains.

Darkness came over us, and it was icy cold.

The moon feebly pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape with
a wan, sad light. I was half dead with fright. It seemed to me that the
silence was broken by cries from underground, and every little mound of
earth appeared to me to be a head.

Mlle. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in her hands. After going
along for half an hour, we saw in the distance a little group of people
coming along carrying lanterns. I went towards them, as I wanted to find
out which way to go. I was embarrassed on getting nearer to them, for I
could hear sobs. I saw a poor woman, who was very corpulent, being
helped along by a young priest. The whole of her body was shaken by her
fits of grief. She was followed by two sub-officers and by three other
persons. I let her pass by, and then questioned those who were following
her. I was told that she was looking for the bodies of her husband and
son, who had both been killed a few days before on the St. Quentin
plains. She came each day at dusk, in order to avoid general curiosity,
but she had not yet met with any success. It was hoped that she would
find them this time, as one of these sub-officers, who had just left the
hospital, was taking her to the spot where he had seen the poor woman’s
husband fall, mortally wounded. He had fallen there himself, and had
been picked up by the ambulance people.

I thanked these persons, who showed me the sad road we must take, the
best one there was, through the cemetery, which was still warm under the
ice.

We could now distinguish groups of people searching about, and it was
all so horrible that it made me want to scream out.

Suddenly the boy who was driving us pulled my coat-sleeve.

“Oh, Madame,” he said, “look at that scoundrel stealing.”

I looked, and saw a man lying down full length, with a large bag near
him. He had a dark lantern, which he held towards the ground. He then
got up, looked round him, for his outline could be seen distinctly on
the horizon, and began his work again.

When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp and crouched down on the
ground. We walked on in silence straight towards him. I took the colt by
the bridle, on the other side, and the boy no doubt understood what I
intended to do, for he let me lead the way. I walked straight towards
the man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we
pulled hard and made it advance. We were so near to the man that I
shuddered at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to
be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal
his presence. Fortunately, I was mistaken. A stifled voice murmured,
“Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me.” I took the gig
lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us
better, and I now turned it on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied
to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a hollow-
looking face, framed with long, dirty white whiskers. He had a muffler
round his neck, and was wearing a peasant’s cloak of a dark colour.
Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass buttons, sword
hilts, and other objects that the infamous old fellow had torn from the
poor dead.

“You are not wounded. You are a thief and a violator of tombs! I shall
call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable
wretch?” I exclaimed, and I went so near to him that I could feel his
breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees and, clasping his
criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice.

“Leave your bag there, then,” I said, “and all those things. Empty your
pockets; leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of
sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are making searches, and
give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you
go free.”

He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away
when the lad whispered, “He’s hiding some boots under his cloak.” I was
furious with rage with this vile thief, and I pulled his big cloak off.

“Leave everything, you wretched man,” I exclaimed, “or I will call the
soldiers.”

Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard
ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of
his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects.

“Will you leave that, and get away quickly?” I said. “My patience is at
an end.”

“But if I am caught I shan’t be able to defend myself,” he exclaimed, in
a fit of desperate rage.

“It will be because God willed it so,” I answered. “Go at once, or I
will call.” The man then made off, abusing me as he went.

Our little driver then fetched a soldier, to whom I related the
adventure, showing him the objects.

“Which way did the rascal go?” asked a sergeant who had come with the
soldier.

“I can’t say,” I replied.

“Oh well, I don’t care to run after him,” he said; “there are enough
dead men here.”

We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met,
and it was then possible for us to take a route a little more suitable
for vehicles.

After going through Busigny and a wood, where there were bogs in which
we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an
end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue,
fright, and despair.

I was obliged to take a day’s rest there, for I was prostrate with
feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly white-washed but quite
clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood
bed and white curtains.

I sent for a doctor for my charming little Soubise, who, it seemed to
me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state,
though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and
made my head burn. She could not keep still, but kept seeing spectres
and fires, hearing shouts and turning round quickly, imagining that some
one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing
draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot bath
brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days since we
had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to reach
Homburg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at
present. I took a train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a
trunk and a few necessary things.

From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we
were able to take the train again the same evening.

I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we
continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne. But on
arriving in that city we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only
just entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in
front of the carriages, shouted something in German which I did not
catch. Every one seemed to be in a hurry, and men and women pushed each
other without any courtesy.

I addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my
bag, very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I
did not understand the excitement until the man flung my bag into a
compartment and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible.

Soubise was already on the step when she was pushed aside violently by a
railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of
what had happened the train had disappeared. My bag had gone, and our
trunk also. The trunk had been placed in a luggage van that had been
unhooked from the train which had just arrived, and immediately fastened
on to the express now departing. I began to cry with rage. An official
took pity on us and led us to the station-master. He was a very superior
sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great
leather arm-chair and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He
looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station-master at the first
station.

“You will have them again to-morrow, towards mid-day,” he said.

“Then I cannot start this evening?” I asked.

“Oh no, that is impossible,” he replied. “There is no train, for the
express that will take you to Homburg does not start before to-morrow
morning.”

“Oh God, God!” I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair,
which soon affected Mlle. Soubise too.

The poor station-master was rather embarrassed, and tried to soothe me.

“Do you know any one here?” he asked.

“No, no one. I do not know any one in Cologne.”

“Well then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord. My sister-in-
law has been there for two days, and she will look after you.”

Half an hour later his carriage arrived, and he took us to the Hôtel du
Nord, after driving a long way round to show us the city. But at that
epoch I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans.

On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law,
a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my
taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She
engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the
ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her
drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming
woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even
Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman in only
letting us hear French composers. I asked her to play us something from
Mozart and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed, “Do you
like Wagner?”

“I like his music,” I replied, “but I detest the man.”

Mlle. Soubise whispered to me, “Ask her to play Liszt.”

She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must admit
that I spent a delightful evening there.

At ten o’clock the station-master (whose name I have very stupidly
forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me that he
would call for us at eight the following morning, and he then took leave
of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, &c.

At eight o’clock the next morning a servant came to tell me that the
carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and
our beautiful hostess of the previous evening said sweetly, “Come, you
must start!” I was really very much touched by the delicacy of the
pretty German woman.

It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk
there, and on her reply in the affirmative we all three started for the
station, which is not far from the hotel. A special compartment had been
reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as
possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us, and wished us a
pleasant journey.

When the train had started I discovered in one of the corners a bouquet
of forget-me-nots with the sister’s card and a box of chocolates from
the station-master.

I was at last about to arrive at my goal, and was in a state of wild
excitement at the idea of seeing once more all my beloved ones. I should
have liked to have gone to sleep. My eyes, which had grown larger with
anxiety, travelled through space more rapidly than the train went. I
fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw flying along. I
laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces of those I was
going to see again, and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had
happened to them, and should I find them all? I should if——ah, those
“ifs,” those “becauses,” and those “buts”! My mind became full of them,
they bristled with illnesses and accidents, and I began to weep. My poor
little travelling companion began to weep too.

Finally we came within sight of Homburg. Twenty more minutes of this
turning of wheels and we should enter the station. But just as though
all the sprites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to
torture my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the
windows. “What is it?” “What’s the matter?” “Why are we not going on?”
There was a train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake,
and the line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my
teeth and hands, and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil
spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely
closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against the invisible
sprites, and declared that, as I would not suffer any more, I was now
going to sleep. I then fell fast asleep, for the power of sleeping when
I wish is a precious gift which God has bestowed on me. In the most
frightful circumstances and the most cruel moments of life, when I have
felt that my reason was giving way under shocks that have been too great
or too painful, my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a
bad-tempered little dog that wants to bite, and, subjugating it, my will
has said to my reason: “Enough. You can take up again to-morrow your
suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish.
You have had enough for to-day. You would give way altogether under the
weight of so many troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will
not have it! We will forget everything for so many hours and go to sleep
together!” And I have gone to sleep. This, I swear to.

Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train entered the station. I was
refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage and had given
the address, 7 Ober Strasse.

We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and
they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in
all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious
laughter and sobs.

Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the
next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so
incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house;
we had to escape in our night clothes and camp out for six hours in five
feet of snow, &c. &c.




                                  XIX
         MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE


Everybody being safe and sound, we set out for Paris, but on arriving at
St. Denis we found there were no more trains. It was four o’clock in the
morning. The Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris, and
trains only ran for their service. After an hour spent in running about,
in discussions and rebuffs, I met with an officer of higher rank, who
was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to
take me to the Gare du Hâvre (Gare St. Lazare).

The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Régina,
Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a
little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench,
which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine
went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or
railway carriages.

We left at five in the morning and arrived at seven. At a place which I
cannot locate our German conductors were exchanged for French
conductors. I questioned them, and learnt that revolutionary troubles
were beginning in Paris.

The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very
advanced individual.

“You would do better to go somewhere else, and not to Paris,” he said,
“for before long they will come to blows there.”

We had arrived. But as no train was expected in at that hour, it was
impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from the
locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials.

I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men
if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those
belonging to my family later on.

There was not a single carriage outside the station. The children were
very tired, but what was to be done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de
Rome, and this was not far away, but my mother scarcely ever walked, for
she was delicate and had a weak heart. The children, too, were very,
very tired. Their eyes were puffed up and scarcely open, and their
little limbs were benumbed by the cold and immobility. I began to get
desperate, but a milk cart was just passing by, and I sent a porter to
hail it. I offered twenty francs if the man would drive my mother and
the two children to 4 Rue de Rome.

“And you too, if you like, young lady,” said the milkman. “You are
thinner than a grasshopper, and you won’t make it any heavier.”

I did not want inviting twice, although rather annoyed by the man’s
speech.

When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation, by the
side of the milkman, and the children and I were in amongst the full and
empty milk-pails, I said to our driver, “Would you mind coming back to
fetch the others?” I pointed to the remaining group, and added, “You
shall have twenty francs more.”

“Right you are!” said the worthy fellow. “A good day’s work! Don’t you
tire your legs, you others. I’ll be back for you directly!”

He then whipped up his horse and we started at a wild rate. The children
rolled about and I held on. My mother set her teeth and did not utter a
word, but from under her long lashes she glanced at me with a displeased
look.

On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so sharply that I
thought my mother would have fallen out on to the animal’s back. We had
arrived, though, and we got out. The cart started off again at full
speed. My mother would not speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty
mother, it was not my fault.

I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and had then left a sad
city. The sadness had been painful, the result of a great and unexpected
misfortune. No one had dared to look up, fearing to be blown upon by the
same wind which was blowing the German flag floating yonder towards the
Arc de Triomphe.

I now found Paris effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded
with multi-coloured posters; and all these posters contained the wildest
harangues. Fine noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats.
Workmen on their way to their daily toil stopped in front of these
bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin to read
over again.

And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so much through
this abominable war, now echoed these appeals for vengeance. They were
very much to be excused.

This war, alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin
and of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations
of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of
the defeat had discouraged the men.

Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells
from the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down with the Republic!
Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with the Jews! Down with
the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who work! Down with
everything!”—all these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans,
who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without
intending it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation were
stirred out of their torpor. Others, who demanded revenge, found an
aliment for their inactive forces. None of them agreed. There were ten
or twenty different parties, devouring each other and threatening each
other. It was terrible.

But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my
friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them
interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them.

I often saw Gambetta at Girardin’s, and it was a joy to me to listen to
this admirable man. What he said was so wise, so well-balanced, and so
captivating.

This man, with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a
halo of beauty round him when he spoke.

Gambetta was never common, never ordinary. He took snuff, and the
gesture of his hand when he brushed away the stray grains was full of
grace. He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without
inconveniencing any one. When he was tired of politics and talked
literature it was a real charm, for he knew everything and quoted poetry
admirably. One evening, after a dinner at Girardin’s, we played together
the whole scene of the first act of _Hernani_ with Dona Sol. And if he
was not as handsome as Mounet-Sully, he was just as admirable in it.

On another occasion he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz,” commencing
with the last verse.

But I preferred his political discussions, especially when he criticised
the speech of some one who was of the opposite opinion to himself. The
eminent qualities of this politician’s talent were logic and weight, and
his seductive force was his chauvinism. The early death of so great a
thinker is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride.

I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease
with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and,
although I am very republican, I liked the Emperor Napoleon III. He had
been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that
Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune.

I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favourite of Thiers. He had
great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some
people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more
advanced Republican than Thiers. One must have known him very little to
believe him to be anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat
had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very
straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics,
except in private circles, and his advice always prevailed, even in the
Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except when in
committee. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times,
but he refused it a hundred times. Finally, after my repeated
entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine
Arts, but at the last moment he declined, and wrote me a delightful
letter, from which I quote a few passages. As the letter was not written
for publication, I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole
of it, but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines:

  “Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see
  better there than in the dazzling brilliancy of honours. You are
  grateful to me sometimes for being attentive to the miseries you point
  out to me. Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to
  have the right to relieve every one than to be obliged to relieve no
  matter whom.... In matters of art I have made for myself an ideal of
  beauty, which would naturally seem too partial....”

It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not
allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me
were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be
helped.

I also knew and frequently saw a mad sort of fellow, full of dreams and
Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice-
looking. He wanted every one to be happy and every one to have money,
and he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing
by making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was
impossible, but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his
death. He came to see me with a very young girl who wanted to devote
herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the
poor child came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had
refused to surrender, and, stretching out his arms, had shouted to the
hesitating soldiers, “Shoot, shoot! I should not have spared you!” And
their bullets had killed him.

Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous
madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of
Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined
to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm
than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to a group of
students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them
everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris the
_Saradoteurs_ (Sara-dotards). One day he brought me a little one-act
play. The piece was so stupid and the verses were so insipid that I sent
it him back with a few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for
he bore me malice for them, and attempted to avenge himself in the
following way. He called on me one day, and Madame Guérard was there
when he was shown in.

“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.

“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied.

“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war,” he
continued.

This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As I can foresee
that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher Monsieur_, I will
not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would
prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, as enemies rather than
friends.” With these words I rang for my footman to show the Prefect of
Police to the door. Madame Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us
some harm, my dear Sarah, I assure you,” she said.

She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking
of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by
sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an
inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries
for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of
Police on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a mounted
courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening to send a
prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of this
wretch, who was shot shortly after and died without showing any courage.

Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to
St. Germain-en-Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to
Switzerland with my youngest sister.

The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists with
gun on shoulder stopped the trains and searched in all our bags and
pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They were
afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles. This
was monstrously stupid.

The installation at St. Germain was not an easy thing either. Nearly all
Paris had taken refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is
dull. From the height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning
and night, we could see the alarming progress of the Commune.

On all sides of Paris the flames rose, proud and destructive. The wind
often brought us burnt papers, which we took to the Council House. The
Seine brought quantities along with it, and the boatmen collected these
in sacks. Some days—and these were the most distressing of all—an opaque
veil of smoke enveloped Paris. There was no breeze to allow the flames
to pierce through.

The city then burnt stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to
discover the fresh buildings that these furious madmen had set alight.

I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far
as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across
poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but
often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or
Communist sharpshooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier.

One day, on the way back from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had
been for a gallop over the hills, we entered the forest rather late in
the evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot was fired from a
neighbouring thicket, which made my horse bound so suddenly towards the
left that I was thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O’Connor hurried
to me, but I was already up and ready to mount again. “Just a second,”
he said; “I want to search that thicket.” A short gallop soon brought
him to the spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under
flying feet, then another shot not at all like the two former ones, and
my friend appeared again with a pistol in his hand.

“You have not been hit?” I asked.

“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low.
The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet
from my revolver in his body.”

“But I heard some one running away,” I said.

“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will not go far.”

“Poor wretch!” I murmured.

“Oh no,” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg. They kill numbers
of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my regiment were
found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but mutilated,” and
gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an oath.

I turned towards him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We
continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest
would allow us. Suddenly, our horses stopped short, snorting and
sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off, and led his
horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground.

“That must be the wretch who shot at me,” said my companion, and bending
down over the man he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor
had not seen his man, so that he could not have recognised him. He
lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted,
and was trying to raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my
hand, covered with blood. He had opened his eyes, and fixed them on
O’Connor.

“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I
missed you, but——” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but
the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor on his
side had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man,
and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely
recognise my friend, for this handsome, fair-haired man, so polite,
rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute.
Leaning towards the unfortunate man, his under-jaw protruded, he was
muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand
seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter
before flinging it away in disgust.

“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said.

He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way, and
seemed to become aware of the situation again. “Good!” he said, helping
me to mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will
come back with some men to pick up this wretch.”

Half an hour later we were back home, without having exchanged another
word during our ride.

I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again
without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the
brute-like mask under which I had seen him for a second would fix itself
again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March 1905, General
O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in
my dressing-room at the theatre. He told me about his difficulties with
some of the great Arab chiefs.

“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have a brush together.”

Again I saw the captain’s mask on the general’s face.

I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.

We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful
peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was
supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! What women in
mourning! What ruins!

In Paris, we inhaled the bitter odour of smoke. All that I touched at
home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost imperceptible
colour. A general uneasiness beset France, and more especially Paris.
The theatres, however, opened their doors once more, and that was a
general relief.

One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out
my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse
snorting.

The race-ground was to be opened for us again. We should be able to
gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were ready. The contest was
beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange that man’s
mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there is no
longer war there is battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us
aiming for the same object. God has created the earth and man for each
other. The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon
miles, acres upon acres of new land waiting for arms that will take from
its bosom the treasures of inexhaustible Nature. And we remain grouped
round each other, crowds of famishing people watching other groups,
which are also lying in wait.

The Odéon opened its doors to the public with a repertory programme.
Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these met with tremendous
success. It was André Theuriet’s _Jean-Marie_, and was produced in
October 1871. This one-act play is a veritable masterpiece, and it took
its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the part of Jean-
Marie, met with an enormous success. He was at that time slender,
nimble, and full of youthful ardour. He needed a little more poetry, but
the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardour for what
was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow.

My _rôle_ of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband
forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_
who was absent, and perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching by
reason of the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the
concluding part of the piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success,
and increased my growing reputation.

I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I
did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had
to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to
place on my head the crown of the elect.




                                   XX
                              VICTOR HUGO


At the end of that year 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and
solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My mind
at that time of my life was still closed to great ideas. I was living in
rather a _bourgeois_ atmosphere, what with my somewhat cosmopolitan
family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the
acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent life as an
artiste.

I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my childhood as a rebel and
a renegade, and his works, which I had read with passion, did not
prevent my judging him with very great severity. And I blush to-day with
anger and shame when I think of all my absurd prejudices, fomented by
the imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a great
desire, nevertheless, to play in _Ruy Blas_. The _rôle_ of the Queen
seemed so charming to me.

I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it.
Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great
chances, though, against me. She was on very amicable terms with Paul
Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. One of my friends
brought Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was another friend, and even a
relative, of the “illustrious master.”

Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak to Victor Hugo, and two days later
he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favour. Paul
Meurice himself, a very straightforward man, a delightful soul, had
proposed me to the author. And Geffroy, the admirable artiste who had
retired from the Comédie Française, and was now asked to play _Don
Salluste_, had said, it appears, that he could only see one little Queen
of Spain worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know
Geffroy; I did not know Paul Meurice; and was rather astonished that
they should know me.

The play was to be read to the artistes at Victor Hugo’s, December 6,
1871, at two o’clock. I was very much spoilt, and very much praised and
flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did
not condescend to disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house
when there was neutral ground, the theatre, for the reading of plays. I
mentioned this unheard-of incident at five o’clock to my little court,
and men and women alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the
other day an outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That
nobody!—dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of _Hearts_, the Fairy
of Fairies, to put herself to inconvenience!”

All my little sanctuary was in a tumult; men and women alike could not
keep still.

“She must not go,” they said. “Write him this”—“Write him that.” And
they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal
Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little five
o’clock court, and he was soon posted on what had taken place by my
turbulent visitors. He was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered
against the great poet.

“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me
that he has no reason to deviate from the regular custom. But say that
you are suddenly unwell; follow my advice and show the respect for him
that we owe to genius.”

I followed my great friend’s counsel, and sent the following letter to
the poet:

  “MONSIEUR,—The Queen has taken a chill, and her Camerara Mayor forbids
  her to go out. You know better than any one else the etiquette of the
  Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.”

I sent the letter, and the following was the poet’s reply:

  “I am your valet, Madame.

                                                          “VICTOR HUGO.”

The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes. I believe
that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the
Master’s house.

I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for
a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!

The monster was charming—so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a
gallantry that was a homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to
the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of
elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in
his way of speaking, which savoured of the old French peer. He was quick
at repartee, and his observations were gentle but pertinent. He recited
poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often made sketches
during the rehearsals.

He frequently spoke in verse when he wished to reprimand an artiste. One
day during a rehearsal he was trying to convince poor Talien about his
bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down
on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience, and getting
up from the middle of the orchestra stalls, he exclaimed,

           “_Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable
           Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table._”

I sprang up from the table slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer
him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to
say, and remained there confused and in a bad temper.

One day, when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was
waiting, my forehead pressed against the window-pane, for the arrival of
Madame Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the
footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor
Hugo had just crossed the road, and was about to walk on. An old woman
attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down
on the ground, and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of
perspiration. In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open,
as she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing
anxiety as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages
and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after
a short conversation he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it
to the old woman; then, taking off his hat, he confided it to her, and
with a quick movement and a laughing face lifted the bundle onto his
shoulder and crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I
rushed downstairs to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached
the passage I jostled against de Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and when
I descended the staircase Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could only see
the old woman’s back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now
more briskly.

The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate good
deed.

“Oh,” said Paul Meurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day that
dawns is a day of kindness for him.”

I embraced Victor Hugo, and we went to the rehearsal.

Oh, those rehearsals of _Ruy Blas_! I shall never forget them, for there
was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo
arrived, everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie
and Paul Meurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the Master was absent
they kept up the divine fire.

Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often gave me advice. During
the intervals for rest I posed for him in various attitudes, for he was
a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie Française there are two
pictures by him, representing two generations of Sociétaires of both
sexes. The pictures are not of very original composition, neither are
they of beautiful colouring, but they are faithful likenesses, it
appears, and rather happily grouped.

Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Blas, often had long discussions with
the Master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that
he was always right.

Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very
bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by a set
of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery, and there
was a little odd clacking sound between his real palate and his
artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the ear listening
attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.

As for poor Talien, who was playing Don Guritan, he made a hash of it
every minute. His comprehension of the _rôle_ was quite erroneous.
Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Talien was a
well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as
stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first he never
understood. As long as he lived he would never understand. But, as he
was straightforward and loyal, he put himself into the hands of the
author, and gave himself up then in complete abnegation. “That is not as
I understood it,” he would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”

He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the
inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most
painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic
pride. I often took this poor Talien aside and tried to urge him on to
rebellion, but it was all in vain.

He was tall, and his arms were too long, and his eyes tired; his nose
was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips in
heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and
his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from his ill-built face. A
great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness
was his very self. Every one was therefore infinitely fond of him.




                                  XXI
                           A MEMORABLE SUPPER


January 26, 1872, was an artistic _fête_ for the Odéon. The _Tout-Paris_
of first nights and the vibrating younger elements were to meet in the
large, solemn, dusty theatre. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance
it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe-looking
in his black costume as Don Salluste. Mélingue rather disappointed the
public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong. The
_rôle_ of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good _rôle_, which
always tempts artists by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth
act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless.
It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its
shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.

This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me the thin veil which
still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity.
Until that day I had remained the students’ little fairy. I became then
the Elect of the public.

Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to
whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers.
Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I
caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a
second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed
across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and
barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my
life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my
repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude.

Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my
two hands to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you! Thank you!”

And so it was he who said “Thank you.” He, the great Victor Hugo, whose
soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He,
whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah,
how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook
the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right
word.

He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to
retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing
luminous eyes.

Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into
Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears.
He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be
intoxicated with this great success now,” he said. “There must be no
more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have
to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.”

“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I
answered looking at him, “I will try to be more sociable, but that is
all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my
risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown
will not shake off.”

Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and
reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of _Angelo_ at
the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905.

On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and
when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich
in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. _Mon petit Dame_
stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took
a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for
another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: _Le
Passant_, _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_, Anna Danby in _Kean_, and
_Jean-Marie_, but I felt that the _Ruy Blas_ success was greater than
any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be
criticised, but not to be overlooked.

I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s, and he was always very
charming and kind.

[Illustration:

  SKULL IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S
  LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH
  VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO
]

When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first
impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him,
about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve
ignorance about political matters.

One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent
for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and
rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the
evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether
favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the
great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I
represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young
generation, in which a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had warped the
intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight
towards the new?

When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his
friendship.

I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the
poet, but he was out.

I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise.
Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms
of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house.

“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked, laughing.

I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered.

“Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked.

I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it.

“Well, all the better!” I said; “I very much wanted to talk to you.
Come; I am going to take you with me now.”

I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine
thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things
that were contrary to the Marshal’s ideas. This admirable man could
admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the
great ideas which were to bring about great changes.

One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a
political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a
moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty
and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say,
though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred,
he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked
up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal.

“I challenge you, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious
Utopias that you have just been supporting!”

“Oh, Monsieur Busnach,” replied Canrobert coldly, “we do not use the
same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword.”

The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a
luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found
there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. de Monbel, a
young _attaché d’ambassade_. I explained my lateness as well as I could,
and that morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.

I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of
listening.

During a silence Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the Marshal and said:

“Are you not of the opinion that our young friend should enter the
Comédie Française?”

“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed; “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the
Comédie, and the short time I remained there I was very unhappy.”

“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged. Believe
me, it will be better early than late.”

“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been
happier!”

One morning shortly after this my maid brought me a letter. The large
round stamp, on which are the words “Comédie Française” was on the
corner of the envelope.

I remembered that ten years previously, almost day for day, our old
servant Marguerite had, with my mother’s permission, handed me a letter
in the same kind of envelope.

My face then had flushed with joy, but this time I felt a faint tinge of
pallor touch my cheeks.

When events occur which disturb my life, I always have a movement of
recoil. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself
headlong into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to
his trapeze bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force
into space. In one second what now is becomes for me what was, and I
love it with tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be
without seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown,
the mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something
unheard of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness. I
receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive
enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea.
What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large,
small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the
rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s
corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going
to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing
waves? What pink “sea-star”? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell?

So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to
recognise the handwriting and the seal; and it is only when I am quite
certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my
secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Seylor. My friends know this
so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their
envelopes.

At that time I had no secretary, but _mon petit Dame_ served me as such.

I looked at the envelope a long time, and gave it at last to Madame
Guérard.

“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the Comédie Française,” she
said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or Wednesday
afternoon at the Comédie Française or at your own house.”

“Thanks. What day is it to-day?” I asked.

“Monday,” she replied.

I then installed Madame Guérard at my desk, and asked her to reply that
I would go there the following day at three o’clock.

I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on
what my father had left me—that is, on the transaction made by the Hâvre
notary—and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel and
showed him the letter.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.”

“Oh well, I advise you to remain at the Odéon. Besides, your engagement
does not terminate for another year, and I shall not allow you leave!”

“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand
francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will
stay, for I do not want to leave.”

“Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly way. “You know
that I am not free to act alone. I will do my best, I promise you.” And
Duquesnel certainly kept his word. “Come here to-morrow before going to
the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice, and
if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave; we
shall find some way.... And besides—— Anyhow, I cannot say any more.”

I returned the following day according to arrangement.

I found Duquesnel and Chilly in the managerial office. Chilly began at
once somewhat roughly:

“And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It
is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider, and think it over
for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, dressy plays.
That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is the same. At the Gaîté
you would spoil your voice. You are too distinguished for the Ambigu.”

I looked at him without replying. I saw that his partner had not spoken
to him about the Comédie Française. He felt awkward, and mumbled:

“Well then, you are of my opinion?”

“No,” I answered; “you have forgotten the Comédie.”

He was sitting in his big arm-chair, and he burst out laughing.

“Ah no, my dear girl,” he said, “you must not tell me that. They’ve had
enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night
with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the
Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you the great
tragedian did not show much affection for you.”

“Oh well, you ought to have taken my part,” I exclaimed, irritated. “You
know very well that I am a most serious member of your company.”

“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even that it would be
a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an artiste with
your will power, which perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of the
house; and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was beside
himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the first
place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite verse. He
declares that you make all your _a_’s too broad. Finally, when he had no
arguments left he declared that as long as he lives you will never enter
the Comédie Française.”

I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable
result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured
somewhat waveringly:

“Well then, you will not give me a higher salary?”

“No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try to make me pay
up when your engagement comes to an end, and then we shall see. But I
have your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our
engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you
beside ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that
theatre.”

“You make a mistake perhaps,” I answered. He got up brusquely and came
and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an
odious and familiar tone:

“Ah, that’s it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?”

I got up too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back, “I think you are
a triple idiot.” I then hurried away towards the staircase, and all
Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.

On arriving under the Odéon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who
was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo,
to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of _Ruy Blas_.

“I have just come from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few
lines from Victor Hugo.”

“Good, good; that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I
shall see you to-morrow then, my friend.”

“Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said.

“Yes!” I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my
coachman, “Drive to the Comédie Française.”

I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied
on the arcade steps.

On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes
later was ushered in to that icy mannikin. There were two very distinct
personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the
other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession.
Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the
mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing.

I was first received by Perrin the mannikin. He was standing up, his
head bent, bowing to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the
hospitable arm-chair. He waited with a certain affectation until I was
seated before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper-knife, in
order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak
voice, the voice of the mannikin, he remarked:

“Have you thought it over, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.”

Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the
things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen, and prepared to
sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my
arm out across the whole width of the writing table, and dipped my pen
this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink-pot. I took too much ink,
however, this time, and on the return journey a huge spot of it fell on
the large sheet of white paper in front of the mannikin.

He bent his head, for he was slightly short-sighted, and looked for a
moment like a bird when it discovers a hemp-seed in its grain. He then
proceeded to put aside the blotted sheet.

“Wait a minute, oh, wait a minute!” I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper.
“I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a
butterfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong.”
I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot, and
pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh,
giving up his mannikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the
paper with me, and we opened it very gently just as one opens one’s hand
after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the midst of
its whiteness a magnificent black butterfly with outspread wings was to
be seen.

“Well then,” said Perrin, with nothing of the mannikin left, “we were
quite right in signing.”

After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for
this man was charming and very fascinating, in spite of his ugliness.
When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other.

I was playing in _Ruy Blas_ that night at the Odéon. Towards ten o’clock
Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.

“You were rather rough on that poor Chilly,” he said. “And you really
were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you. Is it
true, as Paul Meurice tells us, that you went straight to the Théâtre
Français?”

“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement with the
Comédie.

Duquesnel took the paper and read it.

“Will you let me show it to Chilly?” he asked.

“Show it him, certainly,” I replied.

He came nearer, and said in a grave, hurt tone:

“You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a
lack of confidence I do not deserve.”

He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived,
furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger.

“It is abominable!” he said. “It is treason, and you had not even the
right to do it. I shall make you pay damages.”

As I felt in a bad humour, I turned my back on him, and apologised as
feebly as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little
ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness, and
it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had
held the door open for my future.

Chilly kept his word, and brought an action against me and the Comédie.
I lost, and had to pay six thousand francs damages to the managers of
the Odéon.

A few weeks later Victor Hugo invited the artistes who performed in _Ruy
Blas_ to a big supper in honour of the one hundredth performance. This
was a great delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of
this kind.

I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in
question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was
seated to the right of Victor Hugo, and to his left was Madame Lambquin,
who was playing the Camerara Mayor, and Duquesnel was next to Madame
Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile
Gautier, with his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant
mind, and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his
fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The
expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an
Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly
all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection—the fond lover of the
beautiful.

It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could
see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with
gems of all colours; and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips.
I was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a
word from my neighbour, Victor Hugo, made me turn towards him.

What a difference! He was just himself, the great poet—the most ordinary
of beings except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy-looking,
although very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth
without any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to
listen to him whilst looking at Théophile Gautier.

I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for
at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de St. Victor.
His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil they contained
was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes
evil-looking and hard; his arms were too short, and he was too stout. He
looked like a jaundice.

He had plenty of wit and talent, but he employed both in saying and
writing more harm than good. I knew that this man hated me, and I
promptly returned him hatred for hatred.

In answer to the toast proposed by Victor Hugo thanking every one for
such zealous help on the revival of his work, each person raised his
glass and looked towards the poet, but the illustrious master turned
towards me and continued, “As to you, Madame——”

Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor put his glass down so violently
on the table that it broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I
leaned across the table and held my glass out towards Paul de St.
Victor.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AT A FANCY-DRESS BALL

  BY WALTER SPINDLER
]

“Take mine, Monsieur,” I said, “and then when you drink you will know
what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so
clearly!”

The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!

Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers.
Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell
Chilly to reply to Victor Hugo. I did as requested. But he gazed at me
with a glassy look, and in a far-away voice replied:

“Some one is holding my legs.” I looked at him more attentively, whilst
Duquesnel asked for silence for M. de Chilly’s speech. I saw that his
fingers were grasping a fork desperately; the tips of his fingers were
white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy
cold; the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was
silence, and all eyes turned towards Chilly.

“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head
suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled
uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid,
commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one
mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the
waiters came and carried the body away, living but inert, and placed it
in a small drawing-room.

Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s
guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups
had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was
still as ill.

“The doctor has just arrived, and he cannot yet say,” I replied.

“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of
liqueur brandy.

“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Talien (Don Guritan), clumsily, for
he was always losing his memory.

Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:

“It is a beautiful kind of death.”

He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying
to chase my thoughts away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little
time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel appeared.
He was pale, but appeared as if nothing serious was the matter. He was
ready to answer all questions.

Oh yes; he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared.
He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been
cold during the meal.

“Yes,” put in one of the _Ruy Blas_ guests, “there certainly was a fine
draught under the table.”

“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him,
“yes; no doubt there was too much heat for his head.”

“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with
that wretched gas.”

I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by
all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his
banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He
shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd, said:

“It’s all over with him.”

I had had the presentiment of this, but the certitude of it now caused
me intense grief.

“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Kindly tell some one to ask for my
carriage.”

I moved towards the small drawing-room which served as a cloak-room for
our wraps, and there old Madame Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly
intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Talien.

“Ah, I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said; “I nearly knocked you
over.”

I pulled her towards me, and without reflecting whispered to her, “Don’t
dance any more, Mamma Lambquin; Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but
her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she
did not utter a word.

“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured; “I did not know I should make you so
wretched.”

She was not listening to me, though, any longer; she was putting on her
cloak.

“Are you leaving?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you——”

She wrapped a black fichu round her head, and we both went downstairs,
accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Meurice, who saw us into the carriage.

She lived in the St. Germain quarter and I in the Rue de Rome. On the
way the poor woman told me the following story.

“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists and
fortune-tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult
them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me, ‘You
will die a week after a man who is dark and not young, and whose life is
connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making game
of me, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a
widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this,
as I pay her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people, but
seven francs to artistes. She was furious at my not believing her, and
she seized my hands and said, ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as
I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who
supports you; and, even to be more exact still, there are two men who
support you, the one dark and the other fair; it’s a nice thing that!’
She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as
she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I
puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant.
And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark
and the other fair, are our two managers, Chilly and Duquesnel. And now
you tell me that Chilly——”

She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with
terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and in spite of the freezing
cold we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four
flights of stairs, and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her,
and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do
so, I went home myself, very much upset by all these incidents, as
dramatic as they were unexpected, in the middle of a _fête_.

Three days later Chilly died, without ever recovering consciousness.

Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her
absolution she said, “I am dying because I listened to and believed the
demon.”




                                  XXII
                AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN—SCULPTURE


I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored and still adore
that theatre. It always seems as though in itself it were a little
provincial town. Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor old
_savants_ take fresh air and shelter themselves from the sun; the large
flagstones all round, between the crevices of which microscopic yellow
grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by time, by hands, and by the
dirt from the road; the uninterrupted noise going on all around, the
departure of the omnibuses, like the departure of the old coaches, the
fraternity of the people who meet there; everything, even to the very
railings of the Luxembourg, gives it a quite special aspect in the midst
of Paris. Then too there is a kind of odour of the colleges there—the
very walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are not always
talking there of yesterday, as they do in the other theatres. The young
artistes who come there talk of to-morrow.

In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of my life without
a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter and without a dilation
of the nostrils, inhaling again the odour of little ordinary bouquets,
clumsily tied up, bouquets which had all the freshness of flowers that
grow in the open air, flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of
twenty summers, little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students.

I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon. I left the
furniture of my dressing-room to a young artiste. I left my costumes,
all the little toilette knick-knacks—I divided them and gave them away.
I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that
the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, but that
the struggle with life was about to commence, and I divined rightly.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AT WORK
  ON HER _MÉDÉE_
]

My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I
knew that I was going into the lions’ den. I counted few friends in this
house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and Mounet-Sully—the first two my
friends of the Conservatoire and the latter of the Odéon. Among the
women, Marie Lloyd and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood;
the disagreeable Jouassain, who was nice only to me; and the adorable
Marie Brohan, whose kindness delighted the soul, whose wit charmed the
mind, and whose indifference rebuffed devotion.

M. Perrin decided that I should make my _début_ in _Mademoiselle de
Belle-Isle_, according to Sarcey’s wish.

The rehearsals began in the _foyer_, which troubled me very much. Mile.
Brohan was to play the part of the Marquise de Prie. At this time she
was so fat as to be almost unsightly, while I was so thin that the
composers of popular and comic verses took my meagre proportions as
their theme and the cartoonists as a subject for their albums.

It was therefore impossible for the Duc de Richelieu to mistake the
Marquise de Prie (Madeleine Brohan) for Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle
(Sarah Bernhardt) in the irreverent nocturnal rendezvous given by the
Marquise to the Duc, who thinks he embraces the chaste Mademoiselle de
Belle-Isle.

At each rehearsal Bressant, who took the part of the Duc de Richelieu,
would stop, saying, “No, it is too ridiculous. I must play the Duc de
Richelieu with both my arms cut off!” And Madeleine left the rehearsal
to go to the director’s room in order to try and get rid of the _rôle_.

This was exactly what Perrin wanted; he had from the earliest moment
thought of Croizette, but he wanted to have his hand forced for private
and underhand reasons which he knew and which others guessed.

At last the change took place, and the serious rehearsals commenced.

Then the first performance was announced for November 6 (1872).

I have always suffered, and still suffer, terribly from stage fright,
especially when I know that much is expected of me. I knew a long time
beforehand that every seat in the house had been booked; I knew that the
Press expected a great success, and that Perrin himself was reckoning on
a long series of big receipts.

Alas! all these hopes and predictions went for nothing, and my _re-
début_ at the Comédie Française was only moderately successful.

The following is an extract from the _Temps_ of November 11, 1872. It
was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I was not then acquainted,
but who was following my career with very great interest. “It was a very
brilliant assembly, as this _début_ had attracted all theatre-lovers.
The fact is, beside the special merit of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, a whole
crowd of true or false stories had been circulated about her personally,
and all this had excited the curiosity of the Parisian public. Her
appearance was a disappointment. She had by her costume exaggerated in a
most ostentatious way a slenderness which is elegant under the veils and
ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman heroines, but which is
objectionable in modern dress. Then, too, either powder does not suit
her, or stage fright had made her terribly pale. The effect of this long
white face emerging from a long black sheath was certainly unpleasant [I
looked like an ant], particularly as the eyes had lost their brilliancy
and all that relieved the face were the sparkling white teeth. She went
through the first three acts with a convulsive tremor, and we only
recognised the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_ by two couplets which she gave in her
enchanting voice with the most wonderful grace, but in all the more
powerful passages she was a failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt will ever, with her delicious voice, be able to render those
deep thrilling notes, expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which
are capable of carrying away an audience. If only nature had endowed her
with this gift she would be a perfect artiste, and there are none such
on the stage. Roused by the coldness of her public, Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt was entirely herself in the fifth act. This was certainly our
Sarah once more, the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_, whom we had admired so much at
the Odéon....”

As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my _début_. My excuse,
though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed it, but the
terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly leave her seat in
the dress circle five minutes after my appearance on the stage.

I had glanced at her on entering, and had noticed her deathlike pallor.
When she went out I felt that she was about to have one of those attacks
which endangered her life, so that the first act seemed to me
interminable. I uttered one word after another, stammering through my
sentences haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing to know
what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive of the tortures
endured by the unfortunate comedians who are there before them in flesh
and blood on the stage, gesticulating and uttering phrases, while their
heart, all torn with anguish, is with the beloved absent one who is
suffering. As a rule, one can fling away the worries and anxieties of
every-day life, put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on
another, and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another
life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering. Anxiety
then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying the dark,
maddening our brain, which is living two lives at once, and tormenting
our heart, which is beating as though it would burst.

These were the sensations I experienced during the first act.

“Mamma! What has happened to Mamma?” were my first words on leaving the
stage. No one could tell me anything.

Croizette came up to me and said, “What’s the matter? I hardly recognise
you as you are, and you weren’t yourself at all just now in the play.”

In a few words I told her what I had seen and all that I had felt.
Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the doctor came hurrying
to me.

“Your mother had a fainting fit, Mademoiselle,” he said, “but they have
just taken her home.”

“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him.

“Yes,” he replied; “Madame’s heart is in a very agitated state.”

“Oh, I know how ill she is,” I said, and not being able to control
myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me back to my
dressing-room. She was very kind; we had known each other from
childhood, and were very fond of each other. Nothing ever estranged us,
in spite of all the malicious gossip of envious people and all the
little miseries due to vanity.

My dear Madame Guérard took a cab and hurried away to my mother to get
news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the public, not knowing
what was taking place, were annoyed with me, thinking I was guilty of
some fresh caprice, and received me still more coldly than before. It
was all the same to me, as I was thinking of something else. I went on
saying Mlle. de Belle-Isle’s words (a most stupid and tiresome _rôle_),
but all the time I, Sarah, was waiting for news about my mother. I was
watching for the return of _mon petit Dame_. “Open the door on the O.P.
side just a little way,” I had said to her, “and make a sign like this
if Mamma is better, and like that if she is worse.” But I had forgotten
which of the signs was to stand for better, and when, at the end of the
third act I saw Madame Guérard opening the door and nodding her head for
“yes,” I became quite idiotic.

It was in the big scene of the third act, when Mlle. de Belle-Isle
reproaches the Duc de Richelieu (Bressant) with doing her such
irreparable harm. The Duc replies, “Why did you not say that some one
was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed, “It’s Guérard
bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant
went on quickly, and so saved the situation.

After an unenthusiastic call I heard that my mother was better, but that
she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me such a
fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb
indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that in its
turn to rage on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone,
“Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”

I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act
with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was
Croizette’s, who was charming as the Marquise de Prie. My success,
nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it
became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed
heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a
horror of useless words.

I next appeared as Junie in _Britannicus_, with Mounet-Sully, who played
admirably as Nero. In this delicious _rôle_ of Junie I obtained an
immense and incredible success.

Then in 1873 I played Chérubin in _Le Mariage de Figaro_. Croizette
played Suzanne, and it was a real treat for the public to see that
delightful creature play a part so full of gaiety and charm.

Chérubin was for me the opportunity of a fresh success.

In the month of March 1873 Perrin took it into his head to stage
_Dalila_, by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls,
young princesses, or boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my delicate
aspect marked me out for the time being for the _rôle_ of victim.
Perrin, who thought that the victims attracted pity, and that it was for
this reason I pleased my audiences, cast the play most ridiculously: he
gave me the _rôle_ of Dalila, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious
princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the _rôle_ of the fair young
dying girl.

The piece, with this strange cast, was destined to fail. I forced my
character in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I stuffed
my bodice with wadding and the hips under my skirts with horse-hair; but
I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was obliged to repress
the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed and suffocated her,
but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.

I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it
was absurd. The piece was a _demi-succès_.

After that I created _L’Absent_, a pretty piece in verse, by Eugène
Manuel; _Chez l’Avocat_, a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier,
in which Coquelin and I quarrelled beautifully. Then, on August 22, I
played with immense success the _rôle_ of Andromaque. I shall never
forget the first performance, in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious
triumph. Oh, how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his _rôle_ of Orestes!
His entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this
marvellous artiste—how magnificent!

After _Andromaque_ I played Aricie in _Phèdre_, and in this secondary
_rôle_ it was I who really made the success of the evening.

I took such a position in a very short time at the Comédie that some of
the artistes began to feel uneasy, and the management shared their
anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent man, whom I have always
remembered with great affection, was horribly authoritative. I was also,
so that there was always perpetual warfare between us. He wanted to
impose his will on me, and I would not submit to it. He was always ready
to laugh at my outbursts when they were against the others, but he was
furious when they were directed against himself. As for me, I will own
that to get Perrin in a fury was one of my delights. He stammered so
when he tried to talk quickly, he who weighed every word on ordinary
occasions; the expression of his eyes, which was generally wavering,
grew irritated and deceitful, and his pale, distinguished-looking face
became mottled with patches of wine-dreg colour.

His fury made him take his hat off and put it on again fifteen times in
as many minutes, and his extremely smooth hair stood on end with this
mad gallop of his head-gear. Although I had certainly arrived at the age
of discretion, I delighted in my wicked mischievousness, which I always
regretted after, but which I was always ready to recommence; and even
now, after all the days, weeks, months, and years that I have lived
since then, it still gives me infinite pleasure to play a joke on any
one.

All the same, life at the Comédie began to affect my nerves.

I wanted to play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_: the _rôle_
was given to Croizette. I wanted to play Célimène: that _rôle_ was
Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to Croizette. He admired her, and
as she was very ambitious, she was most thoughtful and docile, which
charmed the authoritative old man. She always obtained everything she
wanted, and as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often
said to me when I was grumbling, “Do as I do; be more yielding. You pass
your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing everything that Perrin
wants me to do, but in reality I make him do all I want him to. Try the
same thing.” I accordingly screwed up my courage and went up to see
Perrin. He nearly always said to me when we met, “Ah, how do you do,
Mademoiselle Revolt? Are you calm to-day?”

“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant me what I am
going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and spoke in my prettiest
way. He almost purred with satisfaction, and was witty (this was no
effort to him, as he was naturally so), and we got on very well together
for a quarter of an hour. I then made my petition:

“Let me play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_”.

“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette is playing
it.”

“Well then, we’ll both play it; we’ll take it in turns.”

“But Mademoiselle Croizette wouldn’t like that.”

“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind it.”

“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the management does the casting, not the artistes.”

He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I was in a fury,
and a few minutes later I went out of the room, banging the door after
me.

All this preyed on my mind, though, and I used to cry all night. I then
decided to take a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was not
able to use my intelligence and my energy in creating _rôles_ at the
theatre, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began working
at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made great progress, and
started on an enormous composition, _After the Storm_. I was indifferent
now to the theatre. Every morning at eight my horse was brought round,
and I went for a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard
de Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the double
effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most alarming way, and
for hours together I was unconscious. I never went to the Comédie except
when obliged by my duties there. My friends were seriously concerned
about me, and Perrin was informed of what was going on. Finally, incited
by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided to give me a
_rôle_ to create in Octave Feuillet’s play _Le Sphinx_.

The principal part was for Croizette, but on hearing the play read I
thought the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that it should
also be the principal _rôle_. There would have to be two principal ones,
that was all. The rehearsals went along very smoothly at the start, but
it soon became evident that my _rôle_ was more important than had been
imagined, and friction soon began.

Croizette herself got nervous, Perrin was annoyed, and all this by-play
had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a shrewd, charming man,
extremely well bred and slightly ironical, thoroughly enjoyed the
skirmishes that took place. War was doomed to break out, however, and
the first hostilities came from Sophie Croizette.

I always wore in my bodice three or four roses, which were apt to open
under the influence of the warmth, and some of the petals naturally
fell. One day Sophie Croizette slipped down full length on the stage,
and as she was tall and not slim, she fell rather unbecomingly, and got
up again ungracefully. The stifled laughter of some of the subordinate
persons present stung her to the quick, and turning to me she said,
“It’s your fault; your roses fall and make every one slip down.” I began
to laugh.

“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all
three are by the arm-chair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O.P.
side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.”
The discussion continued, and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans
were formed, the “Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists.” War was
declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers
and detractors. The rumour of these little quarrels spread in the world
outside the theatre, and the public too began to form clans. Croizette
had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering
from repletion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and
the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from
the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was
fought over the moon.

We had begun the full dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was
laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon
which was Blanche (Croizette) kissing Savigny (Delaunay), who was
supposed to be my husband. I (Berthe de Savigny) had to arrive by a
little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight.
Croizette had just played her part, and her kiss had been greeted with a
burst of applause. This was rather daring in those days for the Comédie
Française. (But since then what have they not given there?)

Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on
some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing over the
bridge, my pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which
was intended to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my
limp fingers; my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the
use out of them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon, and the
effect, it seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal,
aggressive voice cried out, “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for
Mademoiselle Bernhardt.”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING
  (1878–9)
]

I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, Monsieur
Perrin,” I exclaimed, “you have no right to take my moon away. The
manuscript reads, _Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the
rays of the moon falling on her_.... I am pale and I am convulsed. I
must have my moon.”

“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mademoiselle Croizette’s words: ‘You
love me, then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing
the Sphinx; that is the chief part in the play, and we must leave her
the principal effect.”

“Very well, then; give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less
brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the
artistes and all the _employés_ of the theatre put their heads in at all
the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The
“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the
discussion.

Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and he got up in his turn.

“I grant that Mademoiselle Croizette is very beautiful in her moon
effect. Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt is ideal too, with her ray of
moonlight. I want the moon therefore for both of them.”

Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion between the
author and the director, followed by others between the artistes, and
between the door-keeper and the journalists who were questioning him.
The rehearsal was interrupted. I declared that I would not play the part
if I did not have my moon. For the next two days I received no notice of
another rehearsal, but through Croizette I heard that they were trying
my _rôle_ of Berthe privately. They had given it to a young woman whom
we had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed all the
rehearsals just as that animal follows boats—she was always hoping to
snatch up some _rôle_ that might happen to be thrown overboard. Octave
Feuillet refused to accept the change of artistes, and he came himself
to fetch me, accompanied by Delaunay, who had negotiated matters.

“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands; “there will be a moon for
both of you.”

The first night was a triumph both for Croizette and for me.

The party strife between the two clans waxed warmer and warmer, and this
added to our success and amused us both immensely, for Croizette was
always a delightful friend and a loyal comrade. She worked for her own
ends, but never against any one else.

After _Le Sphinx_ I played a pretty piece in one act by a young pupil of
the Ecole Polytechnique, Louis Denayrouse, _La Belle Paule._ This author
has now become a renowned scientific man, and has renounced poetry.

I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he refused
energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsals of
_Zaïre_ during the trying months of June and July, and, in spite of my
reluctance, announced the first performance for August 6. That year it
was fearfully hot in Paris. I believe that Perrin, who could not tame me
alive, had, without really any bad intention, but by pure autocracy, the
desire to tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him, and told him that
my state of weakness was such that it would be positively dangerous for
me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would hear nothing of it. Then,
furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual _bourgeois_, I swore I
would play on to the death.

Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to vex
others. I remember once having drunk the contents of a large ink-pot
after being compelled by mamma to swallow a “panade,”[2] because she
imagined that panades were good for the health. Our nurse had told her
my dislike to this form of nourishment, adding that every morning I
emptied the panade into the slop-pail. I had, of course, a very bad
stomach-ache, and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma, “It is you who
have killed me!” and my poor mother wept. She never knew the truth, but
they never again made me swallow anything against my will.

Footnote 2:

  Bread stewed a long time in water and flavoured with a little butter
  and sugar, a kind of “sops” given to children in France.

Well, after so many years I experienced the same bitter and childish
sentiment. “I don’t care,” I said; “I shall certainly fall senseless
vomiting blood, and perhaps I shall die! And it will serve Perrin right.
He will be furious!” Yes, that is what I thought. I am at times very
foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain it, but I admit it.

The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the part of
Zaïre. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration. I saw the
spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as regards scenery,
but very well presented as regards costume, was particularly well played
by Mounet-Sully (Orosmane), Laroche (Néréstan) and myself (Zaïre), and
obtained an immense success.

I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined to die,
in order to enrage Perrin. I played with the utmost passion. I had
sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I had been stabbed by the
poignard of Orosmane, uttering a true cry of suffering, for I had felt
the steel penetrate my breast. Then, falling panting, dying, on the
Oriental divan, I had meant to die in reality, and dared scarcely move
my arms, convinced as I was that I was in my death agony, and somewhat
afraid, I must admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick
on Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the close
of the piece and I got up quickly to answer to the call and bow to the
audience without languor, without fainting, feeling strong enough to go
through my part again if it had been necessary.

And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for that day I
learned that my vital force was at the service of my intellectual force.
I had desired to follow the impulse of my brain, whose conceptions
seemed to me to be too forceful for my physical strength to carry out.
And I found myself, after having given out all of which I was
capable—and more—in perfect equilibrium.

Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future.

I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard
and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my
gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked
authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation could not
tame the wild beasts (the audience). I thought then of all that.

I had received proof that I could rely on my physical strength, for I
had commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness
that it was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act
without fainting.

On the other hand, although the _rôle_ was easy, it required two or
three shrieks, which might have provoked the vomiting of blood that
frequently troubled me at that time.

That evening, therefore, I acquired the certainty that I could count on
the strength of my vocal cords, for I had uttered my shrieks with real
rage and suffering, hoping to break something, in my wild desire to be
revenged on Perrin.

Thus this little comedy turned to my profit. Being unable to die at
will, I changed my batteries and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and
active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had
only put up with me because they thought I should soon die, but who
began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction that I should
perhaps live for a long time. I will only give one example, related by
Alexandre Dumas _fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate
friend Charles Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die
because I shall hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the grand
Français” (Ferdinand de Lesseps).

But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort
of _farniente_ to which Perrin condemned me.

In fact, after _Zaïre_, I remained months without doing anything of
importance, playing only now and again. Discouraged and disgusted with
the theatre, my passion for sculpture increased. After my morning ride
and a light meal I used to rush to my studio, where I remained till the
evening.

Friends came to see me, sat round me, played the piano, sang; politics
were discussed—for in this modest studio I received the most illustrious
men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which was
abominable and badly served, but I did not care about that. I was
absorbed by this admirable art. I saw nothing, or, to speak more truly,
I _would not_ see anything.

I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy de * * *.
Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She was a
foreigner, but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She
smoked a cigarette all the time, and had a profound disdain for those
who did not understand her.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  IN HER COFFIN
]

I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this
delicate mind was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the beyond,
and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself, “What
would Emmy have done? What would she have thought?”

I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild,
who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work
immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had
nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried nevertheless, and I
brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order, of
which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on
the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave up, stammering
idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model, for he never
returned to me. When we met in our morning rides he saluted me with a
cold and rather severe bow.

After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Miss
Multon, a delightful little American, whom later on I came across in
Denmark, married and the mother of a family, but still as pretty as
ever.

My next bust was that of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was
keeper of the linen in the commissariat during the war, and who had so
powerfully helped me and my wounded at that time.

Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas! a
weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two
leonine eyes shaded by long, long brown lashes, a slender nose with
delicate nostrils, a tiny mouth, a wilful chin, and a pearly skin
crowned by meshes of sunrays, for I have never seen hair so blonde and
so pale, so bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without
charm; the expression was hard and the mouth without a smile. I tried my
best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great
artist and I was only a humble amateur.

When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after
her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness, full of false
hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little
_entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had
destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant
possessions. This flat in the Rue de Rome was very small. My bedroom was
quite tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the
window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to study my
parts. Therefore, when I took my sister to my home I found it quite
natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was
to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed, under
the lace hangings.

She herself found it quite natural also, for I would not leave her at
night, and it was impossible to put another bed in the little room.
Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin.

One day my manicurist came into the room to do my hands, and my sister
asked her to enter quietly, because I was still asleep. The woman turned
her head, believing that I was asleep in the arm-chair, but seeing me in
my coffin she rushed away shrieking wildly. From that moment all Paris
knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip with its thistle-down wings
took flight in all directions.

I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written about me that I
did not trouble about this. But at the death of my poor little sister a
tragi-comic incident happened. When the undertaker’s men came to the
room to take away the body they found themselves confronted with two
coffins, and losing his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for
a second hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost
consciousness, and I just got back in time to prevent the black-clothed
men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent back, but the
papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed, criticised, &c.

It really was not my fault.




                                 XXIII
 A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE AS PHÈDRE—THE
                      DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION


After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended her day
and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering, made me
anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two months. I promised to go to
Mentone, and I turned immediately towards Brittany, the country of my
dreams.

I had with me my little boy, my steward and his wife. My poor Guérard,
who had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with phlebitis. I
would much have liked to have her with me.

Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years ago Brittany
was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than at
present, for it was not furrowed with roads; its green slopes were not
dotted with small white villas; its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed
in the abominable modern trousers, and the women did not wear miserable
little hats with feathers. No! The Bretons proudly displayed their well-
shaped legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled
shoes; their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding any
awkward ears and giving to the face a nobility which the modern style
does not admit of. The women, with their short skirts, which showed
their slender ankles in black stockings, and with their small heads
under the wings of the headdress, resembled sea-gulls. I am not
speaking, of course, of the inhabitants of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de
Batz, who have entirely different aspects.

I visited nearly the whole of Brittany, but made my chief stay at
Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained twelve days at
Audierne, in the house of Father Batifoulé, who was so big and so fat
that they had been obliged to cut a piece out of the table to let in his
immense abdomen. I set out every morning at ten o’clock. My steward
Claude himself prepared my lunch, which he packed up very carefully in
three little baskets, then climbing into the comical vehicle of Father
Batifoulé, my little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés.
Ah, that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks! The
lighthouse keeper would be looking out for me, and would come to meet
me. Claude gave him my provisions, with a thousand recommendations as to
the manner of cooking the eggs, warming up the lentils, and toasting the
bread. He carried off everything, then returned with two old sticks in
which he had stuck nails to make them into picks, and we commenced the
terrifying ascent of the Pointe du Raz, a kind of labyrinth full of
disagreeable surprises, of crevasses across which we had to jump over
the gaping and roaring abyss, of arches and tunnels through which we had
to crawl on all fours, having overhead—touching us even—a rock which had
fallen there in unknown ages and was only held in equilibrium by some
inexplicable cause. Then all at once the path became so narrow that it
was impossible to walk straight forward; we had to turn and put our
backs against the cliff and advance with both arms spread out and
fingers holding on to the few asperities of the rock.

When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for I have
always been, and still am, subject to dizziness; and I went over this
path along a steep precipitous rock, 30 metres high, in the midst of the
infernal noise of the sea, at this place eternally furious, and which
raged fearfully against this indestructible cliff. And I must have taken
a mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished this journey five times in
eleven days.

After this challenge thrown down to reason we descended, and installed
ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath we had lunch, and I
painted till sunset.

The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child came to
look at us. The third day about ten children stood around asking for
sous. I was foolish enough to give them some, and the following day
there were twenty or thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to eighteen
years old. Seeing near my easel something not particularly agreeable, I
begged one of them to take it away and throw it into the sea, and for
that I gave, I think, fifty centimes. When I came back the following day
to finish my painting the whole population of the neighbouring village
had chosen this place to relieve their corporal necessities, and as soon
as I arrived the same boys, but in increased numbers, offered, if
properly paid, to take away what they had put there.

I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse keeper, and as
they took to throwing stones at us, I pointed my gun at the little
group. They fled howling. Only two boys, of six and ten years of age,
remained there. We did not take any notice of them, and I installed
myself a little farther on, sheltered by a rock which kept the wind
away. The two boys followed. Claude and the keeper Lucas were on the
look out to see that the band did not come back.

They were stooping down over the extreme point of the rock which was
above our heads. They seemed peaceful, when suddenly my young maid
jumped up: “Horrors! Madame! Horrors! They are throwing lice down on
us!” And in fact the two little good-for-nothings had been for the last
hour searching for all the vermin they could find on themselves, and
throwing it on us.

I had the two little beggars caught, and they got a well-deserved
correction.

There was a crevasse which was called the “Enfer du Plogoff.” I had a
wild desire to go down this crevasse, but the guardian dissuaded me,
constantly giving as objections the danger of slipping, and his fear of
responsibility in case of accident. I persisted nevertheless in my
intention, and after a thousand promises, in addition to a certificate
to testify that, notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and
the certainty of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same,
&c., and after having made a small present of ten louis to the good
fellow, I obtained facilities for descending the Enfer du Plogoff—that
is to say, a wide belt to which a strong rope was fastened. I buckled
this belt round my waist, which was then so slender—43 centimetres—that
it was necessary to make additional holes in order to fasten it.

Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe the sole of
which was bordered with big nails jutting out two centimetres. I stared
at these wooden shoes, and asked for an explanation before putting them
on.

“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down, as you are no
fatter than a herring bone, you will get shaken about in the crevasse,
and will risk breaking your bones, while if you have the ‘sabots’ on
your hands you can protect yourself against the walls by putting out
your arms to the right and the left, according as you are shaken up
against them. I do not say that you will not have a few bangs, but that
is your own fault; you will go. Now listen, my little lady. When you are
at the bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for that
is the most dangerous of all; if you fall in the water I will pull the
rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that cursed
whirlpool of water you might be caught between two stones, and it would
be no use for me to pull: I should break the rope, and that would be
all.”

Then the man grew pale and made the sign of the cross; he leaned towards
me, murmuring in a dreamy voice, “It is the shipwrecked ones who are
there under the stones, down there. It is they who dance in the
moonlight on the ‘shore of the dead.’ It is they who put the slippery
seaweed on the little rock down there, in order to make travellers slip,
and then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then, looking me in
the eyes, he said, “Will you go down all the same?”

“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas; I will go down at once.”

My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with Félicie.
Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word, knowing my unbridled
desire to meet danger. He looked to see if the belt was properly
fastened, and asked my permission to tie the tongue of the belt to the
belt itself; then he passed a strong cord several times around to
strengthen the leather, and I was let down, suspended by the rope in the
blackness of the crevasse. I extended my arms to the right and the left,
as the guardian had told me to do, and even then I got my elbows
scraped. At first I thought that the noise I heard was the reverberation
of the echo of the blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the
crevasse, but suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive
firings of cannons, strident ringings, crackings of a whip, plaintive
howls, and repeated monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing
up a net filled with fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises mingled
under the mad violence of the wind. I became furious with myself, for I
was really afraid.

The lower I went, the louder the howlings became in my ears and my
brain, and my heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through
the narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my body, my
neck. A horrible fear took possession of me.

I descended slowly, and at each little shock I felt that the four hands
holding me above had come to a knot. I tried to remember the number of
knots, for it seemed to me that I was making no progress.

Then I opened my mouth to call out, “Draw me up!” but the wind, which
danced in mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back the words.
I was nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and ceased to struggle. I
would not even put out my arms. A few instants after I pulled up my legs
in unspeakable terror. The sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace
which had wet me through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could
see clearly. I stretched out my legs, and found myself upright on the
little rock. It is true it was very slippery.

I took hold of a large ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock,
and I looked round. The long and narrow crevasse grew suddenly wider at
its base, and terminated in a large grotto which looked out over the
open sea; but the entrance of this grotto was protected by a quantity of
both large and small rocks, which could be seen for a distance of a
league in front on the surface of the water—which explains the terrible
noise of the sea dashing into the labyrinth and the possibility of
standing upright on a stone, as the Bretons say, with the wild dance of
the waves all around.

However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal in the
brutal whirl of waters, which came rushing in from afar with dizzy speed
and broke against the insurmountable obstacle, and in receding dashed
against other waves which followed them. From this cause proceeded the
perpetual fusillade of waters which rushed into the crevasse without
danger of drowning me.

It now began to grow dark, and I experienced a fearful anguish in
discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous eyes, which
looked fixedly at me. Then a little farther, near a tuft of seaweed, two
more of these fixed eyes. I saw no body to these beings—nothing but the
eyes. I thought for a minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my
tongue till the blood came; then I pulled violently at the rope, as I
had agreed to do in order to give the signal for being drawn up. I felt
the trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my feet lost their
hold as I was hauled up by my guardians. The eyes were lifted up also,
uneasy at seeing me depart. And while I mounted through the air I saw
nothing but eyes everywhere—eyes throwing out long feelers to reach me.

I had never seen an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of
these horrible beasts.

During the ascent, which appeared to me interminable, I imagined I saw
these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were chattering when I was
drawn out on to the green hillock.

I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and he crossed
himself, saying, “Those are the eyes of the shipwrecked ones. No one
must stay there!”

I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked ones, but I
did not know what they were. For I thought I had seen some strange
beasts that no one had ever seen before.

It was only at the hotel with Père Batifoulé that I learnt about the
octopus.

Only five more days’ holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the
Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named
“Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair.” Many tourists have sat there since.

After my holiday I returned to Paris. But I was still very weak, and
could only take up my work towards the month of November. I played all
the pieces of my _répertoire_, and I was annoyed at not having any new
_rôles_.

One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio. He began to talk
at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion,
and asked me incidentally if I knew the _rôle_ of Phèdre. Up to that
time I had only played Aricie, and the part of Phèdre seemed formidable
to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure.

“Yes, I know the _rôle_ of Phèdre. But I think if ever I had to play it
I should die of fright.”

[Illustration:

  A CORNER OF THE LIBRARY
]

He laughed with his silly little laugh, and said to me, squeezing my
hand (for he was very gallant), “Work it up. I think that you will play
it.”

In fact, eight days after I was called to the manager’s office, and
Perrin told me that he had announced _Phèdre_ for December 21, the
_fête_ of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of Phèdre. I
thought I should have fallen.

“Well, but what about Mademoiselle Rousseil?” I asked.

“Mademoiselle Rousseil wants the committee to promise that she shall
become a Sociétaire in the month of January, and the committee, which
will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and
declares that her demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mademoiselle
Rousseil will change her plans, and in that case you will play Aricie
and I will change the bill.”

Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Régnier. I told him of my
conversation with the manager and of my fears.

“No, no,” said the great artiste to me, “you must not be afraid! I see
very well what you are going to make of this _rôle_. But all you have to
do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the _rôle_ rather
more sorrowful than furious—it will be better for every one, even
Racine.”

Then, joining my hands, I said, “Dear Monsieur Régnier, help me to work
up Phèdre, and I shall not be so much afraid!”

He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile
nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not
help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid.
Régnier accepted, and made an appointment with me for the following
morning at nine o’clock.

Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the committee, and _Phèdre_
was billed for December 21, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the first
time in the _rôle_ of Phèdre.

This caused quite a sensation in the artistic world and in theatrical
circles. That evening over two hundred people were turned away at the
box office. When I was informed of the fact I began to tremble a good
deal.

Régnier comforted me as best he could, saying, “Courage! Cheer up! Are
you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into
consideration your inexperience in important leading parts,” &c.

These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt
stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to
encourage me.

I began to cry bitterly like a child. Perrin was called, and consoled me
as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face
so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.

Everybody on the stage knew about it, and stood at the door of my
dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing
Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed “we were playing _Phèdre_, and
you were hissed; and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried,
“we shall have a tremendous success.”

But what put me completely in a good humour was the arrival of the
worthy Martel, who was playing Théramène, and who had come so quickly,
believing me to be ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The
sight of this grey face, with a wide bar of red wax commencing between
the two eyebrows, coming down to half a centimetre below his nose and
leaving behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this
face was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that
Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change
shape at the second performance of _Zaïre_, under the tropical
depression of the atmosphere, but I had never realised how much he
lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gaiety, and from
thenceforth I was in full possession of my faculties.

The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in
praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was
on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over “my
impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead
artiste.” These are his own words addressed to Girardin, who immediately
communicated them to me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had
never seen Rachel, but I worshipped her talent, for I had surrounded
myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of
comparing me with their idol.

A few days after this performance of _Phèdre_ the new piece of Bornier
was read to us—_La Fille de Roland_. The part of Berthe was confided to
me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, the
verses of which were nevertheless a little flat, though the play rang
with patriotism. There was in one act a terrible duel, not seen by the
public, but related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while the
incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who from a window
of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes of the encounter. This
scene was the only important one of my much-sacrificed _rôle_.

The play was ready to be performed, when Bornier asked that his friend
Emile Augier might attend the dress rehearsal. When this rehearsal was
over Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As
to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner.
Emile Augier followed him. “Well——” he said to me. I looked straight at
him, feeling at the moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and
scratched his head, then turned towards Augier and said:

“I beg you, _cher maître_, explain to Mademoiselle yourself.”

Emile Augier was a broad man, with wide shoulders and a common
appearance, and was at that time rather stout. He was in very good
repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was at that epoch the
successful author. He came near me.

“You managed the part at the window very well, Mademoiselle, but it is
ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has
written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately.
This scene must be taken out.”

I turned towards Perrin, who was listening silently. “Are you of the
same opinion, sir?”

“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author
is master to do as he pleases with his work.”

Then, addressing myself to Bornier, I said, “Well, my dear author, what
have you decided?”

Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching
and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene
which he prized, and of fear at vexing an Academician just at the time
when he was hoping to become a member of the Academy.

“Cut it out, cut it out—or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier,
and he turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome,
came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man
suffered from a distressing skin disease. He did not speak. He looked at
us searchingly. Poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin, who
had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking
place in the heart of the mild Bornier.

“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me.

I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene were cut
out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands, which
he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he exclaimed, with comic
emphasis:

“But I cannot cut it out—I cannot cut it out! She will not play! And the
day after to-morrow the play is to be performed.” Then, as Emile Augier
made a gesture and would have spoken: “No! No! To put back my play eight
days would be to kill it! I cannot cut it out! Oh, mon Dieu!” And he
cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and he stamped with his
short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the
same time funny and pitiable. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on
me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:

“Will you take the responsibility, Mademoiselle, of the absurd window
scene on the first performance?”

“Certainly, Monsieur; and I even promise to make of this scene, which I
find very beautiful, an enormous success!”

He shrugged his shoulders rudely, muttering something very disagreeable
between his teeth.

When I left the theatre I found poor Bornier quite transfigured. He
thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene,
and he dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined
the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well bred,
but a trifle Jesuitical.

The play was an immense success. But the window scene on the first night
was a veritable triumph.

It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained
frequent allusions to it, and owing to the patriotism of the public made
an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I sent for Emile
Augier. He came to my dressing-room with a surly air, and said to me
from the door:

“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is
idiotic to make a success of such vileness!” And he disappeared without
having even entered my dressing-room.

[Illustration:

  LIBRARY IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS
]

His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced
me repeatedly, I scratched myself all over.

Two months later I played _Gabrielle_, by this same Augier, and I had
incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.
Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, made a great success. As for
me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying a great deal.

I had been appointed a Sociétaire in the month of January, and since
then it seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken an
engagement not to leave the House of Molière for many years. This idea
made me sad. It was at Perrin’s instigation that I had asked to become a
Sociétaire, and now I regretted it very much.

During all the latter part of the year I only played occasionally.

My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty
little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de
Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in
her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire
was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then
realising it. The son-in-law of M. Régnier, Félix Escalier, a
fashionable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused
me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house.
Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I
forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I
most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was
finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in
helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my
bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect
Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin,
and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I
played on one of my relations.

My aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native country, in order to
spend a few days in Paris. She was staying with my mother. I invited her
to lunch in my new unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends
were working, some in one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty
scaffoldings were erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more
easily I was wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus
arrayed, was horribly shocked, and told me so. But I was preparing yet
another surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary
house-painters, and considered I was too familiar with them. But she
nearly fainted when mid-day came and I rushed to the piano to play “The
Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised
by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends.
Here it is:

          Oh! Peintres de la Dam’ jolie,
          De vos pinceaux arrêtez la folie!
          Il faut descendr’ des escabeaux,
          Vous nettoyer et vous faire très beaux!
                Digue, dingue, donne!
                L’heure sonne.
                Digue, dingue, di....
                C’est midi!

          Sur les grils et dans les cass’roles
          Sautent le veau, et les œufs et les soles.
          Le bon vin rouge et l’Saint-Marceaux
          Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux!
                Digue, dingue, donne!
                L’heure sonne.
                Digue, dingue, di....
                C’est midi!

          Voici vos peintres, Dam’ jolie
          Qui vont pour vous débiter leur folie.
          Ils ont tous lâché l’escabeau
          Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et très beaux!
                Digue, dingue, donne
                L’heure sonne.
                Digue, dingue, di....
                C’est midi.

When the song was finished I went into my bedroom and made myself into a
_belle dame_ for lunch.

My aunt had followed me. “But, my dear,” said she, “you are mad to think
I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there
is no one but yourself who would do such a thing.”

“No, no, Aunt; it is all right.”

And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was
the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to
my aunt, who did not recognise them at first, for they had changed their
working clothes and looked like five nice young society swells. Madame
Guérard lunched with us. Suddenly in the middle of lunch my aunt cried
out, “But these are the workmen!” The five young men rose and bowed low.
Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself in every
possible manner, so confused was she.




                                  XXIV
         ALEXANDRE DUMAS—L’ETRANGÈRE—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON


One day Alexandre Dumas, junior, was announced. He came to bring me the
good news that he had finished his play for the Comédie Française,
_L’Etrangère_, and that my _rôle_, the Duchesse de Septmonts, had come
out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a fine success out of
it.” I expressed my gratitude to him.

A month after this visit we were requested to attend the reading of this
piece at the Comédie.

The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my _rôle_,
Catherine de Septmonts. I also liked the _rôle_ of Croizette, Mrs.
Clarkson.

Got gave us each copies of our parts, and thinking that he had made a
mistake, I passed on to Croizette the _rôle_ of l’Etrangère which he had
just given me, saying to her, “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your
_rôle_.”

“But he is not making any mistake. It is I who am to play the Duchesse
de Septmonts.”

I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody
present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me at whom I was laughing like
that, I exclaimed:

“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette, and all of you who are in the
plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your cowardice.
Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play the
Duchesse de Septmonts, but I shall be ten times more delighted to play
l’Etrangère. And this time, my dear Sophie, I’ll be quits with you; no
ceremony, I tell you; for you have played me a little trick which was
quite unworthy of our friendship!”

The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm
partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so
much so that one day Croizette, losing all patience, burst out:

“Well, Monsieur, you should have left the _rôle_ to Sarah; she would
have played it with the voice you wish in the love scenes; I cannot do
any better. You irritate me too much: I have had enough of it!” And she
ran off, sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of
hysteria.

I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of
her tears she kissed me, murmuring, “It is true. It is they who
instigated me to play this nasty trick, and now they are annoying me.”
Croizette used vulgar expressions, very vulgar ones, and at times
uttered many a Gallic joke.

That day we made up our quarrel entirely.

A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter
informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change
the name of the play. He wished—it goes without saying—to have the piece
called _La Duchesse de Septmonts_.

I rushed off to the theatre to find Perrin at once.

At the entrance door I met Coquelin, who was playing the part of the Duc
de Septmonts, which he did marvellously well. I showed him the letter.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It is infamous! But why do you take any
notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!”

We were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.

“Here, show the letter to Perrin!” And he took it from my hands in order
to show it to him. Perrin blushed slightly.

“I know this writing,” he said. “Some one from the theatre has written
this letter.”

I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is well informed,
and what he says is perhaps true. Is it not so? Tell me. I have the
right to know.”

“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs, bowing
slightly, but without saying anything further.

“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much. Would you like me
to go and see Dumas, and I will get to know at once?”

“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head. I’ll go there.”
And shaking hands with him, I went off to see the younger Dumas. He was
just going out.

“Well, well? What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!”

I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He
had kept his hat on, and took it off to recover his self-possession. And
before he could speak a word I got furiously angry; I fell into one of
those rages which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of
madness. And in fact, all that I felt of bitterness towards this man,
towards Perrin, towards all this theatrical world that should have loved
me and upheld me, but which betrayed me on every occasion—all the hot
anger that I had been accumulating during the rehearsals, the cries of
revolt against the perpetual injustice of these two men, Perrin and
Dumas—I burst out with everything in an avalanche of stinging words
which were both furious and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made
in former days; of his visit to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers; of
the cowardly and underhand manner in which he had sacrificed me, at
Perrin’s request and on the wishes of the friends of Sophie. I spoke
vehemently, without allowing him to edge in a single word. And when,
worn out, I was forced to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue,
“What—what—what have you to say for yourself?”

“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had examined my own
conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to
me so eloquently! But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a
little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about the
stage; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your
court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all
that I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have
touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title
of _L’Etrangère_. And now embrace me with good grace, to show that you
are no longer angry with me.”

I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.

That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew
nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that. The
play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the
laurels of the day.

I had just commenced in my studio in the Avenue de Clichy a large group,
the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of an old
woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trépassés.

One day I went up to her, wishing to speak to her, but I was so
terrified by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the
guardian told me her history.

She was the mother of five sons, all sailors. Two had been killed by the
Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She had brought up the
little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him far from the sea and
teaching him to hate the water. She had never left the little lad, but
he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said he was dying
because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get well,” said
the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go to see it together.”

Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left the valley
in the company of her little grandson to go and see the ocean, the grave
of her three sons.

It was a November day; a low sky hung over the ocean, narrowing the
horizon. The child jumped with joy. He ran, gambolled, and sang for
happiness when he saw all this living water.

The grandmother sat on the sand, and hid her tearful eyes in her two
trembling hands; then suddenly, struck by the silence, she looked up in
terror. There in front of her she saw a boat drifting, and in the boat
her boy, her little lad of eight years old, who was laughing right
merrily, paddling as well as he could with one oar that he could hardly
hold, and crying out, “I am going to see what there is behind the mist,
and I will come back.”

He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman
talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every
day to the water’s edge, throwing in the bread which kind folks gave
her, and saying to the waves, “You must carry that to the little lad.”

This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the
tall old woman, with her brown cape and hood.

I worked feverishly at this group. It seemed to me now that I was
destined to be a sculptor, and I began to despise the stage. I only went
to the theatre when I was compelled by my duties, and I left as soon as
possible.

I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was
going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges
Clairin, who came in just at that moment to see me, begged me not to do
so. And my good friend Mathieu Meusnier, who was a man of talent, also
added his voice against the destruction of my design.

Excited by their encouragement, I decided to hurry on with the work and
to make a large group. I asked Meusnier if he knew any tall, bony old
woman, and he sent me two, neither of whom suited me. Then I asked all
my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of old
and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a charwoman
who was about sixty years old. She was very tall, and had very sharp-cut
features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of fear. The idea
of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours together made
me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more comfortable. Her
timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy young girl,
contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When I showed her
the design she was stupefied. “Do you want me to have my neck and
shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that nobody ever came in
when I worked, and I asked to see her neck immediately.

Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long,
emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh;
the sterno-cleido-mastoid was remarkable—it was just what I wanted. I
went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What a treasure I had
found! The shoulder bone was visible under the skin, and she had two
immense “salt-cellars”! The woman was ideal for my work. She seemed
destined for it. She blushed when I told her so. I asked to see her
feet. She took off her thick boots and showed a dirty foot which had no
character. “No,” I said, “thank you. Your feet are too small; I will
take only your head and shoulders.”

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME
  _From the painting by Walter Spindler_
]

After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea
of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry,
and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek
for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally
spent six months of the year in the country, in Sologne, near her
grandchildren.

Having found the grandmother, I now needed the child.

I passed a review of a whole army of professional Italian models. There
were some lovely children, real little Jupins. The mothers undressed
their children in a second, and the children posed quite naturally and
took attitudes which showed off their muscles and the development of the
torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years old, but who looked more
like nine. I had already had in the workmen, who had followed out my
design and put up the scaffolding necessary to make my work sufficiently
stable and to support the weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into
the plaster by bolts and pillars of wood and iron wherever necessary.
The skeleton of a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put
up to catch rats and mice by the thousand.

I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance.
Nothing discouraged me.

Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till four o’clock in the
morning. And as one humble gas-burner was totally insufficient to work
by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet made, each bud of which was
a candlestick, and each had its candle burning, and those of the back
row were a little higher than those of the front. And with this help I
was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock in the
room, as I wished to ignore time altogether, except on the days I had to
perform at the theatre. Then my maid would come and call for me. How
many times have I gone without lunch or dinner. Then I would perhaps
faint, and so be compelled to send for something to eat to restore my
strength.

I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the
hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on
her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked
in vain for the hands and feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day,
when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this
group, which was much talked of, I had an inspiration. Martel was big,
and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my
work. He was looking at it as a _connoisseur_. But I was looking at
_him_. Suddenly I said:

“My dear Martel, I beg you—I beseech you—to pose for the hands and feet
of my grandmother!”

He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace he took off his
shoes and took the place of my model.

He came ten days in succession, and gave me three hours each day.

Thanks to him, I was able to finish my group. I had it moulded and sent
to the Salon (1876), where it met with genuine success.

Is there any need to say that I was accused of having got some one else
to make this group for me? I sent a summons to one critic. He was no
other than Jules Claretie, who had declared that this work, which was
very interesting, could not have been done by me. Jules Claretie
apologised very politely, and that was the end of it.

The Jury, after a full investigation, awarded me an “honourable
mention,” and I was wild with joy.

I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the
criticisms referred to the neck of my old Breton woman, that neck on
which I had worked with such eagerness.

The following is from an article by René Delorme:

“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The
head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it
bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as
nothing.

“The only reproach I have to make against this artist is that she has
brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the old
grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with
herself for having studied anatomy so well, and is not sorry for the
opportunity of showing it. It is,” &c. &c.

Certainly this gentleman was right. I had studied anatomy eagerly and in
a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot, who was so
good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and
when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself,
putting my finger on some part of my body, “Now then, what is that?” I
had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I
compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm,
and did not sleep till this was done.

A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s play, _Rome
Vaincue_, at the Comédie Française. I refused the _rôle_ of the young
vestal Opimia, which had been allotted to me, and energetically demanded
that of Posthumia, an old, blind Roman woman with a superb and noble
face.

No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old Breton
weeping over her grandson and the august patrician claiming forgiveness
for her grand-daughter.

Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But
his order-loving mind and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about
Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to
seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the
two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be
the two——something or other? _Eureka!_ There was in the play an old
idiot named Vestæpor, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the
piece, but had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried the
director of the Comédie; “Mounet-Sully shall play Vestæpor!” Equilibrium
was restored. The god of the _bourgeois_ was content.

The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a great success at
the first performance (September 27, 1876), and personally I was very
successful in the fourth act. The public was decidedly in my favour, in
spite of everything and everybody.




                                  XXV
                     “HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON


The performances of _Hernani_ made me a still greater favourite with the
public.

I had already rehearsed with Victor Hugo, and it was a real pleasure to
me to see the great poet almost each day. I had never discontinued my
visits, but I was never able to have any conversation with him in his
own house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or women in
tears reciting. He was very good; he used to listen with half-closed
eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Then, roused by the silence, he would
say a consoling word, for Victor Hugo could not promise without keeping
his word. He was not like me: I promise everything with the firm
intention of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten
all about them. If any one reminds me of what I have promised, I tear my
hair, and to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy
presents—in fact, I complicate my life with useless worries. It has
always been thus, and always will be so.

As was I grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a
chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after
lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to
which Paul Meurice, the poet Léon Cladel, the Communard Dupuis, a
Russian lady whose name I do not remember and Gustave Doré were also
invited. In front of Victor Hugo sat Madame Drouet, the friend of his
unlucky days.

But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My
feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted
badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table.
Near me was Mr. X., a German socialist, who is to-day a very successful
man. This man had such dirty hands and ate in such a way that he made me
feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and
proper, and, I believe, an imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling
this uncongenial neighbour inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on
my feet, mortal boredom—all this reduced me to a state of positive
suffering, and I lost consciousness.

When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that of Madame
Drouet, and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave Doré.

“Oh, don’t move,” he exclaimed; “you are so pretty like that!” These
words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me nevertheless, and I
complied with the wish of the great artist, who was one of my friends.

I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-bye to him, a trifle
ashamed of myself.

The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale to account for my
illness, and I saw no more of him except at the rehearsals of _Hernani_.

The first performance of _Hernani_ took place on November 21, 1877. It
was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. _Hernani_ had already
been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took the part of
Hernani, was the exact contrary of what this part should have been. He
was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the style of those
grand epic poems. He was charming, graceful, and wore a perpetual smile;
of middle height, with studied movements, he was ideal in Musset,
perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in Victor
Hugo.

Bressant, who took the part of Charles Quint, was shockingly bad. His
amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively
prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden
under his trousers, assumed immense proportions. I could see nothing
else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes.
They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the
admirable couplet of Charles Quint to the shade of Charlemagne! It was
absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the
whole thing painful and ridiculous.

In our performance it was Mounet-Sully, in all the splendour of his
talent, who played Hernani. And it was Worms, that admirable artiste,
who played Charles Quint—and how well he took the part! How he rolled
out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This performance of
November 21, 1877, was a triumph. I came in for a good share in the
general success. I played Dona Sol. Victor Hugo sent me the following
letter:

  “MADAME,—You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me, the
  old combatant—and at one moment, while the public whom you had
  enchanted cheered you, I wept. This tear which you caused me to shed
  is yours, and I place myself at your feet.

                                                          “VICTOR HUGO.”

With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from
which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the house of the
rich nabob, Alfred Sassoon. He wanted to give me another, but I refused.
He could not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo.

My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a
spoiled child. My comrades were a little jealous of me.

Perrin made trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship
for me, but he would not believe that I could get on without him, and as
he always refused to do as I wanted, I did not go to him for anything. I
used to send a letter to the Ministry, and I always won my cause.

As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at
painting. I knew how to draw a little, and had a well-developed sense of
colour. I first did two or three small pictures, then I undertook the
portrait of my dear Guérard.

Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin
encouraged me to continue with painting. Then I launched out
courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two metres in
size, _The Young Girl and Death_.

Then came a cry of indignation against me.

Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career?

Why did I always want to be before the public?

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AS DONA SOL
  IN _HERNANI_
]

Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach.
“You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in
for sculpture, painting, &c.? Is it to prove that you can do it?”

“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for
staying here.”

“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively.

“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something
else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours
and trees that are bigger—something different, in short. I have
therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my
chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things
in the world would win the day, and I should do something foolish.”

This conversation was destined to go against me some years later, when
the Comédie brought a law-suit against me.

The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of
exasperation that Perrin and some of the artistes of the theatre had
conceived against me. They blamed me for everything—for my painting, my
sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin, and it was
the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other
again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards.

The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still
adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon.
This persistency had struck the _savant_, and he asked a mutual friend
to introduce him.

“Oh, Monsieur Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon
that is not captive!”

“Well, Mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very
kindly.

“When?” I asked.

“Any day you like.”

I should have liked to start immediately, but, as he pointed out, he
would have to fit the balloon up, and it was a great responsibility for
him to undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a
week from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the
newspapers should get hold of this piece of news my terrified family
would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was
doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in a balloon accident, promised to
accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me,
and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the
“Dona Sol,” a beautiful orange-coloured balloon specially prepared for
my expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when
Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and
rather clumsy, and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite
of his marvellous wit, for he was spiteful, and rather delighted when he
could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III., whom I liked
very much.

We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumour of our
journey had spread, but too late for the Press to get hold of the news.
I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my friends,
Comte de M——, met Perrin on the Saints-Pères Bridge.

“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky. There is your star shooting
away.”

Perrin gazed up, and, pointing to the balloon which was rising, he
asked, “Who is in that?”

“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple,
and, clenching his teeth, he murmured, “That’s another of her freaks,
but she will pay for this.”

He hurried away without even saying good-bye to my young friend, who
stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger.

And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus travelling through the
air, Perrin would have suffered still more.

Ah! our departure! It was half-past five. I shook hands with a few
friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was
not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when, after the words “Let
her go!” I found myself in about a second some fifty yards above the
earth. I still heard a few cries: “Wait! Come back! Don’t let her be
killed!” And then nothing more. Nothing. There was the sky above and the
earth beneath. Then suddenly I was in the clouds. I had left a misty
Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us
were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon
plunged into a milky vapour quite warm from the sun. It was splendid! It
was stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely
moving at all. It was only towards six o’clock that the currents of air
caught us, and we took our flight towards the east. We were at an
altitude of about 1700 metres. The spectacle became fairy-like. Large
fleecy clouds were spread below us like a carpet. Large orange curtains
fringed with violet came down from the sun to lose themselves in our
cloudy carpet.

At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2500 metres above the earth,
and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.

The dinner was copious—we had _foie gras_, fresh bread, and oranges. The
cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft
noise. We raised our glasses in honour of M. Giffard.

We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle.
It became very cold. We were then at 2600 metres, and I had a singing in
my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable, and began to
get drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got
anxious, and young Godard cried out loudly, to wake me up, no doubt:
“Come, come! We shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide-rope!”

This cry woke me up. I wanted to know what a guide-rope was. I got up
feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me Godard put the guide-
rope into my hands. It was a strong rope of about 120 metres long, to
which were attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin and
I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard, bending over the side of the
car, was looking through a field-glass.

“Stop!” he cried suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”

We were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us there was a
little open ground suitable for our descent.

“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard; “if we miss this plain we
shall come down in the dead of night in the wood of Ferrières, and that
will be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said, “open
the valve?”

I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison whistling a
mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aeronaut, and we
descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the
sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of
his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn on which he
blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 metres
below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As
we were very close to a little station, we easily guessed that this man
was the station-master.

“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard through his horn.

“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master. It was impossible to
understand.

“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.

“At—in—in—ille!” shouted the station-master, with his hand curved round
his mouth.

“Where are we?” cried I in my most crystalline accents.

“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master and his porters.

It was impossible to get to know anything. We had to lower the balloon.
At first we descended rather too quickly, and the wind blew us towards
the wood. We had to go up again. But ten minutes later we opened the
valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right
of the station, and far from the amiable station-master.

“Throw out the anchor!” cried young Godard in a commanding tone. And
assisted by Georges Clairin, he threw out into space another rope, to
the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80
metres long.

Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever
since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 metres from
earth Godard called out to them, “Where are we?”

“At Vachère!”

None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.

“Hullo! you fellows down there, take hold of the rope that’s dragging,”
cried the aeronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous
men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 metres from the ground, and the
sight was becoming interesting. Darkness began to blot out everything. I
raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with
astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was
overhanging its base, all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.

We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I had hoped would
happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.

It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.

The young owner of a neighbouring château ran up, like the peasants, to
see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.

“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet. I pass between the drops.”

The saying was repeated and had a great success.

“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.

“Oh, you have plenty of time,” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You
cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here,
and in such weather it will take Madame two hours to walk there.”

I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella,
which I could have used as walking-stick, as neither Clairin nor Godard
had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving us, he
jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.

“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and
another for the body of the balloon.”

“_Ma foi!_ You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it
appears the roads are in a very bad state.”

“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of
Parisians to walk even half the distance.”

Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.

Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of
Emerainville. The station-master, learning who we were, received us in a
very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we
called out an hour previously from our floating vehicle. We had a frugal
meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before us. I have always detested
cheese, and would never eat it: there is nothing poetical about it. But
I was dying with hunger.

“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin.

I bit a morsel off, and found it excellent.

We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my
household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends who had come to
hear news of us had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat
annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue.

I sent everybody away rather sharply, and went up to my room. As my maid
was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from
the Comédie Française several times.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece have been changed?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears that Monsieur
Perrin is furious, and that they are all in a rage with you. Here is the
note which was left for you.”

I opened the letter. I was requested to call on the manager the
following day at two o’clock.

On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed I was received with
exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity.

Then commenced a series of recriminations about my fits of ill-temper,
my caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying
that I had incurred a fine of one thousand francs for travelling without
the consent of the management.

I burst out laughing. “The case of a balloon has not been foreseen,” I
said; “and I vow that I will pay no fine. Outside the theatre I do as I
please, and that is no business of yours, my dear Monsieur Perrin, so
long as I do nothing to interfere with my theatrical work. And besides,
you bore me to death—I will resign. Be happy.”

I left him ashamed and anxious.

The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and a few
hours afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I
refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin
had gone a step farther than he had any right to; that the fine was
annulled, and that I must cancel my resignation. So I did.

But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my
enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at that
time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract
attention. My somewhat fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my
peculiar way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all
respects, made me a being quite apart from all others. I did not
recognise the fact.

I did not read, I never read, the newspapers. So I did not know what was
said about me, either favourable or unfavourable. Surrounded by a court
of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream.

[Illustration:

  A CORNER OF THE HALL WITH A PAINTING
  BY CHARTRAN OF SARAH BERNHARDT
  AS _GISMONDA_
]

All the royal personages and the notabilities who were the guests of
France during the Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant
source of pleasure to me.

The Comédie was the first theatre to which all these illustrious
visitors went, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I
was playing Amphytrion I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the south.

I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin
my headquarters. I had a tent put up here on the spot that the Empress
Eugénie afterwards selected for her villa. I did not want to see
anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent so far from the town I
should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I
was having lunch with my little boy I heard the bells of two horses and
a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was half hidden by the
bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not recognise, cried in
the emphatic tone of a herald, “Does Sarah Bernhardt, Sociétaire of the
Comédie Française, reside here?”

We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was
silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were
pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the unwelcome voice
recommenced.

We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed, I came out. I saw before me a man
with a large _tussore_ cloak on, a field-glass strapped on his
shoulders, a grey bowler hat, and a red, happy face, with a little
pointed beard. I looked at this commonplace-looking individual with
anything but favour. He lifted his hat.

“Madame Sarah Bernhardt is here?”

“What do you want with me, sir?”

“Here is my card, Madame.”

I read, “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with
astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did
not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.

“Well, you see, Madame, I came to ask you to sell me your group, _After
the Tempest_.”

I began to laugh.

“Ma foi, Monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and
they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten you may have it.”

“All right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said he, “allow me!” And he produced a little case in which there
were pen and ink.

I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to take the group from my
studio in Paris. He went away, and I heard the bells of the horses
ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was often
invited to the house of this original person.




                                  XXVI
                  THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE GOES TO LONDON


Shortly after, I came back to Paris. At the theatre they were preparing
for a benefit performance for Bressant, who was about to retire from the
stage. It was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from
_Othello_, by Jean Aicard. The theatre was well filled, and the audience
in a good humour. After the song I was in bed as Desdemona, when
suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then
irrepressibly. Othello had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt
or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door
hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has no
hesitation in taking part in these unseemly manifestations, but each
member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed
to admit that he participated in them. But the ridicule thrown on this
act by the exaggerated pantomime of the actor prevented the play being
staged again, and it was only twenty years later that _Othello_ as an
entire play was produced at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer
there.

After having played Bérénice in _Mithridate_ successfully, I reappeared
in my _rôle_ of the Queen in _Ruy Blas_. The play was as successful at
the Théâtre Français as it had been at the Odéon, and the public was, if
anything, still more favourable to me. Mounet-Sully played Ruy Blas. He
was admirable in the part, and infinitely superior to Lafontaine, who
had played it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well costumed,
rendered his part in a most interesting manner, but he was not so good
as Geffroy, who was the most distinguished and the most terrifying Don
Salluste that could be imagined.

My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.

He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theatre; he
was happy at the magnificent receipts of _Ruy Blas_; but he would have
much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the
applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance,
annoyed him vastly.

One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking
to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me,
though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed.

“Send him away, and let me work in peace.”

I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It
represented a little girl, on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm.
The little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years
old. Suddenly she said to me:

“He’s quarrelling—that Englishman!”

As a matter of fact, in the ante-room there was a noise of voices rising
higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand,
resolved to make the intruder flee. But just as I opened the door of my
studio a tall man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into
the large room. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery
white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very
politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my “hall”—and this while I
was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I
begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his
visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:

“I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you
come to America?”

“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”

“Oh well, don’t get angry. Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then at
the moment he took leave he said:

“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like
to earn a lot of money in London?”

“Yes. How?”

“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make a small fortune for you.”

“Oh, I would be pleased—that is if I go to London, for I have not yet
decided.”

“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional
clause?”

And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence
at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed.

The committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John
Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theatre in London. Nobody had been
consulted, and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when
they told me about this agreement, I said nothing.

Perrin rather anxiously took me aside:

“What are you turning over in your mind?”

“I am turning over this: That I will not go to London in a situation
inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be a
Sociétaire with one entire share in the profits.”

This intention irritated the committee considerably. And the next day
Perrin told me that my proposal was rejected.

“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract
compels me to go.”

The committee met again, and Got cried out, “Well, let her stay away!
She is a regular nuisance!”

It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But
Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see things in this light,
and they declared that the contract would not be binding if either
Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.

The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’ worth of tickets
beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we
did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair, and told me all
about it.

“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie if you don’t
come,” he said, “for the business cannot go through.”

Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to see Perrin,
and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer I
understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Théâtre
Français and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any
conditions.

The committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait, and
shortly after he came back to me. Croizette and I had been appointed
Sociétaires with one entire share in the profits each, not only for
London, but for always.

Everybody had done their duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my
hands and drew me to him.

“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!”

We embraced, and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not
last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o’clock
in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had some friends
to dinner, so I went to receive him in the hall. He held out to me a
paper.

“Read that,” said he.

And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph:

  DRAWING-ROOM COMEDIES OF MLLE. SARAH BERNHARDT, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT
  OF SIR JULIUS BENEDICT.—“The _répertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is
  composed of comedies, proverbs, one-act plays, and monologues, written
  specially for her and one or two artistes of the Comédie Française.
  These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and can be
  adapted both in London and Paris to the _matinées_ and _soirées_ of
  the best society. For all details and conditions please communicate
  with Mr. Jarrett (secretary of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at Her Majesty’s
  Theatre.”

As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning
that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I
explained this frankly to Perrin.

“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use of my evenings to
earn money? This business has been proposed to me.”

“I am not complaining—it’s the committee.”

“That is too bad!” I cried, and calling for my secretary, I said, “Give
me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.”

He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin
to read.

“Would you care to come and play _La Nuit d’Octobre_ at Lady Dudley’s on
Thursday, June 5? We are offered 5000 francs for us two. Kind
regards.—DELAUNAY.”

“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed.

“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I spoke to you about his
offer.”

For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the
scandalous notice in the _Times_. The French were then almost entirely
ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all this talk
annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the next day the
following appeared in the _National_ (May 29): “_Much Ado about
Nothing._—In friendly discussion it has been decided that outside the
rehearsals and the performances of the Comédie Française each artiste is
free to employ his time as he sees fit. There is therefore absolutely no
truth at all in the pretended quarrel between the Comédie Française and
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This artiste has only acted strictly within her
rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and all our artistes intend to
benefit in the same manner. The manager of the Comédie Française asks
only that the artistes who form this company do not give performances in
a body.”

This article came from the Comédie, and the members of the committee had
taken advantage of it to advertise themselves a little, announcing that
they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was sent
to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English papers. It
was Mayer himself who told me this.

All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for
departure.

I had been but once on the sea when it was decided that the artistes of
the Comédie Française should go to London. The determined ignorance of
the French with regard to all things foreign was much more pronounced in
those days than it is at present. Therefore I had a very warm cloak
made, as I had been assured that the crossing was icy cold even in the
very middle of summer, and I believed this. On every side I was besieged
with lozenges for sea-sickness, sedatives for headache, tissue paper to
put down my back, little compress plasters to put on my diaphragm, and
waterproof cork soles for my shoes, for it appeared that above all
things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how droll and amusing it all was!
I took everything, paid attention to all the recommendations, and
believed everything I was told.

The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five
minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very
light, and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable
individual, possessing all orders and honours, a colossal fortune, and
the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a timid inventor, young,
poor, and sad: he was always buried in books which treated of abstract
questions, whilst of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a great
admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court had
surnamed him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colourless, and
really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_.

He came up to see me, his face more wan-looking even than usual. The
boat was moving a little. My departure terrified him, and the wind
caused him to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to
me, and I followed him, accompanied by _mon petit Dame_, and leaving my
friends, who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated he
opened the case and took out an enormous life-belt invented by himself.
I was perfectly astounded, for I was new to sea voyages, and the idea
had never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one
hour’s crossing. La Quenelle was by no means disconcerted, and he put
the belt on himself in order to show me how it was used.

Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man, with his sad,
serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized
bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and
contained a piece of sugar. In the twelfth, a very small bladder, were
ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion with a
few pins on it.

“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water—paff!—you stay
like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with
the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the
imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order
to keep his head above water.

“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,” he explained,
“and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an
egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it; that is as good
as a quarter of a pound of meat.” He then threw the broken bladder
overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he
fastened to the life-belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was
petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping
for one of La Quenelle’s mad freaks, but they had never expected
anything like this one.

M. Mayer, one of our _impresarii_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a
kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know
whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one
of my friends roused my pity for this poor Quenelle. I thought of the
hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his
ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had
prompted the invention of this life saving apparatus, and I held out my
hand to my poor Quenelle, saying, “Be off now, quickly; the boat is just
going to start.”

He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I
then called my steward, Claude, and I said, “As soon as we are out of
sight of land, throw that case and all it contains into the sea.”

The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah! Au
revoir! Success! Good luck!” There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs
floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to every one.

But what was really fine, and a sight I shall never forget, was our
landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was
the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”

I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of
Hamlet. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him
later on as Hamlet played by Forbes Robertson. We passed on through a
crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was
more favoured than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was
delighted all the same. One of my comrades who was just near, and with
whom I was not a favourite, said to me in a spiteful tone:

“They’ll make you a carpet of flowers soon.”

“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on
the ground in front of me.

I stopped short, rather confused, not daring to walk on these white
flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and
the poor lilies had to be trodden under foot.

“Hip, hip, hurrah! A cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent
young man.

His head was above all the other heads; he had luminous eyes and long
hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though,
and one of the greatest of the century, a poet who was a genius, but who
was, alas! later tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was
Oscar Wilde.

The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amidst
shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah for
the French actors!”

When the train arrived at Charing Cross towards nine o’clock we were
nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was
gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again on
our arrival in London with more hurrahs. There were plenty of people,
crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.

On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet
laid down, and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything,
as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however,
had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the
Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.

This news disappointed me, and even annoyed me personally. I had been
told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of
the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely
indifferent. The crowd was large and even dense, but cold.

“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.

“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,”
he replied.

“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.

“No. The Prince has taken a box for the season, for which he has paid
four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”

I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I
felt that everything was going wrong.

A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a
heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the
house, 77 Chester Square, I did not want to get out of my carriage.

The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly
lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth
arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the
carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six
weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.

“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my man-
servant.

“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are
from Paris, from Madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet
from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it I read
the words, “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”

I went all through the house, and it seemed to me very dismal-looking. I
visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth
chattered when I came in again. That night when I went to sleep my heart
was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some
misfortune.

The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see
them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. That man
was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He
had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had
refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account
of his intelligence, his comic humour, and my need of being piloted in
this new country.

“No,” he said; “if you receive them all together, they will all be
furious, and you will get some wretched articles. You must receive them
one after the other.”

Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my
seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation
when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of
the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them.
I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, “Well,
Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?”

I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of
these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had
drawn my curtain on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester
Square, a small square of sombre verdure, in the midst of which was a
black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.

I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared
for this, and I learnt the following morning that I was most
enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a
number of the public buildings, &c. &c.

Towards five o’clock Hortense Damain arrived. She was a charming woman,
and a favourite in London society. She had come to inform me that the
Duchess of —— and Lady —— would call on me at half-past five.

“Oh, stay with me, then,” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am;
I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”

At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I
had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I
have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.

Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so
distinguished, and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.

A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had
been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends.
He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and he
said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I
thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.

At seven o’clock Hortense Damain came to fetch me to dine with her at
the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice house in Prince’s
Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter Millais.
I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I
thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold
and sedate: I found them charming and full of humour. Every one spoke
French very well, and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English
language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched
by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to recite any
poetry.

I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found
myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young
girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account, and
enjoying themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a
husband. What surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who
were getting on in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I
spoke of this to Hortense Damain.

“It’s frightful!” I said.

“Yes, but it’s chic.”

She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about
nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few
days before I left Paris:

 _Chester Square tu habiteras._      In Chester Square thou shalt live

 _Rotten Row tu monteras_            In Rotten Row thou shalt ride

 _Le Parlement visiteras_            Parliament thou shalt visit

 _Garden-parties fréquenteras_       Garden parties thou shalt frequent,

 _Chaque visite tu rendras_          Every visit thou shalt return

 _A chaque lettre tu repondras_      Every letter thou shalt answer

 _Photographies tu signeras_         Photographs thou shalt sign

 _Hortense Damain tu écouteras_      To Hortense Damain thou shalt
                                       listen

 _Et tous ses conseils, les          And all her counsels thou shalt
   suivras._                           follow.

I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realised that under this
jocular form she considered them as very serious and important. Alas! my
poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I detested
paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or following any
one’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I detest going
to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on
them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving in
frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary places. I adore
giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never follow at once any
wise advice that is given me. It always requires an effort of my will to
recognise the justice of any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect
to be grateful for it: at first, it simply annoys me.

Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damain’s counsels, nor yet
to Jarrett’s; and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were
vexed with me (in any other country I should have made enemies). On that
first visit to London what a quantity of letters of invitation I
received to which I never replied! How many charming women called upon
me and I never returned their calls. Then, too, how many times accepted
invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a
line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know; and yet I always accept
with pleasure and intend to go, but when the day comes I am tired
perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any
obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time
has gone by and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so I
stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with every one else and with
everything.




                                 XXVII
         LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE


Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique
grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on
earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an
Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He
excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this
broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved
and pampered artiste.

I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home
very gay and very much “anglomaniaised.” I found some of my friends
there—Parisians who had just arrived—and they were furious. My
enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the
morning.

The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde
Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower-
beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners; then there were the clusters
of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the
light hats covered with flowers under which shone the pretty faces of
children and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop
of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen,
slender, supple, and courageous; then there were men and children, the
latter mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too,
galloping along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, the children’s
hair and the manes of the horses streaming in the wind of their own
speed.

The carriage road between the riding-track and the foot passengers was
filled with dog-carts, open carriages of various kinds, mail-coaches,
and very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with
flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All
this elegance, this essence of luxury, and this joy of life brought back
to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so
animated a few years before, when Napoleon III. used to drive through on
his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those
days—our Bois de Boulogne, with the officers caracoling in the Avenue
des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!

The joy of life was everywhere—the love of love enveloping life with an
infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the
awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle
Emperor, with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed
by fortune, crushed with grief.

The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its
intenseness, but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still
shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had
struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory.
Three Presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little
Thiers, with his perverse _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with
nibbling at every kind of Government—royalty under Louis Philippe,
Empire under Napoleon III., and the executive power of the French
Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up
again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had
been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had
succeeded the Marshal, but he was miserly, and considered all outlay
unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so
Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had
communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de
Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the national defence
had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.

I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their
mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which
surrounded me.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  IN RIDING COSTUME
]

I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the
first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were
several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not
want to see any one. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theatre,
where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew
already that I had been elected the favourite, and the idea of this
chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am
subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I
first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I
used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some
spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent
people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I had no feeling
of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_ or stage
fright was in the month of January 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the
eighth performance of _Le Passant_. The success of this little
masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of
Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I
went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house.
I turned towards the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just
entered. But no; the box was empty, and I realised then that all the
bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my
eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I had five
curtain calls, and on leaving the theatre the students ranged on each
side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms
of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.

“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.

“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said. “They want to make a
‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll
drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”

My grandmother took my head in her hands, and I met the vacant look in
her large light eyes fixed on me.

“You told me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your
profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are
frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.”

I drove back my tears, and declared that I would bear up courageously
against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity,
my heedlessness, and my “don’t care-ism.” But from that time forth fear
took possession of me, and stage fright martyrised me.

It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of
_Phèdre_, in which I was to appear for the first time before the English
public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes,
and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I
looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not so
tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is “_le
bal_,” which I pronounce low down with the open _a_, “_le bâââl_,” or
take high by dwelling on the _l_—“_le balll_.” Ah, but there was no
doubt about it; my “_le bal_” neither sounded high nor low, my voice was
hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage,
and just then I was informed that the second act of _Phèdre_ was about
to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and
my cameo belt was not fastened.

I began to murmur:

           “_Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.
           J’oublie en le voyant...._”

That word “_j’oublie_” struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget
the words I had to say? Why, yes. What was it I had to say? I did not
know—I could not remember. What was I to say after “_en le voyant_”?

No one answered me. Every one was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard
Got mumble, “She’s going mad!”

Mlle. Thénard, who was playing Œnone, my old nurse, said to me, “Calm
yourself. All the English have gone to Paris; there’s no one in the
house but Belgians.”

This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction.

“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at
Brussels!”

“Oh, all for nothing,” she answered calmly. “There were only English
people in the theatre that day.”

I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but
she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but
not the fright that paralyses, only the kind that drives one wild. This
is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do
too much, but at any rate one does something.

The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds,
and as I bent my head in acknowledgment I said within myself,
“Yes—yes—you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood—my life
itself—my soul.”

When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on
rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get
lower again—I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I
cried out; and it was all real. My suffering was horrible; my tears were
flowing, scorching and bitter. I implored Hippolyte for the love which
was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms
of Phèdre writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace. The inspiration
had come.

When the curtain fell Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried me
to my dressing-room.

The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and
bow. I too wanted to return and thank the public for its attention, its
kindliness, and its emotion. I returned.

The following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_ of June 5, 1879:

“When, recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by
her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully, she received an ovation which
I think is unique in the annals of the theatre in England.”

The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable
criticism with these lines:

“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fibre, and her
passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when, after a
recall that could not be resisted, the curtain drew up, M. Mounet-Sully
was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress, who had won her
triumph only after tremendous physical exertion—and triumph it was,
however short and sudden.”

The _Standard_ finished its article with these words:

“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst its
bonds, and the despairing, heart-broken woman is revealed to Hippolyte,
was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of enthusiasm such as is
rarely witnessed in a theatre followed the fall of the curtain. Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt in the few minutes she was upon the stage (and coming
on, it must be remembered, to plunge into the middle of a stirring
tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression which will not soon be
effaced from those who were present.”

The _Morning Post_ said:

“Very brief are the words spoken before Phèdre rushes into the room to
commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and tear
and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her passion
mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature, the woman
sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a panther,
striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart which stifled
her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when, terrified at the
horror her breathings have provoked in Hippolyte, she strove to pull his
sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own breast, she fell back in
complete and absolute collapse. This exhibition, marvellous in beauty of
pose, in febrile force, in intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the
more remarkable as the passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a
bound, no performance of the first act having roused the actress to the
requisite heat. It proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her
reputation, and shows what may be expected from her by the public which
has eagerly expected her coming.”

This London first night was decisive for my future.




                                 XXVIII
MY PERFORMANCES IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE
                           COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE


My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to
overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance, and
had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was in the night I
vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was despatched to
the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras, who was at the
head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on my bed,
exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I should
not recover, and requested that my family be sent for. I made a gesture
with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could not
speak, I wrote down with a pencil, “Send for Dr. Parrot.”

Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice
between my lips every five minutes. At length towards five in the
morning the blood vomiting ceased, and, thanks to a potion that the
doctor gave me, I fell asleep.

We were to play _L’Etrangère_ that night at the Gaiety, and, as my
_rôle_ was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand-
même_.

Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat, and refused categorically
to give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt
much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but
to this Dr. Parrot objected.

Presently Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the impresario of the Comédie
Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety
Theatre, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was
going to play in _L’Etrangère_, the piece announced on the bills. I
asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room, and I gave
instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room.

“I feel much better,” I said to him very quickly. “I’m very weak still,
but I will play. Hush!—don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead, and
wait for me in the smoking-room, but don’t let any one else know.”

I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me, and as she
had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused.

Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in
the smoking-room, and then we both got into his hansom.

“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid.

“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.

“To the theatre! Quick—quick!” I answered.

The cab started, and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at
home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have allowed me to
perform.

“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.”

When once I was at the theatre I took refuge in the manager’s private
office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him,
and I knew how wrongly I was acting with regard to him, considering the
inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey
specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how
impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt
really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking
what was my own to dispose of as I pleased.

Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from
Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with
a prescription in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later, and
would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though,
that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to
prepare for my _rôle_ in _L’Etrangère_. While dressing I fainted three
times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_.

The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I
arrived on the stage in a semi-conscious state, delighted with the
applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream, and
could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I only saw
through a luminous mist. My feet glided along without any effort on the
carpet, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in
that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine,
opium, or hasheesh.

The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was
about to tell the Duchesse de Septmonts (Croizette) all the troubles
that I, Mrs. Clarkson, had gone through during my life, just as I should
have commenced my interminable story, I could not remember anything.
Croizette murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips
move without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly:

“The reason I sent for you here, Madame, is because I wanted to tell you
my reasons for acting as I have done. I have thought it over and have
decided not to tell you them to-day.”

Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes. She then
rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me
all the time.

“What’s the matter?” every one asked when she sank almost breathless
into an arm-chair.

“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite
mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.”

“But how?” every one asked.

“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.

“But what for?” was the eager question.

“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”

The whole of this conversation, which was repeated to me later on, took
much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been
told, and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain
fell. I was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that
people told me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed
to me that I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really
under the influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in
the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day
the accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company, but the
piece itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary
omission of the important scene in the third act was one of the causes
of the severity of the Press. This was not so, though, as all the
critics had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself,
and did not mention my slip of memory.

The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humour with me just then, had an
article from which I quote the following extract:

“_L’Etrangère_ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste.
Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically, and so were
Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her
memory.” (_Figaro_, June 3rd.)

He knew perfectly well, this worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill.
He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot; consequently he was aware
that I was acting in spite of the Faculty in the interests of the
Comédie Française. The English public had given me such proofs of
appreciation that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the
_Figaro_, which was at that time the organ of the Théâtre Français,
requested Johnson to modify his praises of me. This he did the whole
time that we were in London.

Footnote 3:

  T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.

My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an
unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how
unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of
their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the
reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson to act as strangely as she did. He
had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as
the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act,
by the lines which Mrs. Clarkson says to Madame de Septmonts:

“I should be very glad, Madame, if you would call on me. We could talk
about one of your friends, Monsieur Gérard, whom I love perhaps as much
as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.”

That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was
the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between vice and
virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient
history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to
arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained
was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been
a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas,
and the brutality of his humour sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas
which, in reality, are the eternal basis of tragedies, comedies, novels,
pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was love between vice and virtue.
Among the spectators who saw the first performance of _L’Etrangère_ in
London, and there were quite as many French as English present, not one
remarked that there was something wanting, and not one of them said that
he had not understood the character.

I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.

“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied.

“In my big scene with Croizette?”

“No.”

“Well then, read what I left out,” I insisted.

When he had read this he exclaimed:

“So much the better. It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless.
I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic
history.”

Later on, when I apologised to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had
cut down his play, he answered, “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play
I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when
any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always
forgets half of it.”

The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to
the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now
with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful
for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of
it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.

Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able
to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had
therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I
had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a
hundred in all.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come
with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities
of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred
invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to
me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely.

Mr. Gladstone did me the great honour of talking to me for about ten
minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly
gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain
clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of
dramatic artistes had made on me. I answered that I considered our art
quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant
preachers.

“But will you tell me, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson
you can draw from _Phèdre_?”

“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me. _Phèdre_ is an ancient
tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to perspective
quite different from ours and different from the morality of our present
society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone,
who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person. The love
of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her
family and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call
that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the daughter of Minos and
Pasiphaë. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no
appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the
death of that beloved son of his, who was the sole and last hope of his
life. We ought never to do what is irreparable.”

“Ah,” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”

“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”

“And quite right, Mademoiselle.”

Frederic Leighton then joined us, and with great kindness complimented
me on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms.
This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.

My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it
was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side-
thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française.

[Illustration:

  “OPHELIA,” SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT
]

I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptress, and I
exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two
little lions, and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what
they were worth—that is to say, at very modest prices.

Lady H—— bought my group _After the Storm_. It was smaller than the
large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and
for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I
had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160,
but Lady H—— sent me £400, together with a charming note, which I
venture to quote. It ran as follows:

“Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your
admirable group, _After the Storm_. Will you also do me the honour of
coming to lunch with me, and afterwards you shall choose for yourself
the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.—ETHEL
H.”

This was Tuesday, and I was playing in Zaïre that evening, but
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now
to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theatre I started for
Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that
I should find some lions for sale.

The journey was most amusing, as although I was travelling incognito, I
was recognised all along the route and was made a great deal of.

Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a
very lively little trip. I knew that I was not shirking my duties at the
Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only
Wednesday.

We started in the morning at 10.30, and arrived at Liverpool about 2.30.
We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the
house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed
to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we
could not believe that was the entrance.

I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we
were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking
room, where we found a little man.

“Mr. Cross?” we said.

“That’s my name,” he replied.

“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.

He began to laugh, and then he asked:

“Do you really, Mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to
London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in
_Hernani_.”

“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I like animals?” I said to him.

“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me. He
said you had bought two dogs from him, and that if it had not been for a
gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.”

He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humour.

“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”

“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the
courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures
they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and
powerful-looking tails, which were beating the air. They had only just
arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for
rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating
stigma of civilised beings.

“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big. I want some young lions!”

“I haven’t any, Mademoiselle.”

“Well, then, show me all your animals.”

I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the cheetahs, the pumas,
and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I
should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of
my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realise it.

Cross had not any, though, so I bought a cheetah. It was quite young and
very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages.
I also bought a dog-wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and
spear-like teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a
present of six chameleons which belonged to a small breed and looked
like lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric,
fabulous sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity, and
changed colour from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and
long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set
like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite
independent of each other. With its right eye it would look ahead and
with its left eye it looked backwards. I was delighted and quite
enthusiastic over this present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross-
ça,” in honour of Mr. Cross.

We returned to London with the cheetah in a cage, the dog-wolf in a
leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and Cross-ci Cross-ça on my
shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweller’s.

I had not found any lions, but I was delighted all the same.

My servants were not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs
in the house: Minniccio, who had accompanied me from Paris; Bull and
Fly, bought in London. Then there was my parrot Bizibouzou, and my
monkey Darwin.

Madame Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My steward
hesitated to approach the dog-wolf, and it was all in vain that I
assured them that my cheetah was not dangerous. No one would open the
cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in
order to open the door of the cage which had been nailed down, thus
keeping the poor cheetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for
the hammer they decided to open it themselves. Madame Guérard and the
women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open,
and the cheetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his
cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees and made straight for
the dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was
excited, and uttered shrill cries; and the monkey, shaking his cage
about, gnashed his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent
square made the most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened, and
more than twenty faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them
inquisitive, alarmed, or furious. I was seized with a fit of
uncontrollable laughter, and so was my friend Louise Abbema. Nittis the
painter, who had come to call on me, was in the same state, and so was
Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me ever since two o’clock.
Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician with a great deal of talent, tried
to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony, whilst my friend Georges
Clairin, his back shaking with laughter, sketched the never-to-be-
forgotten scene.

The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam
that had been let loose at 77 Chester Square. So much was made of it
that our _doyen_, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as
it reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence, and
when he had finished I took his hands.

“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I led the way
into the garden, followed by my visitor and friends.

“Let the cheetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain
ordering his men to take in a reef.

When the cheetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the
previous day.

“You see, Monsieur le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.”

“You are mad,” he said, kissing me; “but it certainly is irresistibly
comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads
appearing above the garden wall.

The hostilities continued, though, through scraps of gossip retailed by
one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press took
it up, and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy disposition
and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated.
Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly
having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched and
blamed.

One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved
dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in her hands, and looking
into my eyes, said:

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  _From the portrait by Mlle. Louise Abbema_
]

“My poor dear, you can’t do anything to prevent it. You are original
without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of hair that is
naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is exaggerated, you
have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes of you a creature
apart, which is a crime of high treason against all that is commonplace.
That is what is the matter with you physically. Now for your moral
defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop to anything,
you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself to any
hypocrisy—and all that is a crime of high treason against society. How
can you expect under these conditions not to arouse jealousy, not to
wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them spiteful? If you
are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be all over with you,
as you will have no strength left to withstand them. In that case I
advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so make it lie as
sleek as that of the famous Corsican; but even that would never do, for
Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original. Well, you might
try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then there would be no
risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to get a little
stouter, and to let your voice break occasionally; then you would not
annoy any one. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear, prepare to
mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal, injustice,
adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon it,
though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work, and
your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally provided
the first materials for the edifice will kick it then, in hopes of
destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if you choose
to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my dear Sarah, as
you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot understand that myself,
as I only like rest and retirement.”

Footnote 4:

  Prudhon was one of the artistes of the Théâtre Français.

I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful: with her liquid eyes,
her face with its pure, restful lines, and her weary smile. I wondered
in an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity,
in the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I
wanted to know; and she told me that the theatre bored her, that she had
had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her
marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her
love affairs had left her with affections crushed and physically
disabled. The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her
legs were swollen and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in
the same calm, half weary tone.

What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart
now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes
and her legs, and her delight in retirement was only the love of that
peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she
had lived.

The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than
ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed
myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle
rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made
up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and
not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on
the defensive, and very soon an occasion presented itself.

_L’Etrangère_ was to be played for the second time at a _matinée_, June
21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well,
and that as I was playing in _Hernani_ at night, I should be glad if he
could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The
advance booking, however, was more than £400, and the committee would
not hear of it.

“Oh well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the _rôle_ to some one
else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine
Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, _que diable!_ it
seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mademoiselle
Bernhardt.”

Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played
this _rôle_ at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake
it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and
_Tartufe_ was given instead of _L’Etrangère_. Nearly all the public,
however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which
would have been about £500, only amounted to £84. All the spite and
jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the Comédie, more
particularly the men, with the exception of M. Worms, started a campaign
against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum-major, beat the measure with his
terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid
inventions and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud of
wild ducks, and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers that were
against me. It was said that for a shilling any one might see me dressed
as a man; that I smoked huge cigars, leaning on the balcony of my house;
that at the various receptions where I gave one-act plays I took my maid
with me to play a small part; that I practised fencing in my garden,
dressed as a pierrot in white; and that when taking boxing lessons I had
broken two teeth of my unfortunate professor.

Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes,
assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were
mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about any
one, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon had a
proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the French
papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would
consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine attire,
and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was willing
to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was an ill-bred
person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes of cigars, and the
boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their services
gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to
put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris _Figaro_
caused me to take steps to cut matters short.

This is what I wrote in reply to the article in the _Figaro_, June 27,
1879:

  “ALBERT WOLFF, _Figaro_, Paris.

  “And you, too, my dear Monsieur Wolff—you believe in such insanities?
  Who can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my
  friend, though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told,
  you have still a little indulgence left. Well then, I give you my word
  of honour that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not
  even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic
  denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition
  which I organised, and that was on the opening day, for which I had
  only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a
  shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private
  engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the least
  remunerated members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the
  right, therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten
  pictures and eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is
  quite true, but as I brought them over here to sell, really I must
  show them. As to the respect due to the House of Molière, dear
  Monsieur Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more than any one
  else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for
  the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the
  stupidities invented about me have annoyed the Parisians, and if they
  have decided to receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish
  any one to be guilty of such baseness on my account, so I will send in
  my resignation to the Comédie Française. If the London public is tired
  of all this fuss and should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of
  the indulgence hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow
  me to leave England, in order to spare our company the annoyance of
  seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this
  letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives
  me the right to commit this little folly, and I beg you, dear Monsieur
  Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honour as you did to the
  calumnies of my enemies.—With very kind regards,

                                          “Yours sincerely,
                                                      “SARAH BERNHARDT.”

This telegram caused much ink to flow. Whilst treating me as a spoiled
child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was
most amiable. Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter
begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were
most friendly. Croizette came to see me, and putting her arms round me,
said, “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child! You
won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place; it would not
be accepted, I can answer for that!”

Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech
savoured of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his
family, and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father
Candour, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram
had made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a Ministry; that
there was the Minister, the secretary, the sub-chiefs and the
_employés_, and that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his
share either of talent or work, and so on and so on. I saw Coquelin at
the theatre in the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands.

“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but
with good luck we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good
fortune and the honour of belonging to the Comédie Française, one must
remain there until the end of one’s career.”

Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie,
because it would save money for me, and I was quite incapable of doing
that myself.

“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave;
it means our bread provided for us later on.”

Got, our _doyen_, then approached me.

“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he
asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Deserting.”

“You are mistaken,” I answered; “I am not deserting: I am changing
barracks.”

Others then came to me, and they all gave me advice tinged by their own
personality: Mounet as a seer or believer; Delaunay prompted by his
bureaucratic soul; Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s
ideas, but extolling them later on and putting them into practice for
his own profit; Febvre, a lover of respectability; Got, as a selfish old
growler understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and
advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his
melancholy way:

“Will they be better towards you elsewhere?”

Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward
character of any member of our illustrious company. I liked him
immensely.

We were about to return to Paris, and I wanted to forget all these
things for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a
definite decision. The stir that had been made about me, the good that
had been said in my favour and the bad things written against me—all
this combined had created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle.
When on the point of leaving for Paris some of my friends felt very
anxious about the reception which I should get there.

The public is very much mistaken in imagining that the agitation made
about celebrated artistes is in reality instigated by the persons
concerned, and that they do it purposely. Irritated at seeing the same
name constantly appearing on every occasion, the public declares that
the artiste who is being either slandered or pampered is an ardent lover
of publicity. Alas! three times over alas! We are victims of the said
advertisement. Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrity when
they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves. They
are at the beginning of a series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden
under flowers, but they know how to hold in check that monster
advertisement. It is a sort of octopus with innumerable tentacles. It
throws out on the right and on the left, in front and behind, its clammy
arms, and gathers in through its thousand little inhaling organs all the
gossip and slander and praise afloat, to spit out again at the public
when it is vomiting its black gall. But those who are caught in the
clutches of celebrity at the age of twenty know nothing. I remember that
the first time a reporter came to me I drew myself up straight and was
as red as a cock’s-comb with joy. I was just seventeen years old—I had
been acting in a private house, and had taken the part of Richelieu with
immense success. This gentleman came to call on me at home, and asked me
first one question and then another and then another. I answered and
chattered, and was wild with pride and excitement. He took notes, and I
kept looking at my mother. It seemed to me that I was getting taller. I
had to kiss my mother by way of keeping my composure, and I hid my face
on her shoulder to hide my delight. Finally the gentleman rose, shook
hands with me, and then took his departure. I skipped about in the room
and began to turn round singing, _Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle_,
when suddenly the door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh,
Madame, I forgot, this is the receipt for the subscription to the
journal. It is a mere nothing, only sixteen francs a year.” Mamma did
not understand at first. As for me, I stood still with my mouth open,
unable to digest my _petits pâtés_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs,
and in her pity for me, as I was crying by that time, she stroked my
hair gently. Since then I have been delivered over to the monster, bound
hand and foot, and I have been and still am accused of adoring
advertisement. And to think that my first claims to celebrity were my
extraordinary thinness and delicate health. I had scarcely made my
_début_ when epigrams, puns, jokes, and caricatures concerning me were
indulged in by every one to their heart’s content. Was it really for the
sake of advertising myself that I was so thin, so small, so weak; and
was it for this, too, that I remained in bed six months of the year,
laid low by illness? My name became celebrated before I was myself.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  _From the portrait by Jules Bastien-Lepage_
]

On the first night of Louis Bouilhet’s piece, _Mademoiselle Aïssé_, at
the Odéon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend of the author,
introduced an _attaché_ of the British Embassy to me.

“Oh, I have known you for some time, Mademoiselle,” he said; “you are
the little stick with the sponge on the top.”

This caricature of me had just appeared, and had been the delight of
idle folks. I was quite a young girl at that time, and nothing of that
kind hurt me or troubled me. In the first place, all the doctors had
given me up, so that I was indifferent about things; but all the doctors
were mistaken, and twenty years later I had to fight against the
monster.




                                  XXIX
  THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S COMMENTS ON
                    ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY


The return of the Comédie to its home was an event, but an event that
was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had been very lively and gay,
and quite a public function. Our return was clandestine for many of the
members, and for me among the number. It was a doleful return for those
who had not been appreciated, whilst those who had been failures were
furious.

I had not been back home an hour when Perrin was announced. He began to
reproach me gently about the little care I took of my health. He said I
caused too much fuss to be made about me.

“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am too thin? Is it my fault,
too, if my hair is too curly, and if I don’t think just as other people
do? Supposing that I took sufficient arsenic during a month to make me
swell out like a barrel, and supposing I were to shave my head like an
Arab and only answer, ‘Yes’ to everything you said, people would declare
I did it for advertisement.”

“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people who are neither
fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with shocks of hair, and who
answer ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’”

I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of this remark, and I
understood the “because” of all the “whys” I had been asking myself for
some years. There was no happy medium about me; I was “too much” and
“too little,” and I felt that there was nothing to be done for this. I
owned it to Perrin, and told him that he was quite right. He took
advantage of my mood to lecture me and advise me not to put in an
appearance at the opening ceremony that was soon to take place at the
Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. Some people were rather excited,
rightly or wrongly—a little of both, he added, in that shrewd and
courteous way which was peculiar to him. I listened to him without
interrupting, which slightly embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer
but not an orator. When he had finished I said:

“You have told me too many things that excite me, Monsieur Perrin. I
love a battle, and I shall appear at the ceremony. You see, I have
already been warned about it. Here are three anonymous letters. Read
this one; it is the nicest.”

He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber, and read as
follows:

  “MY POOR SKELETON,—You will do well not to show your horrible Jewish
  nose at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it
  would serve as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked
  specially for you in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put
  in the papers to the effect that you have been spitting blood, and
  remain in bed and think over the consequence of excessive
  advertisement.

                                                         “A SUBSCRIBER.”

Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust.

“Here are two more,” I said; “but they are so coarse that I will spare
you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.”

“Good!” replied Perrin. “There is a rehearsal to-morrow. Shall you
come?”

“I shall come,” I answered.

The next day at the rehearsal not one of the artistes, man or woman,
seemed to care about going on to the stage to bow with me. I must say,
though, that they all showed nevertheless much good grace. I declared,
however, that I would go on alone, although it was against the rule, for
I thought I ought to face the ill humour and the cabal alone.

The house was crowded when the curtain rose.

The ceremony commenced in the midst of “Bravos!” The public was
delighted to see its beloved artistes again. They advanced two by two,
one on the right and the other on the left, holding the palm or the
crown to be placed on the pedestal of Molière’s bust. My turn came, and
I advanced alone. I felt that I was pale and then livid, with a will
that was determined to conquer. I went forward slowly towards the
footlights, but instead of bowing as my comrades had done, I stood up
erect and gazed with my two eyes into all the eyes turning towards me. I
had been warned of the battle, and I did not wish to provoke it, but I
would not fly from it. I waited a second, and I felt the thrill and the
emotion that ran through the house; and then, suddenly stirred by an
impulse of generous kindliness, the whole house burst into wild applause
and shouts. The public, so beloved and so loving, was intoxicated with
joy. That evening was certainly one of the finest triumphs of my whole
career.

Some artistes were delighted, especially the women, for there is one
thing to remark with regard to our art: the men are more jealous of the
women than the women are amongst themselves. I have met with many
enemies among male comedians, and with very few among actresses.

I think that the dramatic art is essentially feminine.

To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real feelings, to try to please and
to endeavour to attract attention—these are all faults for which we
blame women and for which great indulgence is shown. These same defects
seem odious in a man. And yet the actor must endeavour to be as
attractive as possible, even if he is obliged to have recourse to paint
and to false beard and hair. He may be a Republican, and he must uphold
with warmth and conviction Royalist theories. He may be a Conservative,
and must maintain anarchist principles, if such be the good pleasure of
the author.

At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced Radical, and
his stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings,
emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on Charlemagne or
Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and
claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this
struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual
abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature.
However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the
actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the
footlights, and the comedian who in private life would render a service
to a woman in any difficulty will pick a quarrel with her on the stage.
He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the
railway, or in a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do
anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or
if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her. I am
going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have
performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad
tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable, and
who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms,
and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly
and protecting courtesy towards the woman comedian. I have played in a
number of pieces with each of them, and, subject as I am to stage
fright, I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these
three artistes. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that
they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for
any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of
them very great artistes, left the stage in full artistic vigour and
vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and
Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he
is now the first artist on the French stage, for he is an admirable
comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing. I know very
few artistes in France or in other countries with these two qualities
combined. Henry Irving was an admirable artist, but not a comedian.
Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an artist. Mounet-Sully
has genius, which he sometimes places at the service of the artist and
sometimes at the service of the comedian; but, on the other hand, he
sometimes gives us exaggerations as artist and comedian which make
lovers of beauty and truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a perfect
_comédienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the most
comedian of comedians, and an artist when she wishes to be.

Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an artist; she walks in paths that
have been traced out by others; she does not imitate them, certainly
not, for she plants flowers where there were trees, and trees where
there were flowers; but she has never by her art made a single personage
stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being or a
vision which reminds one of herself. She puts on other people’s gloves,
but she puts them on inside out. And all this she has done with infinite
grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great comedian, a very
great comedian, but not a great artist.

Novelli is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about
the artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick
Campbell is especially an artist, and her talent is that of charm and
thought: she execrates beaten paths; she wants to create, and she
creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is
heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is
therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an artist without
equal, and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the direction of
truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the actress.




                                  XXX
   MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANAÇISE—PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
                 AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON


The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were
very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me, and he tortured me
with a thousand little pin-pricks which were much more painful for a
nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. (At least I imagine
so, as I have never had any.) I became irritable, bad-tempered on the
slightest provocation, and was in fact ill. I had always been gay, and
now I was sad. My health, which had ever been feeble, was endangered by
this state of chaos.

Perrin gave me the _rôle_ of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the
piece, and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of
_L’Aventurière_ very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in
a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged
himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that
presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with
the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of
_L’Aventurière_ on Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my
part, and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin on April
14, 1880.

  “I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin,” I said, “but I have
  such a sore throat that I cannot speak, and am obliged to stay in bed.
  Will you kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I
  took cold on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause
  you inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever
  happens. A thousand excuses and kind regards.

                                                      “SARAH BERNHARDT.”

I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had
not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had
not been able to try on my costumes either, as I had been in bed all the
time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of
_L’Aventurière_ until the next week. He replied that it was impossible;
that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the
following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded
to act, as I had confidence in my star.

“Oh,” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.”

I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very
badly. My costume was a failure; it did not fit me. They had always
jeered at me for my thinness, and in this dress I looked like an English
tea-pot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted
me. I played the first part of the _rôle_ very badly, and the second
part rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I
was standing up resting my two hands on the table, on which there was a
lighted candelabra. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was
very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that,
as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on fire
so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely. That
was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The Press did not praise me,
and the Press was quite right. I had played badly, looked ugly, and been
in a bad temper, but I considered that there was nevertheless a want of
courtesy and indulgence with regard to me. Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_
of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: “The new
Clorinde (the Adventuress) in the last two acts made some gestures with
her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to see taken from
Virginie of _L’Assommoir_ and introduced at the Comédie Française.” The
only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is
vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my
feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of
attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads.
All the low-down, little viper world was crawling about under my flowers
and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and
sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the
enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together, and so I threw my laurels
and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I
broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through
that to Paris.

I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with
myself I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore
wrote to M. Perrin this letter:

  “TO THE DIRECTOR.

  “You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have only
  allowed me eight rehearsals on the stage, and the play has been
  rehearsed in its entirety only three times. I was unwilling to appear
  before the public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has
  happened. The result of the performance has surpassed my
  anticipations. A critic pretended that I played Virginie of
  _L’Assommoir_ instead of Dona Clorinde of _L’Aventurière_. May Emile
  Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the Comédie; it
  shall be my last. I warned you on the day of the dress rehearsal. You
  have gone too far. I keep my word. By the time you receive this letter
  I shall have left Paris. Will you kindly accept my immediate
  resignation, and believe me

                                              “Yours sincerely,
                                                      “SARAH BERNHARDT.”

In order that this resignation might not be refused at the committee
meeting, I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_,
and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it.

Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once
with my maid for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told
where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict
incognito. But the next morning I was recognised, and telegrams were
sent to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters.

I took refuge at La Hêve, where I spent the whole day on the beach, in
spite of the cold rain which fell unceasingly.

I went back to the Hôtel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so
feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guérard, who was
sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. I was feverish for two days.
During this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on
paper. This turned to bitterness, and I was accused of the worst
misdeeds. The committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de
Villiers, and this man declared that after having knocked three times at
the door and having received no answer, he had left copy, &c. &c.

This man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my
steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchen-maid,
the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I
protested against this minion of the law; it was useless.

The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses. This
was not done, and a law-suit was commenced against me. It was lost in
advance.

Maître Allou, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked
little histories about me. He took pleasure in trying to make me
ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters
which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them
all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters
from Perrin to myself which have been published were given by him from
his letter-copy book. Of course, he only showed those which could
inspire the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me, &c. &c.

The pleading of Maître Allou was very, successful: he claimed three
hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the
benefit of the Comédie Française of the forty-three thousand francs
which that theatre owed me.

Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He
defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred
thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the forty-three
thousand francs which I had left with the management. I may say that I
did not trouble much about this law-suit.

Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to
me, for the third time, to make a contract for America. This time I lent
an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about terms, and this is
what he proposed:

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT (1879)
]

Five thousand francs for each performance and one-half of the receipts
above fifteen thousand francs; that is to say, the day the receipts
reached the sum of twenty thousand francs I should receive seven
thousand five hundred francs. In addition, one thousand francs per week
for my hotel bill; also a special Pullman car, on all railway journeys,
containing a bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds for my
staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was to have
ten per cent. on all sums received by me.

I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately
sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he
landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by
Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.

I was given, on signing the contract, one hundred thousand francs as
advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight
pieces: _Hernani_, _Phèdre_, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame
aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_, _L’Etrangère_, and _La Princesse Georges_.

I ordered twenty-five modern dresses at Laferrière’s, of whom I was then
a customer.

At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and four
costumes for _Hernani_. I ordered from a young theatre _costumier_ named
Lepaul my costume for _Phèdre_. These thirty-six costumes cost me sixty-
one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for _Phèdre_ alone cost
four thousand francs. The poor _artist-costumier_ had embroidered it
himself. It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my
departure, and I cannot think of this moment without emotion. Irritated
by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when
he was announced. At first I received him very badly, but I found him
looking so unwell, the poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how
he came to be so ill.

“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice that I was
quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress, and I have worked at it
three days and nights. But look how nice your costume is!” And he spread
it out with loving respect before me.

“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”

“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artist quickly.

But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his
lips. He wiped it quickly away, so that it should not fall on the pretty
costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the artist the four
thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some
unintelligible words and withdrew.

“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to _mon petit Dame_ and
my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs all the evening.
Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for
having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the
force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the
chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of twenty-
two—this artist with a future before him.

I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box, yellowed with
age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of
blood has slightly eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt
of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for before
leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the
_impresarii_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May
24 to June 24 (1880).

It was during this period that the law-suit which the Comédie Française
brought against me was decided.

Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in
London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated
the committee, the Press, and the public.

Maître Allou in his pleadings pretended that the London public had tired
of me very quickly, and did not care to come to the performances of the
Comédie in which I appeared.

The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of
Maître Allou:

    PERFORMANCES GIVEN BY THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE


            (The * indicates the pieces in which I appeared.)


  1879.                          Plays.                         Receipts
                                                                   in
                                                                Francs.

 June  2. Le Misanthrope (Prologue); Phèdre (Acte II.); Les
            Précieuses Ridicules                                 *13,080

  „    3. L’Etrangère                                            *12,565

  „    4. Le Fils naturel                                          9,300

  „    5. Les Caprices de Marianne; La Joie fait Peur             10,100

  „    6. Le Menteur; Le Médecin malgré lui                        9,530

  „    7. Le Marquis de Villemer                                   9,960

  „    7. Tartufe (matinée); La Joie fait Peur                     8,700

  „    9. Hernani                                                *13,600

  „   10. Le Demi-monde                                           11,525

  „   11. Mlle. de Belle-Isle; Il faut qu’une porte soit
            ouverte ou fermée                                     10,420

  „   12. Le Post-Scriptum; Le Gendre de M. Poirier               10,445

  „   13. Phèdre                                                 *13,920

  „   14. Le Luthier de Crémône; Le Sphinx                       *13,350

  „   14. Le Misanthrope (matinée); Les Plaideurs                  8,800

  „   16. L’Ami Fritz                                              9,375

  „   17. Zaïre; Les Précieuses Ridicules                        *13,075

  „   18. Le Jeu de l’amour et du hasard; Il ne faut jurer de
            rien                                                  11,550

  „   18. Le Demi-monde                                           12,160

  „   20. Les Fourchambault                                       11,200

  „   21. Hernani                                                *13,375

  „   21. Tartufe (matinée); Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte
            ou fermée                                              2,115

  „   23. Gringoire; On ne badine pas avec l’amour                11,080

  „   24. Chez l’avocat; Mlle. de la Seiglière                     9,660

  „   25. L’Etrangère (matinée)                                  *11,710

  „   25. Le Barbier de Seville                                    9,180

  „   26. Andromaque; Les Plaideurs                              *13,350

  „   27. L’Avare; L’Etincelle                                    11,775

  „   28. Le Sphinx; Le Dépit amoureux                           *12,860

  „   28. Hernani (matinée)                                      *13,730

  „   30. Ruy Blas                                               *13,660

 July  1. Mercadet; L’Eté de la St. Martin                         9,850

  „    2. Ruy Blas                                               *13,160

  „    3. Le Mariage de Victorine; Les Fourberies de Scapin       10,165

  „    4. Les Femmes savantes; L’Etincelle                        11,960

  „    5. Les Fourchambault                                       10,700

  „    5. Phèdre (matinée); La Joie fait Peur                    *14,265

  „    7. Le Marquis de Villemer                                  10,565

  „    8. L’Ami Fritz                                             11,005

  „    9. Hernani                                                *14,275

  „   10. Le Sphinx                                              *13,775

  „   11. Philiberte; L’Etourdi                                   11,500

  „   12. Ruy Blas                                               *12,660

  „   12. Gringoire (matinée); Hernani (Acte V.);La
            Bénédiction; Davenant; L’Etincelle                   *13,725

                    Total receipts     492,150 francs

The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show
that, out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie
Française, the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an
average of 13,350 francs each, while the twenty-five other performances
gave an average of 10,000 francs.

                  *       *       *       *       *

While I was in London I learned that I had lost my law-suit. “The
Court—with its ‘Inasmuch as,’ ‘Nevertheless,’ &c.—declares hereby that
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages,
resulting to her profit from the engagement which she contracted with
the company by authentic decree of March 24, 1875, and condemns her to
pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality the sum of one hundred
thousand francs damages.”

I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers
published this unjust verdict. I was applauded, and the public
overwhelmed me with flowers.

I had taken with me Madame Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my sister
Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonnée—all artistes of great
repute.

I played all the pieces which I was to play in America.

Vitu, Sarcey, Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was
stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be
present at my performances.

I could no longer understand what it all meant. I thought that the
Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here were my
worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps they
were hoping—like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer to see him
devoured by his lions!

Vitu in the _Figaro_ had finished one of his bitter articles with these
words:

“But we have heard enough, surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt! Let her go
abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal fantasies! Here we
have nothing new to learn from her talents or her caprices....”

Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, _à propos_ of my resignation at
the Comédie, had finished in these terms:

“There comes a time when naughty children must go to bed.”

As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all
the rumours that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he
had no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in
venom, and he had cried, “Pleasant journey!” And here they all came,
these three, and others with them. And the day following my first
performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the
_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,
regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had
never seen. And he finished his article thus:

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ANDROMAQUE”

  BY WALTER SPINDLER
]

“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in
the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a
force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long
and cruel scene in which Adrienne, poisoned by the Duchesse de Bouillon,
struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with immense
talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she has never
revealed. If the Parisian public had heard, or ever hears, Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which she put into her words
that evening, ‘I will not die, I will not die!’ it would weep with her.”

Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:

“She is prodigious!”

And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable begged me to go back
to the Comédie, which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted
calf on the return of its prodigal child.

Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of
praises to me, and finished his article with these words:

“Nothing, nothing can ever take the place of this last act of _Adrienne
Lecouvreur_ at the Comédie. Ah! she should have stayed at the Comédie.
Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much
as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us. Oh,
she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it. What a pity! What
a pity!”

And eight days after, on June 7, he wrote in his theatrical
_feuilleton_, on the first performance of _Froufrou_:

“I do not think that the emotion at any theatre has ever been so
profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the
artistes are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves,
and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon’ (I should have said ‘god’),
who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses.

“‘Well,’” said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play: “this is an
evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie
Française. ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she, ‘to me. We will not speak of
it.’ But what a pity! What a pity!”

My success in _Froufrou_ was so marked that it filled the void left by
Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with
Messrs. Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his
engagements. It was a nasty _coup de Jarnac_ by which Perrin hoped to
injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask
officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be
permitted to make my American tour, and that everything would be
arranged on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have
sent Worms or _le petit père Franchise_—Delaunay. The one might have
persuaded me by his affectionate reasoning and the other by the falsity
of arguments presented with such grace that it would have been difficult
to refuse.

Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie
on my return to America, “For you know,” he added, “you know, my little
one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you will
perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for you
will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before you
are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit by
it, but you!”

“I thank you,” I answered, “but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on
my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace.” I fancy I said,
“Get out!”

That evening he was present at a performance of _Froufrou_; he came to
my dressing-room and said:

“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with
_Froufrou_! I promise you a happy return!”

I refused, and finished my performances in London without Coquelin.

The average of the receipts was nine thousand francs, and I left London
with regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But
London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first
impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal
_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those
ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime and black and
greasy dirt; those flower-sellers at the corners of all the streets,
with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and
lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the
funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunken; the
wild dancing of dishevelled children round the street organs, as
numerous as the omnibuses—all that caused twenty-five years ago an
indefinite suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that
the profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of
the aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower-sellers....

The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills
the heart with gaiety. The broad English hospitality, which is
manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of
the men, which compares favourably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their
gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left
no regrets in me for French gallantry.

But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud, and our windows
opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that
nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two
nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide; the sun enters in
our houses even to the heart of the dwelling; the air sweeps away all
the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply as
they open.

English windows open only half-way, either the top half or the bottom
half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top
and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot
enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious
character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London and—is
there any need to add?—its inhabitants.

Since my first visit I have returned there twenty-one times, and the
public has always remained faithful and affectionate.




                                  XXXI
   A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS” OF SARAH
                               BERNHARDT


After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than
before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of
doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my
nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual
irritations and by excessive work, was improved. I reposed on the
laurels which I had gathered myself, and I slept better. Sleeping
better, I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my
little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and
rosy.

I remained several days in Paris; then I set out for Brussels, where I
was to play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and _Froufrou_.

The Belgian public——by which I mean the Brussels public——is the one most
like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country.
Our language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages
are always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own
fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in
Paris; the cab-horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful.
Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.

I played for the first time at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt
uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent
enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the
four performances I gave there.

Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at
the Theatre Royal.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT
  IN TRAVELLING COSTUME (1880)
]

Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, really frightened
me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station
when the train came in gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know
what was happening. But when M. de Fallesen, manager of the Theatre
Royal, and the First Chamberlain of the King entered my compartment, and
begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the
public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful
anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to
what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in
those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped
out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of
being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive
to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a wide path for my
carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic
sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to
me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs,
receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains
one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we
reached the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once
more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

In the evening the King, the Queen, and their daughter, the Princess of
Wales, were present at the first performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_.

This is what the _Figaro_ of August 16, 1880, said:

  “Sarah Bernhardt has played _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ with a tremendous
  success before a magnificent audience. The royal family, the King and
  the Queen of the Hellenes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were
  present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the
  French artiste, amidst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The
  public was delirious. To-morrow _Froufrou_ will be played.”

The performance of _Froufrou_ was equally successful. But as I was only
playing every other day, I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed the
royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.

I had invited all my company.

M. de Fallesen, the First Chamberlain, and manager of the Theatre Royal,
had ordered a magnificent lunch for us, and accompanied by the principal
notabilities of Denmark, we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the spring of
Ophelia, and the castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the castle of
Kronborg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up
to the expectation. The so-called tomb of Hamlet is represented by a
small column, ugly and mournful-looking; there is little verdure, and
the desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little
water from the spring of Ophelia to drink, and the Baron de Fallesen
broke the glass, without allowing any one else to drink from the spring.

I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning
against the side of the vessel, I watched the water gliding past, when I
noticed a few rose petals on the surface. Carried by an invisible
current, they were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals
increased to thousands, and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious
chant of the sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on
the water by the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails;
a score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which
were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvellous
legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all
that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for
me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life
near to me, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me
to come into the royal box, and he decorated me with a very pretty Order
of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box, asking
me about different things. I was presented to the Queen, and I noticed
immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed, but
the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was beautiful, but much less
so than her lovely sister the Princess of Wales. Oh, that adorable and
seductive face—with the eyes of a child of the North, and classic
features of virginal purity, a long, supple neck that seemed made for
queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of
this Princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I went
from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor opinion of my
intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and Greece.

The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper.
Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very charming manner for the
“French week” which we had given in Denmark.

Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the press, very
short but very sympathetic. Our Ambassador in a few courteous words
thanked Robert Walt, and then, to the general surprise, Baron Magnus,
the Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he
said, “I drink to France, which gives us such great artistes! To France,
la belle France, whom we all love so much!”

Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women
were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.

Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had from the time of my
arrival in Copenhagen sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back the
flowers, and begged an _attaché_ of the English Embassy, Sir Francis ——,
I believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The Baron
laughed good-naturedly, and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He
came to me with outstretched hands, and spoke kindly and reasonable
words. Everybody was looking at us, and I was embarrassed. It was
evident that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of
myself by his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I
really felt. Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but
only bowed as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity
of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw
him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had
barely finished his little speech when I jumped to my feet and cried,
“Let us drink to France, but to the whole of France, Monsieur
l’Ambassadeur de Prusse!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical
without intending it.

It was like a thunderbolt.

The orchestra of the court, which was placed in the upper gallery, began
playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans.
The supper-room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.

I went up to my rooms, not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far.
Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve
this thrust of mine. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to
follow. I went to bed angry with myself, with the Baron, and with all
the world.

About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was
awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at
the door of the _salon_. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he
went to open the door. An _attaché_ from the French Embassy was waiting
to speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea-gown and went
to see the visitor.

“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately to explain that the
words you said were not meant. The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect, is
in a very awkward situation and we are all upset about it. Prince
Bismarck is not to be trifled with, and it may be very serious for the
Baron.”

“Oh, I assure you, Monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it
than you, for the Baron is a good and charming man. He lacked political
tact, and in this case it is excusable, because I am not a woman of
politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand to
repair the ill.”

“We don’t ask you for so much as that, as it would spoil the beauty of
your gestures!” (He was French, you see.) “Here is the rough copy of a
letter. Will you take it, rewrite it, sign it, and everything will be at
an end?”

But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and
rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it, and after several attempts
to rewrite it I gave up in despair and did nothing.

Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the
royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but
awkward speech of the Baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The
public and the Press had all been witnesses of my _algarade_; we were
the victims of our own foolishness, the Baron and myself. If such a
thing were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for
public opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in
order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was
very nervous and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I
thought I was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that
if one is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death.
To-day I am going down the hill of life, and I regard gaily all the
pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many,
so many of them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had
raised them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life,
happy with what has been and attentive to what will be.

My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant no harm, and this incident
has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.

I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the repeated cries of “Vive la
France!” From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the
breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_
Germany—I was sure of it.

Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united, and I am not
certain that several Danes do not still bear me ill-will because of this
incident of the Baron Magnus.

I came back to Paris to make final preparations for my journey to
America. I was to set sail on October 15.

One day in August I was having a reception of all my friends, who came
to see me in full force, because I was about to set out for a long
journey.

Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert,
Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes,
Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I chatted
gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many kind and intellectual friends.

Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this journey
to America. He had been the friend of Rachel, and told me the sad end of
her journey.

Arthur Meyer was of opinion that I ought always to do what I thought
best. The other friends discussed the subject. That admirable man, whom
France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he should miss and
regret those intimate _causeries_ at our five o’clock teas.

“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate
selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the
strife. She is of a combative nature.”

“Ah yes!” I cried. “Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing
pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have
read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry
that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big
successes, _Adrienne_ and _Froufrou_.”

“As to that, you can count on me!” exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. “My dear
Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you
will have your last....”

Everybody protested, and I jumped up.

“Wait one moment,” said he. “Last successes until you come back from
America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will
obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give
twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial
arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five
performances—fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half
of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have
time to change your mind.”

I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged
Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour,
for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained
laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark.

Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was
settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and
each town marked with the date and the name of the play.

A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with
the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost
miraculous.

The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there
were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of
departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which
caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah
Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to
accomplish his military service.

The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more
than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and
_fêtes_ outside the towns.

At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the
sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates
and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c.,
had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections,
and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated
buildings.

When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters,
each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.

I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know
most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt
inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other
buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies
me to see them.

I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted
against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will
not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains
their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings
with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over
highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the
left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to
have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a
time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind—all
that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood
I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all
buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I
positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct
the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a
hundred times rather they had never been built.

I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who
had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task, and on
September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content.

My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the
lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding
country from all the towns in which I played.

I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare
for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a
visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés. His
brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond
Deslandes.

I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had
mutual friends.

“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me,
after we had exchanged greetings.

“I really don’t know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything.”

“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your
reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with
you at once for the Vaudeville.”

“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond
Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away
from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play _Un
mari qui lance sa femme_. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more
ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to
dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!”

He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My
brother—to put it plainly—is myself. All the money put in the affair by
us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?”

“But—— I really don’t know.”

“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”

I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right
mind.

“But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot
agree to that.”

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a
colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty
performances!”

“Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of
Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend
on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for
your confidence.”

At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they
were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my
resignation (from the Comédie Française).

I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of
leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have
put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one
family “me” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows,
joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.

But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other
skies.

I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His
wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise,
their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me
to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I
ought to know.

Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would
really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake
such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going,
there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of
my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens
of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits,
doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the
Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was
confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my
secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little note-
books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my godfather who had
commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his
death I had it continued.

Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and noble words—words
written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallès, Jules
Lemaître, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed
Victor Hugo, François Coppée, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier,
Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.

I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but
I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the
superior minds afforded me infinite joy.




                                 XXXII
    EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO NEW YORK


The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and
other successes was named _L’Amérique_. It was the unlucky boat, the
boat that was haunted by the gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents,
and storms had been its lot. It had been blockaded for months with its
keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat, and
it had foundered on the shores of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set
afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre
roadstead, but no great damage was done. The poor boat had had a
celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous.

In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted, and although this
system had been in use by the English for a long time, it was quite
unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have
these pumps worked by his crew, so that in case of any danger the men
should be ready to manipulate them easily.

The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men
came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with
water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!”
shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked
frantically, and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the
captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers
safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after,
tried the pumps, which worked admirably, but in the contrary way to that
indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie
Transatlantique £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to run the
ship again and passengers refused to go by it, they offered my
_impresario_, Mr. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very
intelligent he was, for, in spite of all prognostications, nothing
further happened to the boat.

I had hitherto travelled very little, and I was wild with delight.

On October 15, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning, I entered my cabin.
It was a large one, and was hung with light red repp embroidered with my
initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was a large
brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers were everywhere. Adjoining
mine was a very comfortable cabin for _mon petit Dame_, and leading out
of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons in my
service were at the other end of the ship.

The sky was misty, the sea grey, with no horizon. I was on my way over
there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a
mysterious rampart.

The clearing of the deck for the departure upset every one and
everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the
bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the
shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in
time to catch the boat, the “Halloa!” “Look out!” of the men who were
pitching the packages from the quay into the hold, the sound of the
laughing waves breaking on the side of the boat, all this mingled
together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its
own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who up
to the last moment enjoyed the good-byes, the hand-shakings, the plans
about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over
flung themselves sobbing on their beds.

For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears,
tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again; my will
power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven
o’clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold, and as
I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad resigned
face. The sea looked gloomy and colourless, and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against the ship that we were
both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the
benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my
feet with a bound, I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her
dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor managed to prevent the
poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much hurt
though she was, and a trifle confused, she thanked me in such a gentle
dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.

“You might have been killed, Madame,” I said, “down that horrible
staircase.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret; “but it was not God’s will.”

“Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued, looking earnestly at me.

“No, Madame,” I answered; “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.”

She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her
brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely
audible, “I am the widow of President Lincoln.”

I too stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had
just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have
done her—I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated
by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from
joining her beloved husband.

I went back again to my cabin and stayed there two days, for I had not
the courage to meet the woman for whom I felt such sympathy and to whom
I should never dare to speak again.

On the 22nd we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called
up hurriedly by Captain Jouclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went
on to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time
fairy-like. The heavy flakes met each other with a thud in their mad
waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by
all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding
the horizon. I was facing the sea, and as Captain Jouclas pointed out to
me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round
and saw that the ship was as white as a sea-gull: the ropes, the
cordage, the nettings, the port-holes, the shrouds, the boats, the deck,
the sails, the ladders, the funnels, the ventilators, everything was
white. The sea was black and the sky black. The ship alone was white,
floating along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high
funnel, spluttering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind
which was rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks
of the siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin
whiteness of this ship and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to
me as if I had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.

On the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the
birth of a child among the emigrants, in whom I was deeply interested. I
went at once to the mother, and did all I could for the poor little
creature who had just come into this world. Oh, the dismal moans in that
dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident
cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these
sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything
was there mingled together in this human medley—men, women, children,
rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates,
half open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish
women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and
fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under
the rags, knives in the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us
the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally-
looking fellow with a very determined expression on his face, and a
hatchet and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors
immediately seized the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall
never forget the scrutinising glance of the man; he had evidently made a
mental note of the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent
prayer that the two might never meet in a solitary place.

I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of
me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty
little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul, and
would have thoughts! I felt quite sick, and I could never again look at
that child, although I was afterwards its godmother, without living over
again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I
wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so
rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and
emigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us
silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed
at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,” one
of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like wine. You
and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!” An old
woman clung to me as we passed: “Oh, Madame,” she said, “shall we be
shipwrecked with the boat rolling like this? Oh God! Oh God!” A tall
fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman
down again gently. “You can sleep in peace, mother,” he said. “If we are
shipwrecked I swear there shall be more saved down here than up above.”
He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The rich
folks—first-class—into the sea! The emigrants and the second-class in
the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from
everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my
feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the
scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor, and he saw that I was
uneasy.

“Nonsense,” he said, laughing; “we should defend ourselves.”

“But how many _could_ be saved,” I asked, “in case we were really in
danger?”

“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most, with all the boats out,
if all arrived safely.”

“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty
emigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred and twenty
passengers. How many do you reckon with the officers, the crew, and the
servants?”

“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered.

“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board, and you can only save two
hundred and fifty?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I can understand the hatred of these emigrants, whom you
take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely
certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed!”

“But we should save them when their turn came.”

I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest
and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all
these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life and badly treated
by society would have no right to life until after _we_ were saved—we,
the more favoured ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally-looking
fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved at that
moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes, he was
quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first places,
always the first places. And so we should have the first places in the
water.

“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain, who was just coming out of
his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?”

“Yes, captain,” I answered; “but I am horrified.”

Jouclas stepped back in surprise.

“Good Heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked.

“The way in which you treat your passengers——”

He tried to put in a word, but I continued:

“Why—you expose us in case of a shipwreck——”

“We never have a shipwreck.”

“Good. In case of a fire, then——”

“We never have a fire——”

“Good! In case of sinking——”

“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose you, though,
Madame?”

“To the very worst of deaths: to a blow on the head with an axe, to a
dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water——”

He attempted to speak, but again I continued:

“There are seven hundred and fifty emigrants below, and there are
scarcely three hundred of us, counting first-class passengers and the
crew. You have boats which might save two hundred persons, and even that
is doubtful——”

“Well?”

“Well, what about the emigrants?”

“We should save them before the crew.”

“But after us?”

“Yes, after you.”

“And you fancy that they would let you do it?”

“We have guns with which to keep them in order.”

“Guns—guns for women and children?”

“No; the women and children would take their turn first.”

“But that is idiotic!” I exclaimed; “it is perfectly absurd! Why save
women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them?
And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to
their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are
of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have
the same right that we have to defend themselves in such moments. They
have the courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to
gain in the struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that
you should expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and
perfectly justified crime.”

The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted:

“Without going as far as a shipwreck, only fancy if we were to be tossed
about for months on a raging sea. This has happened, and might happen
again. You cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand
people during two or three months.”

“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man,
but very touchy.

“Well then, what should you do?” I asked.

“What would _you_ do?” asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed
expression on the purser’s face.

“I—oh, I should have a ship for emigrants and a ship for passengers, and
I think that would be only just.”

“Yes, but it would be ruinous.”

“No; the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the
one for emigrants a sailing vessel.”

“But that too would be unjust, Madame, for the steamer would go more
quickly than the sailing boat.”

“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy people are always in
a hurry, and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting
them in the land to which they are going——”

“It is the Promised Land.”

“Oh, poor things! poor things! with their Promised Land! Dakota or
Colorado.... In the day-time they have the sun which makes their brains
boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth
endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their
patience. The Promised Land!... At night they have the terrible cold to
make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints and ruin their lungs. The
Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after
fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will
breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God
will have mercy on them though, for it is piteous to think that all
these poor creatures are delivered over, with their feet bound by
suffering and their hands bound by hope, to the slave-drivers who trade
in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s
cash-box which the slave-driver has paid for the transport of all these
poor creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or
trembling fingers. Poor money economised, copper by copper, tear by
tear. When I think of all this it makes me wish that we could be
shipwrecked, that _we_ could be all killed and all of them saved.”

With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I
was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could
do nothing, absolutely nothing!

The following morning I woke late, as I had not fallen asleep until very
late. My cabin was full of visitors, and they were all holding small
parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and could not quite
understand the meaning of this invasion.

“My dear Sarah,” said Madame Guérard, coming to me and kissing me,
“don’t imagine that this day, your _fête_ day, could be forgotten by
those who love you.”

“Oh,” I exclaimed, “is it the 23rd?”

“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.”

My eyes filled with tears, and it was through a mist that I saw the
portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in
the world, with a few words in his own handwriting. Then there were some
presents from friends—pieces of work from humble admirers. My little
godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket, with
oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star on
his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate had
been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude her husband, who were most
devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises.
Presently there was a knock at my door, and on my calling out “Come in!”
I saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet, which
they presented to me in the name of the whole crew.

I was wild with admiration, and wanted to know how they had managed to
keep the flowers in such good condition.

It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it in my hands I let it fall
to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The flowers were all
cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly done that the illusion was
complete at a little distance. Magnificent roses were cut out of
carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes had furnished sprays
of rose-buds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and all these relieved
by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the grassy plants used
for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together with a bow of tri-
coloured ribbon. One of the sailors made a very touching little speech
on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me for a trifling service
rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked them heartily, and this
was the signal for a little concert that had been organised in the cabin
of _mon petit Dame_. There had been a private rehearsal with two violins
and a flute, so that for the next hour I was lulled by the most
delightful music, which transported me to my own dear ones, to my home,
which seemed so distant from me at that moment.

This little _fête_, which was almost a domestic one, together with the
music, had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears
that all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I
wept simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and
weary, and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst
of my tears, sighs, and sobs.




                                 XXXIII
ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM-HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN
                NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK


Finally the ship arrived on October 27, at half-past six in the morning.
I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild storms. My maid
had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe that we had
arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last minute. I had to
give in to the evidence, however, as the screw had stopped, and I heard
a sound of dull thuds echoing in the distance. I put my head out of my
port-hole, and saw some men endeavouring to make a passage for us
through the river. The Hudson was frozen hard, and the heavy vessel
could only advance with the aid of pick-axes cutting away the blocks of
ice.

This sudden arrival delighted me, and everything seemed to be
transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts and the weariness
of the twelve days’ crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose-tinted,
dispersing the mists and shining over the ice, which, thanks to the
efforts of our pioneers, was splintered into a thousand luminous pieces.
I had entered the New World in the midst of a display of ice-fireworks.
It was fairy-like and somewhat crazy, but it seemed to me that it must
be a good omen.

I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no sunshine I
should have been wretched and most anxious until after my first
performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this degree,
and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was in
those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country, I have,
thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the
other countries. I know them all now, and in any critical moment of my
life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk
a single step or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look at
the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for
despair, until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions
by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to
act. Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen, I began
to dress gleefully.

Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door.

“Do please be ready as soon as possible, Madame,” he said, “for there
are several boats, with the French colours flying, that have come out to
meet you.”

I glanced in the direction of my port-hole, and saw a steamer, the deck
of which was black with people, and then two other small boats no less
laden than the first one.

The sun lighted up all these French flags, and my heart began to beat
more quickly.

I had been without any news for twelve days, as, in spite of all the
efforts of our good captain, _L’Amérique_ had taken twelve days for the
journey.

A man had just come on deck, and I rushed towards him with outstretched
hands, unable to utter a single word.

He gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see any one present, and I
heard no sound. I wanted to know something. And among all the telegrams
I was searching first for one, just one name. At last I had it, the
telegram I had waited for, feared and hoped to receive, signed Maurice.
Here it was at last. I closed my eyes for a second, and during that time
I saw all that was dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all.

When I opened my eyes again I was slightly embarrassed, for I was
surrounded by a crowd of unknown people, all of them silent and
indulgent, but evidently very curious. Wishing to go away, I took Mr.
Jarrett’s arm and went to the saloon. As soon as I entered the first
notes of the Marseillaise rang out, and our Consul spoke a few words of
welcome and handed me some flowers. A group representing the French
colony presented me with a friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor
of the _Courrier des Etats Unis_, made a speech, as witty as it was
kindly. It was a thoroughly French speech. Then came the terrible moment
of introductions. Oh, what a tiring time that was! My mind was kept at a
tension to catch the names. Mr. Pemb——, Madame Harth——, with the _h_
aspirated. With great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the
second finished in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants.
By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up listening;
I simply kept on with my little _risorius de Santorini_, half closed my
eyes, held out mechanically the arm at the end of which was the hand
that had to shake and be shaken. I replied all the time: “_Combien je
suis charmée, Madame.... Oh! Certainement.... Oh oui!... Oh non!...
Ah!... Oh!... Oh!..._” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with
standing. I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off the
fingers that were swelling with the repeated grips they were enduring.
My eyes were getting larger and larger with terror as they gazed at the
door through which the crowd continued to stream in my direction. There
were still the names of all these people to hear and all these hands to
shake. My _risorius de Santorini_ must still go on working more than
fifty times. I could feel the beads of perspiration standing out under
my hair, and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered and I
commenced stammering: “_Oh, Madame!... Oh!... Je suis cha——cha——_” I
really could not go on any longer. I felt that I should get angry or
burst out crying—in fact, that I was about to make myself ridiculous. I
decided therefore to faint. I made a movement with my hand as though it
wanted to continue but could not. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, and
fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick! Air!... A doctor!... Poor
thing.... How pale she is! Take her hat off!... Loosen her corset!...
She doesn’t wear one. Unfasten her dress!...” I was terrified, but
Félicie was called up in haste, and _mon petit Dame_ would not allow any
_deshabillage_. The doctor came back with a bottle of ether. Félicie
seized the bottle.

“Oh no, doctor—not ether! When Madame is quite well the odour of ether
will make her faint.”

This was quite true, and I thought it was time to come to my senses
again. The reporters were arriving, and there were more than twenty of
them; but Jarrett, who was very much affected, asked them to go to the
Albemarle Hotel, where I was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take
Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these
“asides,” he answered phlegmatically, “I have made an appointment with
them for one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes.” I
looked at him, petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and
said:

“_Ah oui; il était nécessaire._”

On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous, and wanted
to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once to my room in the suite
that had been engaged for me, and fastened the doors. There was neither
lock nor bolt on one of them, but I pushed a piece of furniture against
it, and then refused emphatically to open it. There were about fifty
people waiting in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful
weariness which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for
the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the rug, cross my
arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I did not want to talk any
more, and I did not want to have to smile or look at any one. I threw
myself down on the floor, and was deaf to the knocks on my door and to
Jarrett’s supplications. I did not want to argue the matter, so I did
not utter a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices, and Jarrett’s
words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard the rustle of
paper being pushed under the door, and Madame Guérard whispering to
Jarrett, who was furious.

“You don’t know her, Monsieur Jarrett,” I heard her say. “If she thought
you were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the
furniture, she would jump out of the window!”

Then I heard Félicie talking to a French lady who was insisting on
seeing me.

“It is quite impossible,” she was saying. “Madame would be quite
hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest, and every one must wait!”

For some little time I could hear a confused murmur which seemed to get
farther away, and then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself
as I went off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry,
nonplussed expression on the faces of my visitors.

I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to
sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and
I then wake up quite peacefully without a shake at the time I choose to
rouse up. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and mind,
decided upon and regulated merely by my will.

Very often when among my intimate friends I have lain down on the bear-
skin hearth-rug in front of the fire, telling every one to go on
talking, and to take no notice of me. I have then slept perhaps for an
hour, and on waking have found two or three new-comers in the room, who,
not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in the general conversation
whilst waiting until I should wake up and they could present their
respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge wide sofa in the little
Empire _salon_ which leads into my dressing-room, and I sleep whilst
waiting for the friends and artistes with whom I have made appointments
to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of my kind
friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have had
some rest. My mind is then tranquil, and I am ready to listen to all the
beautiful ideas proposed to me, or to decline the absurdities submitted
to me without being ungracious.

I woke up then at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, and found myself
lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room, and discovered my dear
Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk.

“Are there any people there still?” I asked.

“Oh, Madame, there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie.

“Help me to take my things off then quickly,” I said, “and find me a
white dress.”

In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from
head to foot. I went into the drawing-room where all these unknown
persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me
well dressed and with a smiling face he postponed the sermon that he
wanted to preach to me.

I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most
extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age.
He was tall, with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most
beautiful silver-white hair I have ever seen on a man’s head. His eyes
were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as
though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature,
his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip
showed his teeth and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grins
seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears, which were
always moving as though on the watch for prey.

He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent; but from childhood he must
have been fighting with the world, and he had the most profound contempt
for all mankind. Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he
had no pity for others who suffered. He always said that every man was
armed for his own defence. He pitied women; did not care for them, but
was always ready to help them. He was very rich and very economical, but
not miserly.

“I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two
weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most
terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people. The
former don’t know what it is and the latter don’t believe in it; while
the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep
their word.”

He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures.

He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion
about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer,
Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right
eye: “Look at that eye, sir. It is now reading in your mind all that you
are not saying.”

“It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the
other, firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye.

“A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett. “This is the way to take aim for
effectually closing an eye.”

And he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down
dead.

When Jarrett told this story his lip curled up and his two incisors
appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of
stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an
upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and I like what
I remember of him.

My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with
delight as I entered the drawing-room, which I had not yet seen. The
busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded
with flowers. All round the large room were sofas laden with cushions,
and, to remind me of my home in Paris, there were tall palms stretching
out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler, who had
suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I shook
hands with him, and we were friends from that time forth.

The visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all
seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions.
One of them had crouched down tailor-fashion on a bear-skin, and was
leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin, and coughed
a great deal. I went towards him, and had just opened my lips to speak
to him, although I was rather shocked that he did not rise, when he
addressed me in a bass voice.

“Which is your favourite _rôle_, Madame?” he asked.

“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In
doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite.

“What do you eat when you wake in the morning, Madame?” he inquired.

I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett,
who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man,
answered quickly for me, “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was,
but the ferocious reporter continued his questions.

“And what do you eat during the day?”

“Mussels.”

He wrote down phlegmatically, “Mussels during the day.”

I moved towards the door, and a female reporter in a tailor-made skirt,
with her hair cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice, “Are you a
Jewess-Catholic-Protestant-Mohammedan-Buddhist-Atheist-Zoroaster-Theist-
or-Deist?” I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment. She had
said all that in a breath, accenting the syllables haphazard, and making
of the whole one word so wildly incoherent that my impression was that I
was not in safety near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked
uneasy, and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking gaily to
a little group of people, she came to my rescue, saying in very good
French, “This young lady is asking you, Madame, whether you are of the
Jewish religion or whether you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a
Mohammedan, a Buddhist, an Atheist, a Zoroastrian, a Theist, or a
Deist.”

I sank down on a couch.

“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, “will it be like this in all the cities I
visit?”

“Oh no,” answered Jarrett placidly; “your interviews will be wired
throughout America.”

“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then in an absent-
minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, Mademoiselle.”

“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox Church?” she asked.

I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance, and a very
young man then approached timidly.

“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, Madame?” he asked.

I remained standing, my profile turned towards him at his request. When
he had finished I asked to see what he had done, and, perfectly
unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly
wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day
that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription
beneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with
a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago
reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious
articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present,
always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up
for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the
invention of reporting, has ever had as much to endure as I had during
that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long
before I arrived in America, there was all the treachery of the friends
of the Comédie, and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not
succeed on my tour, so that I might return more quickly to the fold,
humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated
announcements invented by my _impresario_ Abbey and my representative
Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always
ridiculous; but I did not know their real source until long afterwards,
when it was too late—much too late—to undeceive the public, who were
fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I
therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to
me whether people believe one thing or another.

Life is short, even for those who live a long time, and we must live for
the few who know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for
whom we have the same affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as
a mere crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is
nothing to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or
unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to hate very
rarely, as it is too fatiguing; remain indifferent to a great deal,
forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does not mean forgetting—at
least, it does not with me. I will not mention here any of the
outrageous and infamous attacks that were made upon me, as it would be
doing too great an honour to the wretched people who were responsible
for them, from beginning to end dipping their pen in the gall of their
own souls. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that any
one who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander can do it. For
that one must live. It is not given to every one to be able to do it,
but it depends on the will of God, who sees and judges.

I took two days’ rest before going to the theatre, for I could feel the
movement of the ship all the time: my head was dizzy, and it seemed to
me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea
had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager, telling
him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day, as soon as
luncheon was over, I went to Booth’s Theatre, where our performances
were to take place. At the stage door I saw a compact, swaying crowd,
very much animated and gesticulating. These strange-looking individuals
did not belong to the world of actors. They were not reporters either,
for I knew them too well, alas! to be mistaken in them. They were not
there out of curiosity either, these people, for they seemed too much
occupied, and then, too, there were only men. When my carriage drew up,
one of them rushed forward to the door of it and then returned to the
swaying crowd. “Here she is! Here she is!” I heard, and then all these
common men, with their white neckties and questionable-looking hands,
with their coats flying open, and trousers the knees of which were worn
and dirty-looking, crowded behind me into the narrow passage leading to
the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my mind, and I mounted the
stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for me at the top: Mr.
Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two gentlemen and a charming
and most distinguished woman, whose friendship I have kept ever since,
although she does not care much for French people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who
was usually very dignified and cold, advance in the most gracious and
courteous way to one of the men who were following me. They raised their
hats to each other, and, followed by the strange and brutal-looking
regiment, they advanced towards the centre of the stage.

I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the stage were my
forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign, twenty of the men came
forward, and placing themselves each one between two trunks, with a
quick movement with their right and left hands they took the covers off
the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett, with frowns and an
unpleasant grin, held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning
for my keys for the Customs.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said; “don’t be uneasy,” and the way in which my
luggage had always been respected in other countries had given me
perfect confidence about it.

The principal personage of the ugly group came towards me, accompanied
by Abbey, and Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official
from the American Custom-house.

The Custom-house is an abominable institution in every country, but
worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared for all this, and
was most affable to the tormentor of a traveller’s patience. He raised
the melon which served him for a hat, and without taking his cigar out
of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to me. He then turned to
his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his hand, and uttered some
word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands of these twenty men
proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and laces. I rushed
forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous violation, and I
ordered the lady of our company who had charge of the costumes to lift
my gowns out one at a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid,
who was in tears at the small amount of respect shown by these boors to
all my beautiful, fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very
noisy and businesslike. One of them was short and stout: her nose seemed
to begin at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes,
and a mouth like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her
heavy flabby bust, and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of
her groin. She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a
terrapin, with her little black evil-looking head at the end of a neck
which was too long and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa
and drawing it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her
body bulged out flat. These two delightful persons were the dressmakers
sent for by the Custom-house to value my costumes. They glanced at me in
a furtive way, and gave a little bow full of bitterness and jealous rage
at the sight of my dresses; and I was quite aware that two more enemies
had now come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter
and argue, pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time.
They kept exclaiming in the most emphatic way, “Oh, how beautiful! What
magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these,
and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the
American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of
excitement for this chiffon court-martial. They kept lamenting, then
going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion.
The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval, and spat on the
ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one
of the inquisitors:

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful? Show it! show it!” she exclaimed, seizing on a
dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in _La Dame aux
Camélias_.

“This dress is worth at least ten thousand dollars,” she said; and then,
coming up to me, she asked, “How much did you pay for that dress,
Madame?”

I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment
I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the
Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half-past five, and my feet were
frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The
rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly
band of men offered to put everything back in the trunks, but I objected
to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover
over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen,
stockings, furs, gloves, &c. &c. They then made me take my oath to
remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left
my steward there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and
a bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I
wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out
for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see Brooklyn Bridge.

“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty
miseries of our red tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for
Brooklyn Bridge.

Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing; and it makes one
feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realises that
a brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the
ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with
passengers, ten or twelve tramcars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and
carts, and thousands of foot passengers; and all that moving along
together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals—clanging,
clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and
things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful tempestuous
coming and going caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath.

I made a sign for the carriage to stand still, and I closed my eyes. I
then had a strange, undefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened
my eyes again when my brain was a little more tranquil, and I saw New
York stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which
glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as
the firmament with its tunic of stars.

I returned to the hotel reconciled with this great nation.

I went to sleep, tired in body but rested in mind, and had such
delightful dreams that I was in a good humour the following day. I adore
dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are those which follow dreamless
nights.

My great grief is that I cannot choose my dreams. How many times I have
done all in my power at the end of a happy day to make myself dream a
continuation of it. How many times I have called up the faces of those I
love just before falling asleep; but my thoughts wander and carry me off
elsewhere, and I prefer that a hundred times over to the absolute
negation of thought.

When I am asleep my body has an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is
torture to me for my thoughts to slumber.

My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am quite willing
to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as those of
which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke my maid
told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theatre so that the
valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to Jarrett
that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the Custom-house, and
I asked him to finish everything without me, as Madame Guérard would be
there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the Seated Cow, and the
Black Band made notes for the Custom-house, took sketches for the papers
and patterns of my dresses for customers. I began to get impatient, as
we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I was told on Thursday
morning that the business was over, and that I could not have my trunks
until I had paid twenty-eight thousand francs for duty. I was seized
with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been
terrified, caught it from me, and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth.

“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must
make my _début_ on Monday the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I
shall be at the theatre on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks,
for there was nothing about the Custom-house in my contract. I will pay
half, though, of what you have to give.”

The twenty-eight thousand francs were handed over to an attorney who
made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs. My trunks were left
with me, thanks to this payment, and the rehearsals commenced at Booth’s
Theatre.

On Monday, November 8, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first
performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_. The house was crowded, and the
seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them
again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and
curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present,
as the piece was too immoral. Poor Adrienne Lecouvreur!

The audience was very polite to the artistes of my company, but rather
impatient to see the strange person who had been described to them.

In the play the curtain falls at the end of the first act without
Adrienne having appeared. A person in the house, very much annoyed,
asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my money back,” he said, “as la
Bernhardt is not in every act.” Abbey refused to return the money to the
extraordinary individual, and as the curtain was going up he hurried
back to take possession of his seat again. My appearance was greeted by
several rounds of applause, which I believe had been paid for in advance
by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced, and the sweetness of my voice in the
fable of the “Two Pigeons” worked the miracle. The whole house this time
burst out into hurrahs. A current of sympathy was established between
the public and myself. Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been
announced to them, they had before them a very frail-looking creature
with a sweet voice. The fourth act was applauded, and Adrienne’s
rebellion against the Princesse de Bouillon stirred the whole house.
Finally in the fifth act, when the unfortunate artiste is dying,
poisoned by her rival, there was quite a manifestation, and every one
was deeply moved. At the end of the third act all the young men were
sent off by the ladies to find all the musicians they could get
together, and to my surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a
charming serenade was played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had
assembled under my windows at the Albemarle Hotel, and I was obliged to
go out on to the balcony several times to bow and to thank this public,
which I had been told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From
the bottom of my heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers,
as it was through them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the
certainty of conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had
not dared to hope for it.

I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were _Adrienne
Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _Hernani_, _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_,
and _L’Etrangère_. The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each
performance, including _matinées_. The last performance was given on
Saturday, December 4, as a _matinée_, for my company had to leave that
night for Boston, and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison’s
at Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland.

Oh, that _matinée_ of Saturday, December 4! I can never forget it. When
I got to the theatre to dress it was mid-day, for the _matinée_ was to
commence at half-past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get
along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they
had borrowed from the neighbouring shops, or on folding seats which they
had brought themselves. The play was _La Dame aux Camélias_. I had to
get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order
to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it.
People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her
brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts
surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had
its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her note-
book and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small
boys under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their
cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my
hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I
turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had
tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she only succeeded in cutting
the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and shouted. I
could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered me, but
without any ceremony either for my admirers or for myself. Those
policemen were real brutes, and they made me very angry. I played _La
Dame aux Camélias_, and I counted seventeen calls after the third act
and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and
calls the play had lasted an hour longer than usual, and I was half dead
with fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my
hotel, when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000
people waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.

“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed. I am tired out. I can do
no more.”

But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.

“Come,” said he to my sister. “Put on Madame’s hat and boa and take my
arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now
we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.”

He said all this in English, and Jarrett translated it to my sister, who
willingly accepted her part in this little comedy. During this time
Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of
the theatre where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this
course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour
later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my
hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the
little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.

We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in
travelling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston,
and my trunks were leaving the same day with my company, which preceded
me by several hours.

Our meal was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the food
was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty special
train, all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had been kind
enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey all the same, for
at every moment we had to pull up to allow another train to pass or an
engine to manœuvre, or to wait to pass over the points. It was two
o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the station of
Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison.

It was a very dark night, and the snow was falling silently in heavy
flakes. A carriage was waiting, and the one lamp of this carriage served
to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the
electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of
Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The
intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable
blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the
first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp.
There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten
in all. Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first
one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of
conspirators. The dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence
caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our
furs, and our anxious expression as we glanced around us—all this made
our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta.

The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting
terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic
accident.

I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along, for, lulled by the
movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was quietly
dozing, when a formidable “Hip, hip, hurrah!” made us all jump, my
travelling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as
thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on
the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed
forth triumphantly.

The wheels of the carriage turned a few more times, and then drew up at
the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of people awaited us on
the verandah—four men, two ladies, and a young girl. My heart began to
beat quickly as I wondered which of these men was Edison. I had never
seen his photograph, and I had the greatest admiration for his genial
brain. I sprang out of the carriage, and the dazzling electric light
made it seem like day-time to us. I took the bouquet which Mrs. Edison
offered me, and thanked her for it, but all the time I was endeavouring
to discover which of these was the great man.

They all four advanced towards me, but I noticed the flush that came
into the face of one of them, and it was so evident from the expression
of his blue eyes that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was
Edison. I felt confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well
that I was causing inconvenience to this man by my visit. He of course
imagined that it was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner eager to
court publicity. He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store
for him the following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to
utter. He was suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions
I should ask him, of all the explanations he would out of politeness be
obliged to give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to
me. His wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps,
enabled me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must
be won over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of
fascination in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful _savant_. I
made such an effort, and succeeded so well that half an hour later we
were the best of friends.

I followed him about quickly, climbing up staircases as narrow and steep
as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in the air above veritable
furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I understood all, and I
admired him more and more, for he was so simple and charming, this king
of light.

As we were leaning over a slightly unsteady bridge above the terrible
abyss, in which immense wheels encased in wide thongs were turning,
whirling about, and rumbling, he gave various orders in a clear voice,
and light then burst forth on all sides, sometimes in sputtering
greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes, or in serpentine trails like
streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a
large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon I.
There is certainly a great physical resemblance between these two men,
and I am sure that one compartment of their brain would be found to be
identical. Of course I do not compare their genius. The one was
destructive and the other creative, but whilst I execrate battles I
adore victories, and in spite of his errors I have raised an altar in my
heart to that god of glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at Edison
thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead. The
deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the changes
of light, all that together made my head whirl, and forgetting where I
was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which separated me
from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that before I
had recovered from my surprise Edison had helped me into an adjoining
room and installed me in an arm-chair without my realising how it had
all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy.

After having done the honours of his telephonic discovery and of his
astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the
dining-room, where I found his family assembled. I was very tired, and
did justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us.

I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning, and this time the
country round, the roads and the station were all lighted up _à giorno_,
by the thousands of lamps of my kind host. What a strange power of
suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had travelled a long way that
night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved
to be quite a short distance, and the roads were charming, although they
were now covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during
the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one
during the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my
admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his
timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of
Shakespeare.




                                 XXXIV
                      AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE


The next day, or rather that same day, for it was then four in the
morning, I started with my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my
_impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was
nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from
Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this
one, nevertheless. In the middle of it there was a real bed, large and
comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there were an arm-chair, a pretty
dressing-table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and flowers
everywhere, but flowers without an overpowering perfume. In the car
adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I
went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied, and woke up at Boston.

A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and
curious men and women—a public decidedly more interested than friendly,
not badly intentioned, but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in
New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had
been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid
and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some
people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated
these turpitudes, but every one knew that I had won in the end and that
I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that
clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by
the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration
from hell, &c. &c. Every one knew all this, but the public wanted to see
for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says that
it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the majority
there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent with a
certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this strange,
courteous, and cold crowd, and just as I was about to get into my
carriage a lady advanced towards me and said, “Welcome to Boston,
Madame!”

“Welcome, Madame!” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American
women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now
approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them.

I took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for
a moment when a reporter sprang on the steps of the carriage just as we
were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any
of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits, and I
pushed the impolite fellow back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this,
and saved him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen
down on the pavement as he deserved.

“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this
extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke
French perfectly, and repeated his question.

“He’s mad!” I said in a low voice to Jarrett.

“No, Madame; I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you
will come and get on the whale? It would be better perhaps to come this
evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a
pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.”

He went on talking, and as he talked he half seated himself beside
Jarrett, who was still holding him by the collar lest he should fall out
of the carriage.

“But, Monsieur,” I exclaimed, “what do you mean? What is all this about
a whale?”

“Ah, Madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the
harbour basin, and there are men employed day and night to break the ice
all round it.”

He broke off suddenly, and standing on the carriage step he clutched the
driver.

“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi! Hi! Henry, come here! Here’s Madame;
here she is!”

The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony he jumped down
and pushed into my landau a little man, square all over, who was wearing
a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and an enormous diamond in his
cravat. He was the strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He did
not speak a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett,
whilst the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to the
vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from the station,
and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome. There were a great
many people awaiting my arrival, and I was quite ashamed of my new
companion. He talked in a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed
every one, and gave every one invitations. All the people seemed to be
delighted. A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck,
exclaiming, “Oh yes, papa; do please let us go!”

“Well, but we must ask Madame,” he replied, and he came up to me in the
most polite and courteous manner. “Will you kindly allow us to join your
party when you go to see the whale to-morrow?” he asked.

“But, Monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with a gentleman
once more, “I have no idea what all this means. For the last quarter of
an hour this reporter and that extraordinary man have been talking about
a whale. They declare authoritatively that I must go and pay it a visit,
and I know absolutely nothing about it all. These two gentlemen took my
carriage by storm; installed themselves in it without my permission,
and, as you see, are giving invitations in my name to people I do not
know, asking them to go with me to a place about which I know nothing,
for the purpose of paying a visit to a whale which is to be introduced
to me, and which is waiting impatiently to die in peace.”

The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to come with us,
and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett and Madame Guérard, I went up
in a lift to the door of my suite of rooms. I found my apartments hung
with valuable pictures and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather
disturbed in my mind, for among these objects of art were two or three
very rare and beautiful things, which I knew must have cost an
exorbitant price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen, and I
spoke of my fear to the proprietor of the hotel.

“Mr. X., to whom the knick-knacks belong,” he answered, “wished you to
have them to look at as long as you are here, Mademoiselle; and when I
expressed my anxiety about them to him, just as you have done to me, he
merely remarked that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures,
they belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a superb
Millet, which I should very much have liked to own.

After expressing my gratitude and admiring these treasures, I asked for
an explanation of the story of the whale, and Mr. Max Gordon, the father
of the little girl, translated for me what the little man in the fur cap
had said. It appeared that he owned several fishing-boats, which he sent
out cod-fishing for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an
enormous whale, which still had two harpoons in it. The poor creature
was thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, and only a few miles
distant along the coast, so it had been easy to capture it and bring it
in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner of the boats. It was difficult to
say by what freak of fancy and by what turn of the imagination this man
had arrived at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name
as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the fact remained
that he insisted in such a droll way, and so authoritatively and
energetically, that the following morning at seven o’clock fifty of us
assembled, in spite of the icy cold rain, on the quay.

Mr. Gordon had given orders that his mail coach with four beautiful
horses should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his daughter,
Jarrett, my sister, Madame Guérard, and another elderly lady, whose name
I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages followed. It was
all very amusing indeed.

On our arrival at the quay we were received by this comic Henry, shaggy-
looking this time from head to foot, and his hands encased in fingerless
woollen gloves. Only his eyes and his huge diamond shone out from his
furs. I walked along the quay, very much amused and interested. There
were a few idlers looking on also, and alas!—three times over
alas!—there were reporters.

Henry’s shaggy paw then seized my hand, and he drew me along with him
quickly to the steps.

I only just escaped breaking my neck at least a dozen times. He pushed
me along, made me stumble down the ten steps of the basin, and I next
found myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it still
breathed, but I should not like to affirm that it really did; but the
splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor creature
caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered with glazed
frost, and twice I fell down full length on its spine. I laugh about it
now, but I was furious then.

Every one around me insisted, however, on my pulling a piece of
whalebone from the blade of the poor captured creature, one of those
little bones which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to do
this, as I feared to cause it suffering, and I was sorry for the poor
thing, as three of us—Henry, the little Gordon girl, and I—had been
skating about on its back for the last ten minutes. Finally I decided to
do it. I pulled out the little whale bone, and went up the steps again,
holding my poor trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and
every one surrounded me.

I was annoyed with this Henry Smith. I did not want to return to the
coach, as I thought I could hide bad temper better in one of the huge,
gloomy-looking landaus which followed, but the charming Miss Gordon
asked me so sweetly why I would not ride with them that I felt my anger
melt away before the child’s smiling face.

“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I accepted with
pleasure.

Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach as quickly as
his age and corpulence would allow him.

“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he said, and he took
a seat in another carriage. I changed places boldly with Mr. Gordon in
order to drive, and we had not gone a hundred yards before I had let the
horses make for a chemist’s shop along the quay and got the coach itself
up on to the footpath, so that if it had not been for the quickness and
energy of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at the
hotel I went to bed, and stayed there until it was time for the theatre
in the evening. We played _Hernani_ that night to a full house.

The seats had been sold to the highest bidders, and considerable prices
were obtained for them. We gave fifteen performances at Boston, at an
average of nineteen thousand francs for each performance. I was sorry to
leave that city, as I had spent two charming weeks there, my mind all
the time on the alert when holding conversations with the Boston women.
They are Puritans from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot,
but they are indulgent, and there is no bitterness about their
Puritanism. What struck me most about the women of Boston was the
harmony of their gestures and the softness of their voices. Brought up
among the severest and harshest of traditions, the Bostonian race seems
to me to be the most refined and the most mysterious of all the American
races.

As the women are in the majority in Boston, many of the young girls
remain unmarried. All their vital forces which they cannot expend in
love and in maternity they employ in fortifying and making supple the
beauty of their body by means of exercise and sports, without losing any
of their grace. All the reserves of heart are expended in
intellectuality. They adore music, the stage, literature, painting, and
poetry. They know everything and understand everything, are chaste and
reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loud.

They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North Pole is from
the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful, and captivating.

It was therefore with a rather heavy heart that I left Boston for New
Haven, and to my great surprise, on arriving at the hotel there I found
Henry Smith the famous whale man.

“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, flinging myself into an arm-chair, “what
does this man want now with me?”

I was not left in ignorance very long, for the most infernal noise of
brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and, I should think, saucepans, drew
me to the window. I saw an immense carriage surrounded by an escort of
negroes dressed as minstrels. On this carriage was an abominable,
monstrous coloured advertisement representing me standing on the whale,
tearing away its blade while it struggled to defend itself.

Some sandwich-men followed with posters on which were written the
following words:

                             “COME AND SEE
                         THE ENORMOUS CETACEAN
                                 WHICH
                            SARAH BERNHARDT
                                 KILLED
             BY TEARING OUT ITS WHALEBONE FOR HER CORSETS.
                   THESE ARE MADE BY MADAME LILY NOE,
                         WHO LIVES,” ETC. ETC.

Some of the other sandwich-men carried posters with these words:

              “THE WHALE IS JUST AS FLOURISHING (_sic_) AS
                           WHEN IT WAS ALIVE!

       It has five hundred dollars’ worth of salt in its stomach,
           and every day the ice upon which it is resting is
               renewed at a cost of one hundred dollars!”

My face turned more livid than that of a corpse, and my teeth chattered
with fury on seeing this.

Henry Smith advanced towards me, and I struck him in my anger, and then
rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with vexation, disgust, and utter
weariness.

I wanted to start back to Europe at once, but Jarrett showed me my
contract. I then wanted to take steps to have this odious exhibition
stopped, and in order to calm me I was promised that this should be
done, but in reality nothing was done at all.

Two days later I was at Hartford, and the same whale was there. It
continued its tour as I continued mine.

They gave it more salt and renewed its ice, and it went on its way, so
that I came across it everywhere. I took proceedings about it, but in
every State I was obliged to begin all over again, as the law varied in
the different States. And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found
there an immense bouquet awaiting me, with the horrible card of the
showman of the whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and trampled on
them, and much as I love flowers, I had a horror of these. Jarrett went
to see the man and begged him not to send me any more bouquets, but it
was all of no use, as it was the man’s way of avenging the box on the
ears I had given him. Then too he could not understand my anger. He was
making any amount of money, and had even proposed that I should accept a
percentage of the receipts. Ah, I would willingly have killed that
execrable Smith, for he was poisoning my life. I could see nothing else
in all the different cities I visited, and I used to shut my eyes to go
from the hotel to the theatre. When I heard the minstrels I used to fly
into a rage and turn green with anger. Fortunately I was able to rest
when once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this show. I
should certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I saw nothing but
that, I could think of nothing else, and my very dreams were about it.
It haunted me; it was an obsession and a perpetual nightmare. When I
left Hartford, Jarrett swore to me that Smith would not be at Montreal,
as he had been taken suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had
found a way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine which
had stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of this, as the
ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily _en route_, but anyhow I was
infinitely grateful to him for ridding me of the man for the present.




                                  XXXV
  MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN ESCAPADE ON THE ST.
                             LAWRENCE RIVER


At last we arrived at Montreal.

For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had dreamed about
Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret, with considerable fury,
the surrender of that territory by France to England.

I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding them, the
pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense fortune that lay in its
lands, &c., and that country had seemed to my imagination the far-off
promised land.

Awakened some considerable time before by the strident whistle of the
engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock in the evening, I was
informed. We were within fifteen minutes of the station. The sky was
black and smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns placed at distant
intervals caught the whiteness of the snow heaped up there for how many
days? The train stopped suddenly, and then started again with such a
slow and timid movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility
of its running off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing louder every
second, fell upon my attentive ears. This sound soon resolved itself
into music—and it was in the midst of a formidable “Hurrah! long live
France!” shouted by ten thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra
playing the “Marseillaise” with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry
into Montreal.

The place where the train stopped in those days was very narrow. A
somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the slight platform of the
station.

Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with emotion upon
the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank was packed with bears
holding lanterns. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. In the
narrow space between the bank and the train, which had come to a stop,
there were more bears, large and small, and I wondered with terror how I
should manage to reach my sleigh.

Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way, and I got out. But a
deputy, whose name I cannot make out on my notes (what commendation for
my writing!)—a deputy advanced towards me and handed me an address
signed by the notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I
could, and took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in
the name of the signatories to the address. When I lifted the flowers to
my face in order to smell them I hurt myself slightly with their pretty
petals, which were frozen by the cold.

However, I began myself to feel both arms and legs were getting
benumbed. The cold crept over my whole body. That night, it appears, was
one of the coldest that had been experienced for many years past.

The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the French
company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior of the station,
with the exception of Mrs. Jos. Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of rare
flowers and gave me a kiss. The temperature was twenty-two degrees below
zero. I whispered low to Jarrett, “Let us continue our journey; I am
turning into ice. In ten minutes I shall not be able to move a step.”

Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey, who applied to the Chief of Police.
The latter gave orders in English, and another police officer repeated
them in French. And we were able to proceed for a few yards. But the
main station was still some way off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one
time I felt as though I were about to faint. I took courage, however,
holding or rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every
minute I thought I should fall, for the platform was like a mirror.

We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred lanterns,
held aloft by a hundred students’ hands, suddenly lit up the place.

A tall young man separated himself from the group and came straight
towards me, holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice
declaimed:

                      A SARAH BERNHARDT.

          Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante dona Sol!
          Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
                Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
          Est-ce frisson d’orgueil ou d’amour? je ne sais;
          Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang français
                Quelque chose qui nous enivre!

          Femme vaillante au cœur saturé d’idéal,
          Puisque tu n’as pas craint notre ciel boréal,
                Ni redouté nos froids sévères.
          Merci! De l’âpre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers,
          Nous rêvons à ta vue aux rayons printaniers
                Qui font fleurir les primevères!

          Oui, c’est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rêver!
          Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver
                L’horreur de nos saisons perfides,
          Aux clairs rayonnements d’un chaud soleil de mai,
          Nous croyons voir, du fond d’un bosquet parfumé,
                Surgir la reine des sylphides.

          Mais non: de floréal ni du blond messidor,
          Tu n’es pas, O Sarah, la fée aux ailes d’or
                Qui vient répandre l’ambroisie;
          Nous saluons en toi l’artiste radieux
          Qui sut cueillir d’assaut dans le jardin des dieux
                Toutes les fleurs de poesie!

          Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau;
          Que le paros brilliant vive sous ton ciseau,
                Ou l’argile sous ton doigt rose;
          Que sur la scène, au bruit délirant des bravos,
          En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux,
                Ton talent se métamorphose;

          Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain,
          Toi-même oses ravir la muse au front serein,
                A ta sourire toujours prête;
          Soit qu’aux mille vivats de la foule à genoux,
          Des grands maîtres anciens ou modernes, pour nous
                Ta voix se fasse l’interprète;

          Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent,
          Qu’il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang,
                Laissant glapir la calomnie,
          Tour à tour par ton œuvre et ta grâce enchanté
          Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté
                De ton universel génie!

          Salut donc, O Sarah! salut, O dona Sol!
          Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
                Te montrer de l’indifférence
          Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront;
          Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front,
                C’est encore celle de la France!
                                            LOUIS FRÉCHETTE.

He read very well, it is true; but those lines, read at a temperature of
twenty-two degrees of cold to a poor woman dumfounded through listening
to a frenzied “Marseillaise,” stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten
thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervour, were more than my
strength could bear.

I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed with
fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning round in a mad farandole. I
felt myself raised from the ground, and heard a voice which seemed to
come from far away, “Make room for our French lady!” Then I heard
nothing further, and only recovered my senses in my room at the Hotel
Windsor.

My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the movement of the
crowd. But the poet Fréchette, a Franco-Canadian, acted as escort, and
brought her several minutes later, safe and sound, but trembling on my
account, and this is what she told me. “Just imagine. When the crowd was
pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head fall back
with closed eyes on to Abbey’s shoulder,” I shouted out, ‘Help! My
sister is being killed.’ I had become mad. A man of enormous size, who
had followed us for a long time, worked his elbows and hips to make the
enthusiastic but overexcited mob give way, with a quick movement placed
himself before you just in time to prevent you from falling. The man,
whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden beneath a fur
cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire face, raised you
up as though you had been a flower, and held forth to the crowd in
English. I did not understand anything he said, but the Canadians were
struck with it, for the pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two
compact files in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it
made me feel quite impressed to see you, so slender, with your head
back, and the whole of your poor frame borne at arm’s length by that
Hercules. I followed as fast as I could, but having caught my foot in
the flounce of my skirt, I had to stop for a second, and that second was
enough to separate us completely. The crowd, having closed up after your
passage, formed an impenetrable barrier. “I can assure you, dear sister,
that I felt anything but at ease, and it was M. Fréchette who saved me.”

I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman, and thanked him this time as
well as I could for his fine poem; then I spoke to him of other poems of
his, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for alas! to my shame
I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Fréchette up to the time of
my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little in
Paris.

He was very much touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the
finest of his work. He thanked me. We remained friends.

The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck when a card was sent
up to me on which were written these words, “He who had the joy of
saving you, Madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment’s
interview.” I directed that the man should be shown into the drawing-
room, and after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with
me,” I said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing-gown, and we went in the
direction of the large, the immense drawing-room of my suite, for a
bicycle would have been necessary to traverse without fatigue the entire
length of my rooms, drawing-room, dining-room and bedroom. On opening
the door I was struck by the beauty of the man who was before me. He was
very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and
curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine-looking, but seemed uneasy.
He blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude, and asked to
be excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully the bouquet of
violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in a low voice, “If you
ever hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service
I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered. His face was pale,
as he walked towards the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could,
however, catch the words, “detective ... door ... assassination ...
impossibility ... New Orleans.” The stranger’s sunburnt complexion
became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he glanced towards the door.
Then, as flight appeared impossible, he looked at Jarrett and in a
peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said, “Well!” as he went towards the
door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let fall his bouquet,
which he picked up whilst looking at me with a supplicating and
appealing air. I understood, and said to him in a loud tone of voice, “I
swear to it, Monsieur.” The man disappeared with his flowers. I heard
the uproar of people behind the door and of the crowd in the street. I
did not wish to listen to anything further.

When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell
me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.

Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an
account of his death by hanging, I refused to hear anything about it.
And now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to
remember the service rendered and my pledged word.

This incident left me somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal
was necessary to enable me to regain my good humour. That prelate, after
holding forth in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature,
forbade his flock to go the theatre. He spoke violently and spitefully
against modern France. As to Scribe’s play (_Adrienne Lecouvreur_), he
tore it into shreds, as it were, declaiming against the immoral love of
the _comédienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the
Princesse de Bouillon. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and
he cried out, with fury intensified by outrage: “In this infamous
lucubration of French authors there is a court abbé, who, thanks to the
unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult
to the clergy.” Finally he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who
was already dead, against Legouvé, against me, and against all my
company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four
performances, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame aux Camélias_
(matinée), and _Hernani_ had a colossal success and brought in fabulous
receipts.

I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not
remember to pay a visit to the Iroquois. I accepted with joy, and went
there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always
ready for a dangerous excursion. I felt in safety in the presence of
this artiste, full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean
strength. The only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He
had none then, and never did have any.

The St. Lawrence river was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in
a carriage along a route indicated by two rows of branches fixed in the
ice. We had four carriages. The distance between Caughnanwaga and
Montreal was five kilometres.

This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was introduced
to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes. Alas! this
former chief, son of “Big White Eagle,” surnamed during his childhood
“Sun of the Nights,” now clothed in sorry European rags, was selling
liquor, thread, needles, flax, pork fat, chocolate, &c. All that
remained of his mad rovings through the old wild forests—when he roamed
naked over a land free of all allegiance—was the stupor of the bull held
prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy, and that he
quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of
forgetfulness.

Sun of the Nights introduced me to his daughter, a girl of eighteen to
twenty years of age, insipid, and devoid of beauty and grace.

She sat down at the piano and played a tune that was popular at the
time—I do not remember what. I was in a hurry to leave the store, the
home of these two victims of civilisation.

I visited Caughnanwaga, but found no pleasure in it. The same
compression of the throat, the same retrospective anguish, caused me to
revolt against man’s cowardice which hid under the name of civilisation
the most unjust and most protected of crimes.

I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success of our four
performances was extraordinary, but what gave them a special charm in my
eyes was the infernal and joyous noise made by the students. The doors
of the theatre were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They
then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were gifted with
magnificent voices. They separated into groups according to the
requirements of the songs they wished to sing. They then prepared, by
means of a strong string worked by a pulley, the aerial route that was
to be followed by the flower-bedecked baskets which descended from their
paradise to where I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves
bearing sonnets and good wishes.

These flowers and birds were sent off during the “calls,” and by a happy
disposition of the strings the flowers fell at my feet, the doves flew
where their astonishment led them; and every evening these messages of
grace and beauty were repeated. I experienced considerable emotion the
first evening. The Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria,
Governor of Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The
house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the curtain I gazed
on the composition of this assembly. All of a sudden a silence came over
it without any outward reason for it, and the “Marseillaise” was sung by
three hundred warm young male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur
the Governor stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole
house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem echoed in
our hearts like a call from the mother-country. I do not believe I ever
heard the “Marseillaise” sung with keener emotion and unanimity. As soon
as it was over, the plaudits of the crowd broke out three times over;
then, upon a sharp gesture from the Governor, the band played “God save
the Queen.”

I never saw a prouder or more dignified gesture than that of the Marquis
of Lorne when he motioned to the conductor of the orchestra. He was
quite willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen to feel a
regret, perhaps even a flickering hope. The first on his feet, he
listened to that fine plaint with respect, but he smothered its last
echo beneath the English National Anthem.

Being an Englishman, he was incontestably right in doing so.

I gave for the last performance, on December 25, Christmas Day,
_Hernani_.

The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against Scribe and
Legouvé, and the poor artistes who had come with me, who could not help
it. I do not know whether he did not even threaten to excommunicate all
of us, living and dead. Lovers of France and French art, in order to
reply to his abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost
carried by an immense crowd, among which were the deputies and
notabilities of the city.

One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to realise the
crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel.

The day following, Sunday, I went at seven o’clock in the morning, in
company with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade on the banks of the
St. Lawrence river. At a given moment I ordered the carriage to stop,
with the object of walking a little way.

My sister laughingly said, “What if we climb on to that large piece of
ice that seems ready to crack?”

No sooner thought of than done.

And behold both of us walking on the ice, trying to break it loose! All
of a sudden a loud shout from Jarrett made us understand that we had
succeeded. As a matter of fact, our ice barque was already floating free
in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open on account
of the force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece of
ice rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh
inordinately. Jarrett’s cries caused people to gather. Men armed with
boat-hooks endeavoured to stop our progress, but it was not easy, for
the edges of the channel were too friable to bear the weight of a man.
Ropes were thrown out to us. We caught hold of one of them with our four
hands, but the sudden pull of the men in drawing us towards them cast
our raft so suddenly against the ice edges that it broke in two, and we
remained, full of fear this time, on one small part of our skiff. I
laughed no longer, for we were beginning to travel somewhat fast, and
the channel was opening out in width. But in one of the turns it made we
were fortunately squeezed in between two immense blocks, and to this
fact we owed being able to escape with our lives.

The men who had followed our very rapid ride with real courage climbed
on to the blocks. A harpoon was thrown with marvellous skill on to our
icy wreck so as to retain us in our position, for the current, rather
strong underneath, might have caused us to move. A ladder was brought
and planted against one of the large blocks; its steps afforded us means
of delivery. My sister was the first to climb up, and I followed,
somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous escapade.

During the length of time required to regain the bank the carriage, with
Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was pallid, not from fear of
the danger I had undergone, but at the idea that if I died the tour
would come to an end. He said to me quite seriously, “If you had lost
your life, Madame, you would have been dishonest, for you would have
broken your contract of your own free will.”

We had just enough time to get to the station, where the train was ready
to take me to Springfield.

An immense crowd was waiting, and it was with the same cry of love,
underlined with _au revoirs_, that the Canadian public wished us good-
bye.




                                 XXXVI
SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES BETWEEN ST. LOUIS
                   AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT


After our immense and noisy success at Montreal, we were somewhat
surprised with the icy welcome of the public at Springfield.

We played _La Dame aux Camélias_—in America _Camille_, why, no one was
ever able to tell me. This play, which the public rushed to see in
crowds, shocked the over-strained Puritanism of the small American
towns. The critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene.
But those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This
stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the
impurity of Marguerite Gautier, we met with from time to time in the
small cities. Springfield at that time had barely thirty thousand
inhabitants.

During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmith’s to
purchase a rifle. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow
courtyard, where I tried several shots. On turning round I was surprised
and confused to see two gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I
wished to withdraw at once, but one of them came up to me:

“Would you like, Madame, to come and fire off a cannon?” I almost fell
to the ground with surprise, and did not reply for a second. Then I
said, “Yes, I would.”

An appointment was made with my strange questioner, who was the director
of the Colt gun factory. An hour afterwards I went to the rendezvous.

More than thirty people who had been hastily invited were there already.
It got on my nerves a trifle. I fired off the newly invented quick-
firing cannon. It amused me very much without procuring me any emotion,
and that evening, after the icy performance, we left for Baltimore with
a vertiginous rush, the play having finished later than the hour fixed
for the departure of the train. It was necessary to catch it up at any
cost. The three enormous carriages that made up my special train went
off under full steam. With two engines, we bounded over the metals and
dropped again, thanks to some miracle.

We finally succeeded in catching up the express, which knew we were on
its track, having been warned by telegram. It made a short stop, just
long enough to couple us to it anyhow, and in that way we reached
Baltimore, where I stayed four days and gave five performances.

Two things struck me in that city: the deadly cold in the hotels and the
theatre, and the loveliness of the women.

I felt a profound sadness at Baltimore, for I spent the 1st of January
far from everything that was dear to me. I wept all night, and underwent
that moment of discouragement that makes one wish for death.

Our success, however, had been colossal in that charming city, which I
left with regret to go to Philadelphia, where we were to remain a week.

That handsome city I do not care for. I received an enthusiastic welcome
there, in spite of a change of programme the first evening. Two artistes
having missed the train, we could not play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, and I
had to replace it by _Phèdre_, the only piece in which the absentees
could be replaced. The receipts averaged twenty thousand francs for the
seven performances given in six days. My sojourn was saddened by a
letter announcing the death of my friend Gustave Flaubert, the writer
who had the beauty of our language at heart.

From Philadelphia we proceeded to Chicago.

At the station I was received by a deputation of Chicago ladies, and a
bouquet of rare flowers was handed to me by a delightful young lady,
Madame Lily B.

Jarrett then led me into one of the rooms of the station, where the
French delegates were waiting.

A very short but highly emotional speech from our Consul spread
confidence and friendly feelings among every one, and after having
returned heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave the station, when I
stopped stupefied—and it seems that my features assumed such an intense
expression of suffering that everybody ran towards me to offer
assistance.

But a sudden anger electrified all my being, and I walked straight
towards the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the whale
man! He was alive, that terrible Smith!—enveloped in furs, with diamonds
on all of his fingers. He was there with a bouquet in his hand, the
wretched brute! I refused the flowers and repulsed him with all my
strength, increased tenfold by anger, and a flood of confused words
escaped from my pallid lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was
repeated and spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors
than ever.

I went to the Palmer House, one of the most magnificent hotels of that
day, whose proprietor, Mr. Potter-Palmer, was a perfect gentleman,
courteous, kind, and generous, for he filled the immense apartment I
occupied with the rarest flowers, and taxed his ingenuity in order to
have my meals cooked and served in the French style, a difficult matter
in those days.

We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success exceeded all
expectations. These two weeks seemed to me the most agreeable days I had
had since my arrival in America. First of all, there was the vitality of
the city in which men pass each other without ever stopping, with
knitted brows, with one thought in mind, “the end to attain.” They move
on and on, never turning for a cry or prudent warning. What takes place
behind them matters little. They do not wish to know why a cry is
raised, and they have no time to be prudent: “the end to attain” awaits
them.

Women here, as everywhere else in America, do not work, but they do not
stroll about the streets, as in other cities: they walk quickly; they
also are in a hurry to seek amusement. During the day-time I went some
distance into the surrounding country in order not to meet the sandwich-
men advertising the whale.

One day I went to the pigs’ slaughter-house. Ah, what a dreadful and
magnificent sight! There were three of us, my sister, myself, and an
Englishman, a friend of mine.

On arrival we saw hundreds of pigs hurrying, bunched together, grunting
and snorting, along a small narrow raised bridge.

[Illustration:

  SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER
  COMPANY OUT SHOOTING
]

Our carriage passed under this bridge, and stopped before a group of men
who were waiting for us. The manager of the stock-yards received us and
led the way to the special slaughterhouses. On entering into the immense
shed, which is dimly lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an
abominable smell gets into your throat, a smell that only leaves one
several days afterwards. A sanguinary mist rises everywhere, like a
light cloud floating on the side of a mountain and lit up by the setting
sun. An infernal hubbub drums itself into your brain: the almost human
cries of the pigs being slaughtered, the violent strokes of the hatchets
lopping off the limbs, the repeated shouts of the “ripper,” who with a
superb and sweeping gesture lifts the heavy hatchet, and with one stroke
opens from top to bottom the unfortunate, quivering animal hung on a
hook. During the terror of the moment one hears the continuous grating
of the revolving razor which in one second removes the bristles from the
trunk thrown to it by the machine that has cut off the four legs; the
whistle of the escaping steam from the hot water in which the head of
the animal is scalded; the rippling of the water that is constantly
renewed; the cascade of the waste water; the rumbling of the small
trains carrying under wide arches trucks loaded with hams, sausages,
&c., and the whistling of the engines warning one of the danger of their
approach, which in this spot of terrible massacre seems to be the
perpetual knell of wretched agonies.

Nothing was more Hoffmanesque than this slaughter of pigs at the period
I am speaking about, for since then a sentiment of humanity has crept,
although still somewhat timidly, into this temple of porcine hecatombs.

I returned from this visit quite ill. That evening I played in _Phèdre_.
I went on to the stage quite unnerved, and trying to do everything to
get rid of the horrible vision of the stock-yard. I threw myself heart
and soul into my _rôle_, so much so that at the end of the fourth act I
absolutely fainted on the stage.

On the day of my last performance a magnificent collar of camellias in
diamonds was handed me on behalf of the ladies of Chicago. I left that
city fond of everything in it: its people; its lake, as big as a small
inland sea; its audiences, who were so enthusiastic; everything,
everything—except its stock-yards.

I did not even bear any ill-will towards the Bishop, who also, as had
happened in other cities, had denounced my art and French literature. By
the violence of his sermons he had, as a matter of fact, advertised us
so well that Mr. Abbey, the manager, wrote the following letter to him:

  “Your Grace ——, Whenever I visit your city, I am accustomed to spend
  four hundred dollars in advertising. But as you have done the
  advertising for me, I send you two hundred dollars for your poor.

                                                          “HENRY ABBEY.”

We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after having
covered 283 miles in fourteen hours.

In the drawing-room of my car, Abbey and Jarrett showed me the statement
of the sixty-two performances that had been given since our arrival. The
gross receipts were $227,459, that is to say, 1,137,295 francs, an
average of 18,343 francs per performance. This gave me great pleasure on
Henry Abbey’s account, for he had lost all he had in his previous tour
with an admirable troop of opera artistes, and greater pleasure still on
my own account, as I was to receive a good share of the takings.

We stayed at St. Louis all the week, from January 24 to 31. I must admit
that this city, which was specially French, was less to my liking than
the other American cities, as it was dirty and the hotels were not very
comfortable. Since then St. Louis has made great strides, but it was the
Germans who planted there the bulb of progress. At the time of which I
speak, the year 1881, the city was repulsively dirty. In those days,
alas! we were not great at colonising, and all the cities where French
influence preponderated were poor and behind the times. I was bored to
death at St. Louis, and I wanted to leave the place at once, after
paying an indemnity to the manager, but Jarrett, the upright man, the
stern man of duty, the ferocious man, said to me, holding my contract in
his hand:

“No, Madame; you must stay. You can die of _ennui_ here if you like, but
stay you must.”

By way of entertaining me he took me to a celebrated grotto where we
were to see some millions of fish without eyes. The light had never
penetrated into this grotto, and as the first fish who lived there had
no use for their eyes, their descendants had no eyes at all. We went to
see this grotto. It was a long way off. We went down and groped our way
to the grotto very cautiously, on all fours like cats. The road seemed
to me interminable, but at last the guide told us that we had arrived at
our destination. We were able to stand upright again, as the grotto
itself was higher. I could see nothing, but I heard a match being
struck, and the guide then lighted a small lantern. Just in front of me,
nearly at my feet, was a rather deep natural basin. “You see,” remarked
our guide phlegmatically, “that is the pond, but just at present there
is no water in it; neither are there any fish. You must come again in
three months’ time.”

Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which borders
on madness. I was suffocated with it, and I choked and laughed till the
tears came. I then went down into the basin of the pond in search of a
relic of some kind, a little skeleton of a dead fish, or anything, no
matter what. There was nothing to be found, though—absolutely nothing.
We had to return on all fours, as we came. I made Jarrett go first, and
the sight of his big back in his fur coat and of him walking on hands
and feet, grumbling and swearing as he went, gave me such delight that I
no longer regretted anything, and I gave ten dollars to the guide for
his ineffable surprise.

We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweller had been
waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweller!” I exclaimed; “but I
have no intention of buying any jewellery. I have too much as it is.”
Jarrett, however, winked at Abbey, who was there as we entered. I saw at
once that there was some understanding between the jeweller and my two
_impresarii_. I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the
jeweller would undertake to make them look like new, repair them if they
required it, and in a word exhibit them. I rebelled, but it was of no
use. Jarrett assured me that the ladies of St. Louis were particularly
fond of shows of this kind. He said it would be an excellent
advertisement; that my jewellery was very much tarnished, that several
stones were missing, and that this man would replace them for nothing.
“What a saving!” he added. “Just think of it!”

I gave up, for discussions of that kind bore me to death, and two days
later the ladies of St. Louis went to admire my ornaments in this
jeweller’s show-cases under a blaze of light. Poor Madame Guérard, who
also went to see them, came back horrified.

“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs of ear-rings,
two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette studded with diamonds and
rubies, a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises; a small pipe, the
amber mouthpiece of which is encircled with diamond stars; sixteen
bracelets, a tooth-pick studded with sapphires, a pair of spectacles
with gold mounts ending with small acorns of pearls.

“They must have been made specially,” said poor Guérard, “for there
can’t be any one who would wear such glasses, and, on them were written
the words, ‘Spectacles which Madame Sarah Bernhardt wears when she is at
home.’”

I certainly thought that this was exceeding all the limits allowed to
advertisement. To make me smoke pipes and wear spectacles was going
rather too far, and I got into my carriage and drove at once to the
jeweller’s. I arrived just in time to find the place closed. It was five
o’clock on Saturday afternoon; the lights were out, and everything was
dark and silent. I returned to the hotel, and spoke to Jarrett of my
annoyance. “What does it all matter, Madame?” he said tranquilly. “So
many girls wear spectacles; and as to the pipe, the jeweller tells me he
has received five orders from it, and that it is going to be quite the
fashion. Anyhow, it is of no use worrying about the matter, as the
exhibition is now over. Your jewellery will be returned to-night, and we
leave here the day after to-morrow.”

That evening the jeweller returned all the objects I had lent him, and
they had been polished and repaired so that they looked quite new. He
had included with them a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises, the
very one that had been on view. I simply could not make that man
understand anything, and my anger cooled down when confronted by his
pleasant manner and his joy.

This advertisement, though, came very near costing me my life. Tempted
by this huge quantity of jewellery, the greater part of which did not
belong to me, a little band of sharpers planned to rob me, believing
that they would find all these valuables in the large hand-bag which my
steward always carried.

On Sunday, January 30, we left St. Louis at eight o’clock in the morning
for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently appointed Pullman car, and I
had requested that the car should be put at the end of our special
train, so that from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the
landscape, which passes before one like a continually changing living
panorama.

We had scarcely been more than ten minutes _en route_ when the guard
suddenly stooped down and looked over the little balcony. He then drew
back quickly, and his face turned pale. Seizing my hand, he said in a
very excited tone in English, “Please go inside, Madame!” I understood
that we were in danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a
sign to another guard, and before the train had quite come to a
standstill the two men sprang down and disappeared under the train.

The guard had fired a revolver in order to attract every one’s
attention, and Jarrett, Abbey, and the artistes hurried out into the
narrow corridor. I found myself in the midst of them, and to our
stupefaction we saw the two guards dragging out from underneath my
compartment a man armed to the teeth. With a revolver held to his temple
on either side, he decided to confess the truth of the matter.

The jeweller’s exhibition had excited the envy of all the gangs of
thieves, and this man had been despatched by an organised band at St.
Louis to relieve me of my jewellery.

He was to unhook my carriage from the rest of the train between St.
Louis and Cincinnati, at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.”

As this was to be done during the night, and as my carriage was the
last, the thing was comparatively easy, since it was only a question of
lifting the enormous hook and drawing it out of the link.

The man, a veritable giant, was fastened on to my carriage. We examined
his apparatus, and found that it merely consisted of very thick wide
straps of leather about half a yard wide. By means of these he was
secured firmly to the underpart of the train, with his hands perfectly
free. The courage and the _sang-froid_ of that man were admirable. He
told us that seven armed men were waiting for us at the Little Incline,
and that they certainly would not have injured us if we had not
attempted to resist, for all they wanted was my jewellery and the money
which the secretary carried (two thousand three hundred dollars). Oh, he
knew everything; he knew every one’s name, and he gabbled on in bad
French, “Oh, as for you, Madame, we should not have done you any harm,
in spite of your pretty little revolver. We should even have let you
keep it.”

And so this man and his gang knew that the secretary slept at my end of
the train, and that he was not to be dreaded much (poor Chatterton!);
that he had with him two thousand three hundred dollars, and that I had
a very prettily chased revolver, ornamented with cats-eyes. The man was
firmly bound and taken in charge by the two guards, and the train was
then backed into St. Louis; we had only started a quarter of an hour
before. The police were informed, and they sent us five detectives. A
goods train which should have departed half an hour before us was sent
on ahead of us. Eight detectives travelled on this goods train, and
received orders to get out at the Little Incline. Our giant was handed
over to the police authorities, but I was promised that he should be
dealt with mercifully on account of the confession he had made. Later on
I learnt that this promise had been kept, as the man was sent back to
his native country, Ireland.

From this time forth my compartment was always placed between two others
every night. In the day-time I was allowed to have my carriage at the
end on condition that I would agree to have on the platform an armed
detective whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. Our dinner
was very gay, and every one was rather excited. As to the guard who had
discovered the giant hidden under the train, Abbey and I had rewarded
him so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and kept coming on every
occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s tears, repeating all
the time, “I saved the French lady; I’m a gentleman.”

When finally we approached the Little Incline, it was dark. The engine-
driver wanted to rush along at full speed, but we had not gone five
miles when crackers exploded under the wheels and we were obliged to
slacken our pace. We wondered what new danger there was awaiting us, and
we began to feel anxious. The women were nervous, and some of them were
in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness, trying to
make out the form of a man or of several men by the light of each
cracker. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these crackers had
been placed along the line by the bandits, who had probably thought of
some way of stopping the train in case their giant did not succeed in
unhooking the carriage. The engine-driver refused to go more quickly,
declaring that these crackers were signals placed there by the railway
company, and that he could not risk every one’s life on a mere
supposition. The man was quite right, and he was certainly very brave.

“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said, “but I could
not answer for any one’s life if the train went off the lines, clashed
into or collided with something, or went over a precipice.”

We continued therefore to go slowly. The lights had been turned off in
the car, so that we might see as much as possible without being seen
ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth from the artistes, except from
three men whom I had sent for to my carriage. The artistes really had
nothing to fear from the robbers, as I was the only person at whom they
were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions and evasive answers, we
sent the secretary to tell them that as there was some obstruction on
the line, the train had to go slowly. They were also told that one of
the gas-pipes had to be repaired before we could have the light again.
The communication was then cut between my car and the rest of the train.
We had been going along like this for ten minutes perhaps when
everything was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a gang of
railway-men hastening towards us. It makes me shudder now when I think
how nearly these poor fellows escaped being killed. Our nerves had been
in such a state of tension for several hours that we imagined at first
that these men were the wretched friends of the giant. Some one fired at
them, and if it had not been for our plucky engine-driver calling out to
them to stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two or three of
these poor men would have been wounded. I too had seized my revolver,
but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which serves as a cog to
prevent it from going off, any one would have had time to seize me, bind
me, and kill me a hundred times over.

And still any time I go to a place where I think there is danger, I
invariably take my pistol with me, for it is a pistol, and not a
revolver. I always call it a revolver, but in reality it is a pistol,
and a very old-fashioned make too, with this ramrod and the trigger so
hard to pull that I have to use my other hand as well. I am not a bad
shot, for a woman, provided that I may take my time, but this is not
very easy when one wants to fire at a robber. And yet I always have my
pistol with me; it is here on my table, and I can see it as I write. It
is in its case, which is rather too narrow, so that it requires a
certain amount of strength and patience to pull it out. If an assassin
should arrive at this particular moment I should first have to unfasten
the case, which is not an easy matter, then to get the pistol out, pull
out the ramrod, which is rather too firm, and press the trigger with
both hands. And yet, in spite of all this, the human animal is so
strange that this ridiculously useless little object here before me
seems to me an admirable protection. And nervous and timid as I am,
alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to this little friend of mine,
who must roar with laughter inside the little case out of which I can
scarcely drag it.

Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train which had
started before us ran off the line, but no great damage was done, and no
one was killed. The St. Louis band of robbers had arranged everything,
and had prepared to have this little accident two miles from the Little
Incline, in case their comrade crouching under my car had not been able
to unhook it. The train had left the rails, but when the wretches rushed
forward, believing that it was mine, they found themselves surrounded by
the band of detectives. It seems that they fought like demons. One of
them was killed on the spot, two more wounded, and the remainder taken
prisoners. A few days later the chief of this little band was hanged. He
was a Belgian, named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five years of age.

I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that
unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan.

If Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if they
had not added more than six hundred thousand francs’ worth of jewellery
to mine, this man, this wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the
stupid idea of robbing me. Who can say what schemes had floated through
the mind of the poor fellow, who was perhaps half-starved, or perhaps
excited by a clever, inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped and looked
at the jeweller’s window he said to himself: “There is jewellery there
worth a million francs. If it were all mine I would sell it and go back
to Belgium. What joy I could give to my poor mother, who is blinding
herself with work by gaslight, and I could help my sister to get
married.” Or perhaps he was an inventor, and he thought to himself: “Ah,
if only I had the money which that jewellery represents I could bring
out my invention myself, instead of selling my patent to some highly
esteemed rascal, who will buy it from me for a crust of bread. What
would it matter to the artiste. Ah, if only I had the money!” Ah, if I
had the money!—perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all
this wealth belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime
germinated in this way in a mind which had hitherto been pure. Ah, who
can tell to what hope may give birth in a young mind? At first it may be
only a beautiful dream, but this may end in a mad desire to realise the
dream. To steal the goods of another person is certainly not right, but
this should not be punished by death—it certainly should not. To kill a
man of twenty-five years of age is a much greater crime than to steal
jewellery even by force, and a society which bands together in order to
wield the sword of Justice is much more cowardly when it kills than the
man who robs and kills quite alone, at his own risk and peril. Oh, what
tears I wept for that man, whom I did not know at all—who was a rascal
or perhaps a hero! He was perhaps a man of weak intellect who had turned
thief, but he was only twenty-five years of age, and he had a right to
live.

How I hate capital punishment! It is a relic of cowardly barbarism, and
it is a disgrace for civilised countries still to have their guillotines
and scaffolds. Every human being has a moment when his heart is easily
touched, when the tears of grief will flow; and those tears may
fecundate a generous thought which might lead to repentance.

I would not for the whole world be one of those who condemn a man to
death. And yet many of them are good, upright men, who when they return
to their families are affectionate to their wives, and reprove their
children for breaking a doll’s head.

I have seen four executions, one in London, one in Spain, and two in
Paris.

In London the method is hanging, and this seems to me more hideous, more
repugnant, more weird than any other death. The victim was a young man
of about thirty, with a strong, self-willed looking face. I only saw him
a second, and he shrugged his shoulders as he glanced at me, his eyes
expressing his contempt for my curiosity. At that moment I felt that
individual’s ideas were very much superior to mine, and the condemned
man seemed to me greater than all who were there. It was, perhaps,
because he was nearer than we all were to the great mystery. I can see
him now smile as they covered his face with the hood, while, as for me,
I rushed away completely upset.

In Madrid I saw a man garrotted, and the barbarity of this torture
terrified me for weeks after. He was accused of having killed his
mother, but no real proof seemed to have been brought forward against
the wretched man. And he cried out, when they were holding him down on
his seat before putting the garrotte on him, “Mother, I shall soon be
with you, and you will tell them all, in my presence, that they have
lied.”

These words were uttered in Spanish, in a voice that vibrated with
earnestness. They were translated for me by an _attaché_ to the British
Embassy, with whom I had gone to see the hideous sight. The wretched man
cried out in such a sincere, heartrending tone of voice that it was
impossible for him not to have been innocent, and this was the opinion
of all those who were with me.

The two other executions which I witnessed were at the Place de la
Roquette, Paris. The first was that of a young medical student, who with
the help of one of his friends had killed an old woman who sold
newspapers. It was a stupid, odious crime, but the man was more mad than
criminal. He was more than ordinarily intelligent, and had passed his
examinations at an earlier age than is usual. He had worked too hard,
and it had affected his brain. He ought to have been allowed to rest, to
have been treated as an invalid, cured in mind and body, and then
returned to his scientific pursuits. He was a young man quite above the
average as regards intellect. I can see him now, pale and haggard, with
a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, an expression of infinite sadness.
I know, of course, that he had killed a poor, defenceless old woman.
That was certainly odious, but he was only twenty-three years old, and
his mind was disordered through study and overwork, too much ambition,
and the habit of cutting off arms and legs and dissecting the dead
bodies of women and children. All this does not excuse the man’s
abominable deed, but it had all contributed to unhinge his moral sense,
which was perhaps already in a wavering state, thanks to study, poverty,
or atavism. I consider that a crime of high treason against humanity was
committed in taking the life of a man of intellect, who, when once he
had recovered his reason, might have rendered great service to science
and to humanity.

The last execution at which I was present was that of Vaillant, the
anarchist. He was an energetic man, and at the same time mild and
gentle, with very advanced ideas, but not much more advanced than those
of men who have since risen to power.

My theatre at that time was the Renaissance, and he often applied to me
for free seats, as he was too poor to pay for the luxuries of art. Ah,
poverty, what a sorry counsellor art thou, and how tolerant we ought to
be to those who have to endure misery!

One day Vaillant came to see me in my dressing-room at the theatre. I
was playing Lorenzaccio, and he said to me: “Ah, that Florentine was an
anarchist just as I am, but he killed the tyrant and not tyranny. That
is not the way I shall go to work.”

A few days later he threw a bomb in a public building, the Chamber of
Deputies. The poor fellow was not as successful as the Florentine, whom
he seemed to despise, for he did not kill any one, and did no real harm
except to his own cause.

I said I should like to know when he was to be executed, and the night
before, a friend of mine came to the theatre and told me that the
execution was to take place the following day, Monday, at seven in the
morning.

I started after the performance, and went to the Rue Merlin, at the
corner of the Rue de la Roquette. The streets were still very animated,
as that Sunday was Dimanche Gras (Shrove Sunday). People were singing,
laughing, and dancing everywhere. I waited all night, and as I was not
allowed to enter the prison, I sat on the balcony of a first floor flat
which I had engaged. The cold darkness of the night in its immensity
seemed to enwrap me in sadness. I did not feel the cold, for my blood
was flowing rapidly through my veins. The hours passed slowly, the hours
which rang out in the distance, _L’heure est morte. Vive l’heure!_ I
heard a vague, muffled sound of footsteps, whispering, and of wood which
creaked heavily, but I did not know what these strange, mysterious
sounds were until day began to break. I saw that the scaffold was there.
A man came to extinguish the lamps on the Place de la Roquette, and an
anæmic-looking sky spread its pale light over us. The crowd began to
collect gradually, but remained in compact groups, and circulation in
the streets was interrupted. Every now and then a man, looking quite
indifferent, but evidently in a hurry, pushed aside the crowd, presented
a card to a policeman, and then disappeared under the porch of the
prison. I counted more than ten of these men: they were journalists.
Presently the military guard appeared suddenly on the spot, and took up
its position around the melancholy-looking pedestal. The usual number of
the guard had been doubled for this occasion, as some anarchist plot was
feared. On a given signal swords were drawn and the prison door opened.

Vaillant appeared, looking very pale, but energetic and brave. He cried
out in a manly voice, with perfect assurance, “_Vive l’anarchie!_” There
was not a single cry in response to his. He was seized and thrown back
over the slab. The knife fell with a muffled sound. The body tottered,
and in a second the scaffold was taken away, the place swept; the crowds
were allowed to move. They rushed forward to the place of execution,
gazing down on the ground for a spot of blood which was not to be seen,
sniffing in the air for any odour of the drama which had just been
enacted.

There were women, children, old men, all joking there on the very spot
where a man had just expired in the most supreme agony. And that man had
made himself the apostle of this populace; that man had claimed for this
teeming crowd all kinds of liberties, all kinds of privileges and
rights.

I was thickly veiled so that I could not be recognised, and accompanied
by a friend as escort.

I mingled with the crowd, and it made me sick at heart and desperate.
There was not a word of gratitude to this man, not a murmur of vengeance
nor of revolt.

I felt inclined to cry out: “Brutes that you are! Kneel down and kiss
the stones that the blood of this poor madman has stained for your
sakes, for you, because he believed in you.”

But before I had time for this a street urchin was calling out, “Buy the
last moments of Vaillant! Buy, buy!”

Oh, poor Vaillant! His headless body was then being taken to Clamart,
and the crowds for whom he had wept, worked, and died were now going
quietly away, indifferent and bored. Poor Vaillant! His ideas were
exaggerated ones, but they were generous.




                                 XXXVII
 NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA


We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances
there, and set off once more for New Orleans.

Now, I thought, we shall have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm
our poor limbs, which were stiffened with three months of mortal cold.
We shall be able to open our windows and breathe fresh air instead of
the suffocating and anæmia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep, and dreams
of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock roused me
suddenly, and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did
not growl, I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door, and
Jarrett, followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came
in on tip-toe, and closed the door again.

“Well, what is it now?” I asked.

“Why,” replied Jarrett, “the incessant rain during the last twelve days
has swollen the water to such a height that the bridge of boats across
the bay here is liable to give way under the terrible pressure of the
water. Do you hear the awful storm of wind that is now blowing? If we go
back by the other route it will require three or four days.”

I was furious. Three or four days, and to go back to the snow again! Ah
no! I felt I must have sunshine.

“Why can we not pass? Oh, Heavens! what shall we do?” I exclaimed.

“Well, the engine-driver is here. He thinks that he might get across;
but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition
that you give him two thousand five hundred dollars, which he will at
once send to Mobile, where his father and wife live. If we get safely to
the other side he will give you back this money, but if not it will
belong to his family.”

I must confess that I was stupefied with admiration for this plucky man.
His daring excited me, and I exclaimed:

“Yes, certainly. Give him the money, and let us cross.”

As I have said, I generally travelled by special train. This one was
made up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a
moment as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did
not tell any one about it except my sister, my beloved Guérard, and my
faithful Félicie and her husband Claude. The comedian Angelo, who was
sleeping in Jarrett’s berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was
courageous, and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the
engine-driver, who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were
actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had
taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of
thirty-two persons. It was too late then to do anything: the train had
started, and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge of boats. I had
taken my seat on the platform, and the bridge bent and swayed like a
hammock under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way
across it gave way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered,
“Ah, we are drowning!” She closed her eyes and clutched me nervously,
but was quite brave. I certainly imagined as she did that the supreme
moment had arrived; and abominable as it was, I never for a second
thought of all those who were full of confidence and life, whom I was
sacrificing, whom I was killing. My only thought was of a dear little
face which would soon be in mourning for me. And to think that we take
about within us our most terrible enemy, thought, and that it is
continually at variance with our deeds. It rises up at times, terrible,
perfidious, and we try to drive it away without success. We do not,
thanks to God, invariably obey it; but it pursues us, torments us, makes
us suffer. How often the most evil thoughts assail us, and what battles
we have to fight in order to drive away these children of our brain!
Anger, ambition, revenge give birth to the most detestable thoughts,
which make us blush with shame as we should at some horrible blemish.
And yet they are not ours, for we have not evoked them; but they defile
us nevertheless, and leave us in despair at not being masters of our own
heart, mind, and body.

My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the book of
destiny. The train pulled itself together, and, half leaping and half
rolling along, we arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we
heard a terrible noise, a column of water falling back like a huge
sheaf. The bridge had given way! For more than a week the trains from
the east and the north could not run over this route.

I left the money to our brave engine-driver, but my conscience was by no
means tranquil, and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most
frightful nightmares; and when any of the artistes spoke to me of their
child, their mother, or their husband, whom they longed to see once
more, I felt myself turn pale; a thrill of deep emotion went through me,
and I had the deepest pity for my own self.

When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive from
retrospective emotion. I had to submit to receiving a most friendly
though fatiguing deputation of my compatriots. Then, loaded with
flowers, I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel.
The roads were rivers, and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part
of the city, the coachman explained to us in French, with a strong
Marseilles accent, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. Hundreds
of negroes had been drowned. “Ah, _bagasse_!” he cried, as he whipped up
his horses.

At that period the hotels in New Orleans were squalid—dirty,
uncomfortable, black with cockroaches, and as soon as the candles were
lighted the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed
round and fell on one’s shoulder, sticking in one’s hair. Oh, I shudder
still when I think of it!

At the same time as our company, there was at New Orleans an opera
company, the “star” of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at
one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The country was poor,
like all the other American districts where the French were to be found
preponderating.

The opera did very poor business, and we did not do excellently either.
Six performances would have been ample in that city: we gave eight.

Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely.

An infinite charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different,
black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The
shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their windows. The open-
air traders under the arcades challenged one another with joyful flashes
of wit. The sun, however, did not show itself once. But these people had
the sun within themselves.

I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up
to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a
carriage if the pavements had not been a metre high and occasionally
more.

Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use to think of
banking up the river or arm of the sea. But circulation was made easy by
the high pavements and small movable bridges. The dark children amused
themselves catching cray-fish in the streams. (Where did they come
from?) And they sold them to passers-by.

Now and again we would see a whole family of water serpents speed by.
They swept along, with raised head and undulating body, like long starry
sapphires.

I went down towards the lower part of the town. The sight was
heartrending. All the cabins of the coloured inhabitants had fallen into
the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds, squatting upon these
moving wrecks, with eyes burning from fever. Their white teeth chattered
with hunger. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies with swollen
stomachs floating about, knocking up against the wooden piles. Many
ladies were distributing food, endeavouring to lead away these
unfortunate creatures. No. They would stay where they were. With a
blissful smile they would reply, “The water go away. House be found. Me
begin again.” And the women would slowly nod their heads in token of
assent. Several alligators had shown themselves, brought up by the tide.
Two children had disappeared.

One child of fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the
hospital with his foot cut clean off at the ankle by one of these marine
monsters. His family were howling with fury. They wished to keep the
youngster with them. The negro quack doctor pretended that he could have
cured him in two days, and that the white “quacks” would leave him for a
month in bed.

I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city I had
visited up to then. We were really surprised to find that none of our
party were missing—they had gone through, so they said, various dangers.
The hairdresser alone, a man called Ibé, could not recover his
equilibrium, having become half mad from fear the second day of our
arrival. At the theatre he generally slept in the trunk in which he
stored his wigs. However strange it may seem, the fact is quite true.
The first night everything passed off as usual, but during the second
night he woke up the whole neighbourhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate
fellow had got off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that
his mattress, which lay suspended over his collection of wigs, was being
raised by some inconceivable movements. He thought that some cat or dog
had got into the trunk, and he lifted up the feeble rampart. Two
serpents were either quarrelling or making love to each other—he could
not say which; two serpents of a size sufficient to terrify the people
whom the shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round.

He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the boat that was
to take us to our train. I called him, and begged he would relate to me
the Odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he pointed to
his big leg: “They were as thick as that, Madame. Yes, like that——” And
he quaked with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the reptiles. I
thought that they were about one quarter as thick as his leg, and that
would have been enough to justify his fright, for the serpents in
question were not inoffensive water-snakes that bite out of pure
viciousness, but have no venom fangs.

We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day.

We had stopped at that city on our way to New Orleans, and I had had a
real attack of nerves caused by the “cheek” of the inhabitants, who, in
spite of the lateness of the hour, had got up a deputation to wait upon
me. I was dead with fatigue, and was dropping off to sleep in my bed in
the car. I therefore energetically declined to see anybody. But these
people knocked at my windows, sang round about my carriage, and finally
exasperated me. I quickly threw up one of the windows and emptied a jug
of water on their heads. Women and men, amongst whom were several
journalists, were inundated. Their fury was great.

I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story, embellished
in their favour by the drenched reporters. But on the other hand, there
were others who had been more courteous, and had refused to go and
disturb a lady at such an unearthly hour of the night. These latter were
in the majority, and took up my defence.

It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared before the
public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the good opinion of my
defenders and confound my detractors.

Yes, but a sprite who had decided otherwise was there.

Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_.
There was only one theatre. It had been let to the tragedian Barrett,
who was to appear six days after me. All that remained was a miserable
place, so small that I know of nothing that can be compared to it. We
were playing _La Dame aux Camélias_. When Marguerite Gautier orders
supper to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table ready
laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was impossible.
Nothing could be more comical than to see those unfortunate servants
adopt every expedient.

The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators was one that
became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen, who had got in somehow,
was standing on a chair, and with his two hands holding on to his knees,
his body bent, head forward, mouth open, he was laughing with such a
shrill and piercing tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught
it too. I had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being
removed to allow the table to be brought in.

I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination of
suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table, and the supper was
drawing to a close as usual. But just as the servants were entering to
remove the table, one of them caught the scenery, which had been badly
adjusted by the scene-shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene
fell on our heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those
days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round our
necks, and we had to remain in that position without being able to move.
Our heads having gone through the paper, our appearance was most comical
and ridiculous. The young nigger’s laughter started again more piercing
than ever, and this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that
left me without any strength.

The money paid for admission was returned to the public. It exceeded
fifteen thousand francs.

This city was an unlucky one for me, and came very near proving fatal
during the third visit I paid to it, as I will narrate in the second
volume of these Memoirs.

That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after playing _La
Dame aux Camélias_, we left again the same evening for Nashville.

We stayed an entire day at Memphis, and gave two performances there.

At one in the morning we left for Louisville. During the journey from
Memphis to Louisville we were awakened by the sound of a fight, by oaths
and cries. I opened the door of my railway carriage, and recognised the
voices. Jarrett came out at the same time. We went towards the spot
whence the noise came—to the small platform, where the two combatants,
Captain Hayné and Marcus Mayer, were fighting with revolvers in their
hands. Marcus Mayer’s eye was out of its orbit, and blood covered the
face of Captain Hayné. I threw myself without a moment’s reflection
between the two madmen, who, with that brutal but delightful courtesy of
North Americans, stopped their fight.

We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns, arriving at
three, four, and sometimes six o’clock in the evening, and leaving
immediately after the play. I only left my car to go to the theatre, and
returned as soon as the play was over to retire to my elegant but
diminutive bedroom. I sleep well on the railway. I felt an immense
pleasure travelling in that way at high speed, sitting outside on the
small platform, or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the
ever-changing spectacle of American plains and forests that passed
before me. Without stopping we went through Louisville, Cincinnati for
the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph, where one
gets the best beer in the world, and where, when I was obliged to go to
an hotel on account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car, a
drunken dancer at a big ball given in the hotel seized me in the
corridor leading to my room. This brutal fellow caught hold of me just
as I was getting out of the elevator, and dragged me off with cries like
those of a wild animal finding its prey after five days of enforced
hunger. My dog, mad with excitement on hearing me scream, bit his legs
severely, and that aroused the drunken man to the point of fury. It was
with the greatest difficulty that I was delivered from the clutches of
this demoniac. Supper was served. What a supper! Fortunately the beer
was light both in colour and consistency, and enabled me to swallow the
dreadful things that were served up.

The ball lasted all night, accompanied by revolver shots.

We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield, but not the Springfield in
Massachusetts—the one in Illinois.

During the journey from Springfield to Chicago we were stopped by the
snow in the middle of the night.

The sharp and deep groanings of the locomotive had already awakened me.
I summoned my faithful Claude, and learned that we were to stop and wait
for help.

Aided by my Félicie, I dressed in haste and tried to descend, but it was
impossible. The snow was as high as the platform of the car. I remained
wrapped up in furs, contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was
hard, implacable, without a star, but all the same translucid. Lights
extended as far as the eye could see along the rails before me, for I
had taken refuge on the rear platform. These lights were to warn the
trains that followed. Four of these came up, and stopped when the first
fog-signals went off beneath their wheels, then crept slowly forward to
the first light, where a man who was stationed there explained the
incident. The same lights were lit immediately for the following train,
as far off as possible, and a man, proceeding beyond the lights, placed
detonators on the metals. Each train that arrived followed that course.

We were blocked by the snow. The idea came to me of lighting the kitchen
fire, and I thus got sufficient boiling water to melt the top coating of
snow on the side where I wanted to alight. Having done this, Claude and
our coloured servants got down and cleared away a small portion as well
as they could.

I was at last able to descend myself, and I tried to remove the snow to
one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each other,
and the _melée_ became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary, and
several of the artistes joined in, and we were warmed by this small
battle with white cannon-balls.

When dawn appeared we were to be seen firing a revolver and Colt rifle
at a target made from a champagne case. A distant sound, deadened by the
cotton-wool of the snow, at length made us realise that help was
approaching. As a matter of fact, two engines, with men who had shovels,
hooks, and spades, were coming at full speed from the opposite
direction. They were obliged to slow down on getting to within one
kilometre of where we were, and the men began clearing the way before
them. They finally succeeded in reaching us, but we were obliged to go
back and take the western route. The unfortunate artistes, who had
counted on getting breakfast in Chicago, which we ought to have reached
at eleven o’clock, were lamenting, for with the new itinerary that we
were forced to follow we could not reach Milwaukee before half-past one.
There we were to give a _matinée_ at two o’clock—_La Dame aux Camélias_.
I therefore had the best lunch I could get prepared, and my servants
carried it to my company, the members of which showed themselves very
grateful.

The performance only began at three, and finished at half-past six
o’clock; we started again at eight with _Froufrou_.

Immediately after the play we left for Grand Rapids, Detroit, Cleveland,
and Pittsburg, in which latter city I was to meet an American friend of
mine who was to help me to realise one of my dreams—at least, I fancied
so. In partnership with his brother, my friend was the owner of large
steel works and several petroleum wells. I had known him in Paris, and
had met him again at New York, where he offered to conduct me to
Buffalo, so that I could visit or rather he could initiate me into the
Falls of Niagara, for which he entertained a lover’s passion. Frequently
he would start off quite unexpectedly like a madman and take a rest at a
place just near the Niagara Falls. The deafening sound of the cataracts
seemed like music after the hard, hammering, strident noise of the
forges at work on the iron, and the limpidity of the silvery cascades
rested his eyes and refreshed his lungs, saturated as they were with
petroleum and smoke.

My friend’s buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, took us along in a
bewildering whirlwind of mud splashing over us and snow blinding us. It
had been raining for a week, and Pittsburg in 1881 was not what it is at
present, although it was a city which impressed one on account of its
commercial genius. The black mud ran along the streets, and everywhere
in the sky rose huge patches of thick, black, opaque smoke; but there
was a certain grandeur about it all, for work was king there. Trains ran
through the streets laden with barrels of petroleum or piled as high as
possible with charcoal and coal. That fine river, the Ohio, carried
along with it steamers, barges, loads of timber fastened together and
forming enormous rafts, which floated down the river alone, to be
stopped on the way by the owner for whom they were destined. The timber
is marked, and no one else thinks of taking it. I am told that the wood
is not conveyed in this way now, which is a pity.

The carriage took us along through streets and squares in the midst of
railways, under the enervating vibration of the electric wires, which
ran like furrows across the sky. We crossed a bridge which shook under
the light weight of the buggy. It was a suspension bridge. Finally we
drew up at my friend’s home. He introduced his brother to me, a charming
man, but very cold and correct, and so quiet that I was astonished.

“My poor brother is deaf,” said my companion, after I had been exerting
myself for five minutes to talk to him in my gentlest voice. I looked at
this poor millionaire, who was living in the most extraordinary noise,
and who could not hear even the faintest echo of the outrageous uproar.
He could not hear anything at all, and I wondered whether he was to be
envied or pitied. I was then taken to visit his incandescent ovens and
his vats in a state of ebullition. I went into a room where some steel
discs were cooling, which looked like so many setting suns.

The heat from them seemed to scorch my lungs, and I felt as though my
hair would take fire.

We then went down a long, narrow road through which small trains were
running to and fro. Some of those trains were laden with incandescent
metals which made the atmosphere iridescent as they passed. We walked in
single file along the narrow passage reserved for foot passengers
between the rails. I did not feel at all safe, and my heart began to
beat fast. Blown first one way then the other by the wind from the two
trains coming in opposite directions and passing each other, I drew my
skirts closely round me so that they should not be caught. Perched on my
high heels, at every step I took I was afraid of slipping on this
narrow, greasy, coal-strewn pavement.

To sum up briefly, it was a very unpleasant moment, and very delighted I
was to come to the end of that interminable street, which led to an
enormous field stretching away as far as the eye could see. There were
rails lying all about here, which men were polishing and filing, &c. I
had had quite enough, though, and I asked to be allowed to go back and
rest. So we all three returned to the house.

On arriving there, valets arrayed in livery opened the doors, took our
furs, walking on tip-toe as they moved about. There was silence
everywhere, and I wondered why, as it seemed to me incomprehensible. My
friend’s brother scarcely spoke at all, and when he did his voice was so
low that I had great difficulty in understanding him. When we asked him
any question by gesticulating we had to listen most attentively to catch
his reply, and I noticed that an almost imperceptible smile lighted up
for an instant his stony face. I understood very soon that this man
hated humanity, and that he avenged himself in his own way for his
infirmity.

Lunch had been prepared for us in the winter conservatory, a nook of
magnificent verdure and flowers. We had just taken our seats at the
table when the songs of a thousand birds burst forth like a veritable
fanfare. Underneath some large leaves, whole families of canaries were
imprisoned by invisible nets. They were everywhere, up in the air, down
below, under my chair, on the table behind me, all over the place. I
tried to quiet this shrill uproar by shaking my napkin and speaking in a
loud voice, but the little feathered tribe began to sing in a maddening
way. The deaf man was leaning back in a rocking-chair, and I noticed
that his face had lighted up. He laughed aloud in an evil, spiteful
manner. Just as my own temper was getting the better of me a feeling of
pity and indulgence came into my heart for this man, whose vengeance
seemed to me as pathetic as it was puerile. Promptly deciding to make
the best of my host’s spitefulness, and assisted by his brother, I took
my tea into the hall at the other end of the conservatory. I was nearly
dead with fatigue, and when my friend proposed that I should go with him
to see his petroleum wells, a few miles out of the city, I gazed at him
with such a scared, hopeless expression that he begged me in the most
friendly and polite way to forgive him.

It was five o’clock and quite dusk, and I wanted to go back to my hotel.
My host asked if I would allow him to take me back by the hills. The
road was rather longer, but I should be able to have a bird’s eye view
of Pittsburg, and he assured me that it was quite worth while. We
started off in the buggy with two fresh horses, and a few minutes later
I had the wildest dream. It seemed to me that he was Pluto, the god of
the infernal regions, and I was Proserpine. We were travelling through
our empire at a quick trot, drawn by our winged horses. All round us we
could see fire and flames. The blood-red sky was blurred with long black
trails that looked like widows’ veils. The ground was covered with long
arms of iron stretched heavenwards in a supreme imprecation. These arms
threw forth smoke, flames, or sparks, which fell again in a shower of
stars. The buggy carried us on up the hills, and the cold froze our
limbs while the fires excited our brains. It was then that my friend
told me of his love for the Niagara Falls. He spoke of them more like a
lover than an admirer, and told me he liked to go to them alone. He
said, though, that for me he would make an exception. He spoke of the
rapids with such intense passion that I felt rather uneasy, and began to
wonder whether the man was not mad. I grew alarmed, for he was driving
along over the very verge of the precipice, jumping the stone heaps. I
glanced at him sideways: his face was calm, but his under-lip twitched
slightly; and I had noticed this particularly with his deaf brother,
also.

By this time I was quite nervous. The cold and the fires, this
demoniacal drive, the sound of the anvil ringing out mournful chimes
which seemed to come from under the earth, and then the deep forge
whistle sounding like a desperate cry rending the silence of the night;
the chimney-stacks too, with their worn-out lungs spitting forth their
smoke with a perpetual death-rattle, and the wind which had just risen
twisting the streaks of smoke into spirals which it sent up towards the
sky or beat down all at once on to us, all this wild dance of the
natural and the human elements, affected my whole nervous system so that
it was quite time for me to get back to the hotel. I sprang out of the
carriage quickly on arriving, and arranged to see my friend at Buffalo,
but, alas! I was never to see him again. He took cold that very day, and
could not meet me there; and the following year I heard that he had been
dashed against the rocks when trying to navigate a boat in the rapids.
He died of his passion,—for his passion.

At the hotel all the artistes were awaiting me, as I had forgotten we
were to have a rehearsal of _La Princesse Georges_ at half-past four. I
noticed a face that was unknown to me among the members of our company,
and on making inquiries about this person found that he was an
illustrator who had come with an introduction from Jarrett. He asked to
be allowed to make a few sketches of me, and after giving orders that he
should be taken to a seat, I did not trouble any more about him. We had
to hurry through the rehearsal in order to be at the theatre in time for
the performance of _Froufrou_, which we were giving that night. The
rehearsal was accordingly rushed and gabbled through, so that it was
soon over, and the stranger took his departure, refusing to let me look
at his sketches on the plea that he wanted to touch them up before
showing them. My joy was great the following day when Jarrett arrived at
my hotel perfectly furious, holding in his hand the principal newspaper
of Pittsburg, in which our illustrator, who turned out to be a
journalist, had written an article giving at full length an account of
the dress rehearsal of _Froufrou_! “In the play of _Froufrou_,” wrote
this delightful imbecile, “there is only one scene of any importance,
and that is the one between the two sisters. Madame Sarah Bernhardt did
not impress me greatly, and as to the artistes of the Comédie Française,
I considered they were mediocre. The costumes were not very fine, and in
the ball scene the men did not wear dress suits.”

Jarrett was wild with rage and I was wild with joy. He knew my horror of
reporters, and he had introduced this one in an underhand way, hoping to
get a good advertisement out of it. The journalist imagined that we were
having a dress rehearsal of _Froufrou_, and we were merely rehearsing
Alexandre Dumas’s _Princesse Georges_ for the sake of refreshing our
memory. He had mistaken the scene between Princesse Georges and the
Comtesse de Terremonde for the scene in the third act between the two
sisters in _Froufrou_. We were all of us wearing our travelling
costumes, and he was surprised at not seeing the men in dress coats and
the women in evening dress. What fun this was for our company and for
all the town, and I may add what a subject it furnished for the jokes of
all the rival newspapers.

I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on to Bradford, Erie,
Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo on Sunday. It was my intention to give
all the members of my company a day’s outing at Niagara Falls, but Abbey
too wanted to invite them. We had a discussion on the subject, and it
was extremely animated. He was very dictatorial, and so was I, and we
both preferred giving the whole thing up rather than yield to each
other. Jarrett, however, pointed out the fact to us that this course
would deprive the artistes of a little festivity about which they heard
a great deal and to which they were looking forward. We therefore gave
in finally, and in order to settle the matter we agreed to share the
outlay between us. The artistes accepted our invitation with the most
charming good grace, and we took the train for Buffalo, where we arrived
at ten minutes past six in the morning. We had telegraphed beforehand
for carriages and coffee to be in readiness, and to have food provided
for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to arrive on a
Sunday in such towns as these without giving notice of such an event. We
had a special train going at full speed over the lines, which were
entirely clear on Sundays, and it was decorated with festoons of
flowers. The younger artistes were as delighted as children; those who
had already seen everything before told about it; then there was the
eloquence of those who had heard of it, &c. &c.; and all this, together
with the little bouquets of flowers distributed among the women and the
cigars and cigarettes presented to the men, made every one good-
humoured, so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met our train
and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre, which had been kept open for us.
There were flowers everywhere, and any number of small tables upon which
were coffee, chocolate, or tea. Every table was soon surrounded with
guests. I had my sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal artistes at
my table. The meal was of short duration and very gay and animated. We
then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour on the balcony
hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with tears as I stood there,
for I was deeply moved by the splendour of the sight. A radiant sun made
the air around us iridescent. There were rainbows everywhere, lighting
up the atmosphere with their soft silvery colours. The pendants of hard
ice hanging down along the rocks on each side looked like enormous
jewels. I was sorry to leave this balcony. We went down in narrow cages
which glided gently into a tube arranged in the cleft of the enormous
rock. We arrived in this way under the American Falls. They were there
almost over our heads, sprinkling us with their blue, pink, and mauve
drops. In front of us, protecting us from the Falls, was a heap of
icicles forming quite a little mountain. We climbed over this to the
best of our ability. My heavy fur mantle tired me, and about half way
down I took it off and let it slip over the side of the ice mountain, to
take it again when I reached the bottom. I was wearing a dress of white
cloth with a satin blouse, and every one screamed with surprise on
seeing me. Abbey took off his overcoat and threw it over my shoulders. I
shook this off quickly, and Abbey’s coat went to join my fur cloak
below. The poor _impresario’s_ face looked very blank. As he had taken a
fair number of cocktails, he staggered, fell down on the ice, got up,
and immediately fell again, to the amusement of every one. I was not at
all cold, as I never am when out of doors. I only feel the cold inside
houses when I am inactive.

Finally we arrived at the highest point of the ice, and the cataract was
really most threatening. We were covered by the impalpable mist; which
rises in the midst of the tumultuous noise. I gazed at it all,
bewildered and fascinated by the rapid movement of the water, which
looked like a wide curtain of silver, unfolding itself to be dashed
violently into a rebounding, splashing heap with a noise unlike any
sound I had ever heard. I very easily turn dizzy, and I know very well
that if I had been alone I should have remained there for ever with my
eyes fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed, my mind
lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed by the treacherous
cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged away, but I am soon myself
again when confronted by an obstacle.

We had to go down again, and this was not as easy as it had been to
climb up. I took the walking-stick belonging to one of my friends, and
then sat down on the ice. By putting the stick under my legs I was able
to slide down to the bottom. All the others imitated me, and it was a
comical sight to see thirty-two people descending the ice-hill in this
way. There were several somersaults and collisions, and plenty of
laughter. A quarter of an hour later we were all at the hotel, where
luncheon had been ordered.

We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel, and the meal
smelt good. When luncheon was over the landlord of the hotel asked me to
go into a small drawing-room, where a surprise awaited me. On entering I
saw on a table, protected under a long glass box, the Niagara Falls in
miniature, with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass
represented the sheet of water, and glass threads represented the Falls.
Here and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing up on a
little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It was enough to
make any one howl with horror, for it was all so hideous. I managed to
raise a broad smile for the benefit of the hotel keeper by way of
congratulating him on his good taste, but I was petrified on recognising
the man-servant of my friends the Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had
sent this monstrous caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world.

I read the letter which their domestic handed me, and all my disdain
melted away. They had gone to so much trouble in order to explain what
they wanted me to understand, and they were so delighted at the idea of
giving me any pleasure.

I dismissed the valet, after giving him a letter for his masters, and I
asked the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris, packed
carefully. I hoped that it might arrive in fragments.

The thought of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s
passion for the Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a gift.
Whilst admitting that his imaginative mind might have hoped to be able
to carry out his idea, how was it that he was not indignant at the sight
of this grotesque imitation? How had he dared to send it to me? How was
it that my friend loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their
marvellous grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory of
him a hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them, tossed about in
their waters, killed by their caresses; and I cannot think that he could
ever have seen how beautiful they really were. Fortunately I was called
away, as the carriage was there and every one waiting for me. The horses
started off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’
horses.

When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground and array
ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes. We looked like so many heavy,
dumpy sailors who were wearing these garments for the first time. There
were two large cells to shelter us, one for the women and the other for
the men. Every one undressed more or less in the midst of wild
confusion, and making a little package of our clothes, we gave this into
the keeping of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh hood drawn
tightly under the chin, hiding the hair entirely, an enormous blouse
much too wide covering the whole body, fur boots with roughed soles to
avoid broken legs and heads, and immense mackintosh breeches in zouave
style, the prettiest and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a
huge, cumbersome, awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry in the
hand completed this becoming costume. I looked more ridiculous than the
others, for I would not cover my hair, and in the most pretentious way I
had fastened some roses into my mackintosh blouse. The women went into
raptures on seeing me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed.
“She always finds a way to be _chic, quand-même!_” The men kissed my
bear’s paw in the most gallant way, bowing low and saying in low tones:
“Always and _quand-même_ the queen, the fairy, the goddess, the
divinity,” &c. &c. And I went along, purring with content and quite
satisfied with myself, until, as I passed by the counter where the girl
who gives the tickets was sitting, I caught sight of myself in the
glass. I looked enormous and ridiculous with my roses pinned in, and the
curly locks of hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I appeared
to be stouter than all the others, because of the silver belt I was
wearing round my waist, as this drew up the hard folds of the mackintosh
round my hips. My thin face was nearly covered by my hair, which was
flattened down by my hood. My eyes could not be seen, and only my mouth
served to show that this barrel was a human being. Furious with myself
for my pretentious coquetry, and ashamed of my own weakness in having
been so content with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people who were
making fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment for my
stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers among us, who nudged
each other, pointing to me and laughing slyly at my absurd get-up, and
this was only what I deserved.

We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice in order to get
underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there was most strange and
extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense cupola of ice hanging over in
space, attached only on one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands
of icicles of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons,
arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with six
fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and women’s long locks
of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination and by fixing the
gaze when looking with half-shut eyes, the illusion is complete, and in
less time than it takes to describe all this one can evoke all the
pictures of nature and of our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a
diseased mind, or the realities of a reflective brain.

In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud and erect,
standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the wind which gnaws the
ice, looking like minarets ready for the muezzin. On the right a cascade
was rushing down as noisily as on the other side, but the sun had
commenced its descent towards the west, and everything was tinged with a
rosy hue. The water splashed over us, and we were suddenly covered with
small silvery waves which when shaken slightly stiffened against our
mackintoshes. It was a shoal of very small fish which had had the
misfortune to be driven into the current, and which had come to die in
the dazzling brilliancy of the setting sun. On the other side there was
a small block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the water.

“I should love to mount on that!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends.

“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible,” I said. “There is only the
risk; the crevice to be covered is not a yard long.”

“No, but it is deep,” remarked an artiste who was with us.

“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog—and if I win I
am to choose my dog—that I go.”

Abbey was fetched immediately, but he only arrived in time to see me on
the block. I came very near falling into the crevice, and when I was on
the back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up. It was as smooth and
transparent as artificial ice. I sat down on its back, holding on to the
little hump, and I declared that if no one came to fetch me I should
stay where I was, as I had not the courage to move a step on this
slippery back; and then, too, it seemed to me as though it moved
slightly. I began to lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had
won my dog. My excitement was over, and I was seized with fright. Every
one gazed at me in a bewildered way, and that increased my terror. My
sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard groaned in a
heartrending way, “Oh heavens, my dear Sarah, oh heavens!” An artist was
making sketches; fortunately the members of our company had gone up
again in order to go and see the Rapids. Abbey besought me to return;
poor Jarrett besought me. But I felt dizzy, and I could not and would
not cross again. Angelo then sprang across the crevice, and remaining
there, called for a plank of wood and a hatchet.

“Bravo! bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my rhinoceros.

The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece of wood, and I
glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into the tail of my
rhinoceros, and the plank was fixed firmly by Angelo on my side and held
by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude on the other side. I let myself slide over
the crupper of my rhinoceros, and I then started, not without terror,
along the rotten plank of wood, which was so narrow that I was obliged
to put one foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned
in a very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the
droll sketches he had taken.

After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train, which had been
waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others had taken their seats some
time before. I was leaving without having seen the rapids in which my
poor Pittsburg friend met his death.




                                XXXVIII
               THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE


Our great voyage was drawing towards its close. I say great voyage, for
it was my first one. It had lasted seven months. The voyages I have
since undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.

From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy,
Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an
admirable city, but one which at that time had a sadness about it that
affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.

After two admirable performances there and a supper at the Embassy, we
left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to
come to a close. In that city I gave a grand professional _matinée_ at
the general demand of the actors and actresses of New York. The piece
chosen was _La Princesse Georges_.

Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was
applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind
of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and
sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair-comb was handed to me, on
which were engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From
Salvini I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at
that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal
bearing a forget-me-not in turquoises. In my dressing-room I counted one
hundred and thirty bouquets.

That evening we gave our last performance with _La Dame aux Camélias_. I
had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.

Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and
bravos I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths, which I did
not in the least understand. After each “call” I asked in the wings what
the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful
sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and
enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him,
abashed. “Yes, they want you to make a little speech.”

“Ah no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on the stage to make a bow. “No.”
And in making my bow to the public I murmured, “I cannot speak. But I
can tell you: Thank you, with all my heart!”

It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip,
hip, hurrah! _Vive la France!_” that I left the theatre.

On Wednesday, May 4, I embarked on the same Trans-atlantic steamer, the
_America_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck.
But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was
Santelli. He was as little and fair-complexioned as his predecessor was
big and dark. But he was as charming, and a nice conversationist.

Commander Jowclas blew his brains out after losing heavily at play.

My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the wood-work had been
covered in sky-blue material. On boarding the steamer I turned towards
the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir!_” they
shouted back.

I then went towards my cabin. Standing at the door, in an elegant iron-
grey suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and dog-skin
gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave a cry like that
of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile, and held out a jewel casket,
which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea through the
open port-hole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of
the casket, which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed, but I
had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out to the man, “Go
away! you knave! you brute! Go away! I hope you will die under atrocious
suffering! Go away!”

I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about
the present. I would not hear anything about it.

“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so
fine, give it to your daughter, and do not speak to me about it any
more.” And he did so.

The evening before my departure from America I had received a long
cablegram, signed Grosos, president of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre,
asking me to give upon my arrival a performance, the proceeds of which
would be distributed among the families of the society of Life Savers. I
accepted with unspeakable joy.

On regaining my native land, I should assist in drying tears.

After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship moved slowly
off, and we left New York on Thursday the 5th of May.

Detesting sea travelling as I usually do, I set out this time with a
light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort
caused by the voyage.

We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the vessel stopped. I
sprang out of my berth, and was soon on deck, fearing some accident to
our _Phantom_, as we had nick-named the ship. In front of us a French
boat had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain,
who had given the replies to these signals, sent for me, and explained
to me the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not
remember anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat
was lowered from the ship opposite us, and two sailors and a young man
very poorly dressed and with a pale face embarked. Our captain had the
steps lowered, the small boat was hailed, and the young man, escorted by
two sailors, came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer
who was waiting at the top of the steps. He read it, and looking at the
young man he said quietly, “Follow me!” The small boat and the sailors
returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the whistle shrieked, and
after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The
unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away, after
asking the captain to tell me later on what was the meaning of it all,
unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.

The captain came himself and told me the little story. The young man was
a poor artist, a wood-engraver, who had managed to slip on to a steamer
bound for New York. He had not a sou of money for his passage, as he had
not even been able to pay for an emigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get
through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds.
He had, however, been taken ill, and it was this illness which had
betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish, he had talked aloud in
his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the
infirmary, and when there he had confessed everything. The captain
undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America.
The story soon spread, and other passengers made a collection, so that
the young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of
twelve hundred francs. Three days later he brought me a little wooden
box, manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now
nearly full of petals of flowers, for every year on May 7 I received a
small bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year
after year, “Gratitude and devotion.” I always put the petals of the
flowers into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not
received any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist
to discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea,
but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness, as
forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human
being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while
death is always present laying traps for us, watching all we do, and
jeering gaily when sleep closes our eyes, for we give it then the
illusion of what it knows will some day be a reality.

Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the
voyage. I spent every night on deck gazing at the horizon, hoping to
draw towards me that land on which were my loved ones. I turned in
towards morning, and slept all day to kill the time.

The steamers in those days did not perform the crossing with the same
speed as they do nowadays. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I
was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to
send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours sleep with
a strong dose of chloral, and I felt stronger and calmer for affronting
the shock of happiness.

Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th.
I was ready, and had been walking up and down distractedly for an hour
when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with
the commander, who was waiting for me.

With my sister I went up in haste, and soon understood from the
embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far
off to hope to make the harbour that night.

I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the
sprite was going to triumph, and I wept those tears that were like a
brook that runs on and on without ceasing.

The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind.
I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limp rags.

I lay down on a deck-chair, and when dawn came was benumbed and sleepy.

It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles from land. The
sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds,
light as snowflakes. The remembrance of my young beloved one gave me
courage again. I ran towards my cabin. I spent a long while over my
toilet in order to kill time.

At seven o’clock I made inquiries of the captain.

“We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.”

“You swear to it?”

“Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I
scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw it
without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear a cry from over
there, over there....

All at once I noticed masses of little white flags being waved on the
small steamer. I got my glasses—and then let them fall with a joyous cry
that left me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak: I
could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened the
people who were about me. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms
towards the distance.

They wanted to make me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the
bulwarks, I smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow
friendly hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence the
vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy! my life! my
everything! dearer than everything!

The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed
between the small and the large ship, a bridge formed of the beatings of
our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for
so many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears,
when the small boats, coming up to the large vessel, allow the impatient
ones to climb up the rope ladders and throw themselves into outstretched
arms.

The _America_ is invaded. Every one is there, my dear and faithful
friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a
delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with
tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One
is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time
our ship is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared, carrying away the
mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats we meet; they are
decked with flags, ploughing the sea. There are a hundred of them. And
more are coming....

“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of
the _Figaro_, who with some friends had come to meet me.

“Oh yes, Madame, a great _fête_ day to-day at Hâvre, for they are
expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago.”

“Is it really in my honour that all these pretty boats have spread their
wings and be-flagged their masts? Ah, how happy I am!” We are now
alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there, who
cry out, “_Vive_ Sarah Bernhardt!”

I was dumfounded. I did not expect any triumphant return. I was well
aware that the performance to be given for the Life Saving Society had
won the hearts of the people of Hâvre, but now I learnt that trains had
come from Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return....

I feel my pulse. It is me. I am not dreaming.

The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent, and an invisible orchestra
strikes up an air from _Le Châlet_, “_Arrêtons-nous ici_.”

I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off and walk through
the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors, who offer me
flowers.

Within the tent all the life-savers are waiting for me, wearing on their
broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.

M. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:

  “MADAME,—As President, I have the honour to present to you a
  delegation from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, come to welcome you
  and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded
  in your transatlantic despatch.

  “We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you
  have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous
  journey. You have now achieved in two worlds an incontestable
  popularity and artistic celebrity; and your marvellous talent, added
  to your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the
  land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty.

  “A distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep and
  sad memory, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your heart is
  as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish and burning
  successes on the stage you have never forgotten to unite your
  patriotism to your artistic triumphs.

  “Our life-savers have charged me with expressing to you their
  admiration for the charming benefactress whose generous hand has
  spontaneously stretched itself out towards their poor but noble
  society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil
  of the mother-country, on the land of France, where you will find them
  everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept
  them with favour, for they are presented to you by the bravest and
  most loyal of our life-savers.”

It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that
that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a
state of over-excitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food,
had no sleep. My heart had not ceased to beat a moving and joyous
refrain. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been
piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant
reception, which I was far from expecting after what had happened just
before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris
Press, after the incidents of my journey, which had been always badly
interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such
different proportions that they seemed hardly credible.

The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life-savers. As for
me, I played _La Dame aux Camélias_ for the first time in France.

I was really inspired. I affirm that those who were present at that
performance experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can
give.

I spent the night at my place at Ste. Adresse. The day following I left
for Paris.

A most flattering ovation was waiting for me on my arrival. Then, three
days afterwards, installed in my little mansion in the Avenue de
Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou, in order to hear him read his
magnificent piece, _Fédora_.

What a great artiste! What an admirable actor! What a marvellous author!

He read that play to me right off, playing every _rôle_, giving me in
one second the vision of what I should do.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, after the reading was over. “Ah, dear Master! Thanks
for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given
me.”

That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the
darkness of the small star in which I had faith.

I saw it as dawn was breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era
that it was going to light up.

                  *       *       *       *       *

My artistic journey had lasted seven months. I had visited fifty cities,
and given 156 performances, as follows:

              La Dame aux Camélias        65 performances
              Adrienne Lecouvreur         17      „
              Froufrou                    41      „
              La Princesse Georges         3      „
              Hernani                     14      „
              L’Etrangère                  3      „
              Phèdre                       6      „
              Le Sphinx                    7      „

                 Total receipts    2,667,600 francs
                Average receipts      17,100      „

[Illustration:

  BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU
  BY SARAH BERNHARDT
]

I conclude the first volume of my souvenirs here, for this is really the
first halting-place of my life, the real starting-point of my physical
and moral being.

I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from
my family, and from my friends.

I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space,
and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the
feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my
shoulders.

The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my
wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.

In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will
was softened.

My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely
to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight
whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies.

I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great artiste that I longed to
be.

And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life.

[Illustration:

  [_Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s handwriting._]
]




                                 INDEX


 Abbema, Louisa, 317

 Abbey, Henry, American impresario—
   The American tour, 335, 368;
   in New York, 370, 373, 374;
   visit to Edison, 376;
   travelling arrangements, 380;
   in Montreal, 388;
   letter of, to the Bishop of Chicago, 401–2;
   the American receipts, 402;
   the attempted train robbery, 405–8;
   the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16;
   journey to Chicago, 421–22;
   the visit to Niagara, 427–32

 _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, 335, 339, 342, 343, 373, 393, 440

 Agar, Mme.—
   Description, 131–32;
   interest in Coppée, 132–34;
   commanded to the Tuileries in _Le Passant_, 135–39

 Aicard, Jean, _Othello_, 291

 Albany, 433

 Albemarle Hotel, New York, 364, 374, 376

 Alicante, Sarah Bernhardt’s visit to, 113–15

 Allou, Maître, advocate of the Comédie Française, 334, 336

 Ambre, Emilie, 416

 Ambigu Theatre, the, 120, 236

 American Falls, the, 428

 Amiens, 195

 _Amphytrion_, first visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 57–58

 Anderson, Mary, 433

 _Andromaque_, 249, 337

 Angelo, artiste, 393, 415, 432

 Annette, Aunt, 157

 Antoine, M., comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 330

 _Aricie_, 62

 Arville, Renée d’, 28

 _Athalie_, 126

 Atlanta, 420

 Auber, M., director of the Conservatoire, 59–60, 68–69

 Audierne in Brittany, 260

 Augier, Emile—
   _La Fille de Roland_, the discussion regarding, 267–68;
   _Gabrielle_, 269;
   _L’Aventurière_, 331–34

 Auteuil, 6–11, 127

 _Aventurière, L’_, by E. Augier, 331–34

 Avenue des Acacias, 304


 Baden-Baden, 183

 Baie des Trépassés, Brittany, 260

 Baltimore, 433;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 399

 Barbédienne, clock-maker, 72

 Barboux, Maître, advocate, 334, 336

 Baretta, Blanche, 96

 —— Rose, 96, 102, 104, 141–42

 Baron, Messrs., dresses from, for the American tour, 335

 Barrett, tragedian, 419

 Bartet, comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 329

 Batifoulé, Father, of Audierne, 260, 264

 Bazaine, treachery of, 154

 Beauvallet, M.—
   Conservatoire examination, at the, 68–69;
   his style of teaching, 80;
   remark to Sarah Bernhardt, 93;
   as a comrade, 126

 Benedict, Sir Julius, 294

 Berendt, Aunt Rosine—
   Visits to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20;
   at the family council, 48–55;
   decides to take Sarah Bernhardt to the Théâtre Français, 55–56;
   saying of, repeated to M. Doucet by Régina, 76–77;
   proposes the fencing-lessons, 79;
   lends dress to Sarah Bernhardt, 91;
   and carriage, 92;
   dinner given by, 93;
   present of the ponies, 127–28;
   gambling propensities, 183;
   return to Paris, 216;
   _otherwise mentioned_, 3–6, 11–12, 35–36, 44

 Bernhardt, Jeanne—
   Characteristics, 48, 89;
   reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116;
   her mother’s love for her, 118–19;
   faces the crowd in New York, 376;
   visit to Edison, 376;
   in Boston, 383;
   in Montreal, 391–92;
   visit to the Iroquois, 393;
   escapade on the St. Lawrence, 396–97;
   the crossing to New Orleans, 415–16;
   journey to Chicago, 421–22;
   at Niagara, 432;
   the return from America, 437;
   _otherwise mentioned_, 35, 37, 50, 72, 338

 —— Mme.—
   Visits to Sarah Bernhardt in childhood, 1–5;
   takes her to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 16–20;
   announces death of her father to Sarah Bernhardt, 35–36;
   at Cauterets, 38;
   friendship of Mme. Croizette for, 40;
   the family council, 47–55;
   takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Française, 55–58;
   sends her to the Conservatoire with Mme. Guérard, 59–60;
   receives her on her return, 71–72;
   favours suit of M. Bed——, 74;
   moved by the recital of “L’Ame du Purgatoire,” 93;
   attends the Comédie Française, 98;
   anger of, at Sarcey’s article, 100;
   the arrangements for Sarah Bernhardt’s engagement at the Gymnase,
      107–8;
   illness of, 115–17;
   her love for Jeanne, 118–19;
   visit to the Odéon, 128;
   visit to the Rue Auber flat, 140–41;
   note to Sarah Bernhardt during the siege, 172;
   return to Paris, 216;
   her fainting fit at the Odéon, 247–48;
   _otherwise mentioned_, 6, 15, 44

 —— Mme., grandmother, 49, 74, 116

 —— M., 11, 12;
   takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20;
   death of, 35, 49

 —— Régina—
   Personality as a child, 35, 71–72;
   visit to M. Doucet, 76–77;
   the trouble with Mme. Nathalie, 101;
   reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116;
   takes up her abode in the Rue Duphot, 118–19;
   return to Paris, 216;
   bust of, 257;
   death of, 257–58

 —— Sarah—
   Childhood, 1–5;
   at boarding school, 6–11;
   at the Convent of Grand-Champs, 16–26;
   her _début_ in _Tobit recovering his Eyesight_, 27–34;
   baptism and confirmation, 34–37;
   visit to Cauterets, 38–39;
   return to the convent and incident of the shako, 40–45;
   the family council, 47–55;
   her first visit to the Française, 55–58;
   literary tastes, 59;
   interview with M. Auber of the Conservatoire, 59–60;
   first lesson in elocution from Mlle. de Brabender, 61–63;
   first examination at the Conservatoire, 64–72;
   a marriage proposal, 73–75;
   Conservatoire successes, 75;
   life at the Conservatoire:
     deportment class, 78–79;
     fencing class, 79;
   second prize for comedy, 80–86;
   progress under Samson, 80;
   incident of the hairdressing, 80–82;
   aim of, to define the author’s idea, 86–87;
   _début_ at the Comédie in _rôle_ of Iphigénie, 90–101;
   her motto of “Quand-même,” 99, 309, 310;
   incident which caused her first departure from the Française, 101–6;
   revenge of Mme. Nathalie, 105;
   the expedition to Spain, 110–15;
   return and resolve to live independently, 116–17;
   the flat in the Rue Duphot, 118–19;
   engagement at the Odéon, 122–24;
   introduces Coppée’s _Le Passant_ to Duquesnel, 132–34;
   its success, 135–40;
   fire in the Rue Auber, 140–45;
   subsequent benefit at the Odéon, 145–46;
   visit to Eaux-Bonnes, 153–55;
   return to Paris, 155;
   removal of her family before the siege, 157–59;
   organisation of the Odéon ambulance, 160–61;
   working of, and incidents, 172–87;
   collecting the dead from the Châtillon Plateau, 183;
   preparations for leaving Paris, 187–88;
   the journey through the German lines to Homburg, 189–215;
   adventure at Cologne, 212–13;
   return to Paris and establishment in the Rue Rome, 216–18;
   friends of, 218–21;
   removal to St. Germain-en-Laye, 221–24;
   return to Paris and reopening of the Odéon, 224–25;
   letter from M. Perrin, 235–36;
   interview with Duquesnel and De Chilly, 235–37;
   engagement with the Comédie, 238–39;
   the supper at the Odéon, 239–43;
   treatment of M. Perrin, 250–53;
   passion for sculpture, 257;
   incident of the coffin, 257–58;
   visit to Brittany, 259–64;
   painting, 260–61;
   descent of the Enfer du Plogoff, 261–64;
   return to Paris, 264;
   Sociétaire of the Comédie, 269;
   building of the new mansion, 269–71;
   Perrin’s tricks on, in staging _L’Etrangère_, 272–74;
   her anger with Dumas, 274–75;
   lunch with Victor Hugo, 280;
   quarrels with Perrin, 282–83, 288;
   balloon trip in the “Dona Sol,” 284–88;
   illness and visit to the South, 289;
   sale of the group _After the Tempest_, 289–90;
   strained relations with Perrin, 291;
   appointed Sociétaire permanently, 293;
   dispute with the committee of the Comédie, 294–95;
   the Journey to London, 295–300;
   reception at Folkestone, 297–98;
   her hatred of reporters, 299–300, 324;
   impressions of English society, 300–2;
   impressions of London life, 303–4;
   first appearance at the Gaiety Theatre, 305–8;
   stage fright, 305–6;
   illness after first appearance and immediate performance of
      _L’Etrangère_, 309–13;
   exhibition of sculpture and painting in Piccadilly, 313–15;
   conversation with Mr. Gladstone, 314;
   the visit to Cross’s Zoo and purchase of the animals, 315–18;
   Press attacks and trouble with the Française, 320–25;
   open letter to Albert Wolff, 321–22;
   return to Paris, and opening ceremony at the Française, 326–28;
   comments on artistes, 328–30;
   performance of _L’Aventurière_ and departure from the Française,
      331–34;
   illness at Hâvre, 333–34;
   contract for the American tour signed, 334–35;
   second visit to London, 338–41;
   tour in Denmark, 342–47;
   decorated by the King of Denmark, 344;
   the supper in Copenhagen, and toast of Baron Magnus, 345–47;
   farewell reception in Paris, 347–48;
   “The Twenty-eight Days of Sarah Bernhardt,” 348–49;
   contract with M. Bertrand signed, 349–50;
   experiences on board ship from Hâvre to New York, 352–60;
   her _fête_ day on board, 359–60;
   arrival in New York, 361–67;
   the New York reporters, 367–68;
   visit to Mr. Edison, 376–79;
   arrival in Boston and story of the whale, 381–87;
   reception in Montreal, 388–93;
   visit to the Iroquois, 393–94;
   escapade on the St. Lawrence, 396–97;
   welcome to Chicago, 399–400;
   visit to the stock-yards, 400–01;
   visit to the grotto of St. Louis, 402–3;
   the incident of the jewellery exhibition and attempted train robbery,
      403–8;
   opinions concerning capital punishment, 408–13;
   the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16;
   difficulties of playing in Mobile, 418–420;
   journey from Springfield to Chicago, blocked by the snow, 421–22;
   a visit to the Falls of Niagara, 427–32;
   the professional _matinée_ in New York, 433–34;
   the return journey, 433–38;
   the welcome at Hâvre, 438–40
   _American Tour_—
     _Baltimore_, 399;
     _Boston_, Hernani, 384;
     _Chicago_, Phèdre, 401;
     _Milwaukee_, Froufrou and La Dame aux Camélias, 422;
     _Montreal_, Hernani, 395;
     _New York_, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Froufrou, etc., 374;
     _Philadelphia_, Phèdre, 399;
     _Pittsburg_, La Princesse Georges, 426;
     _Springfield_, La Dame aux Camélias, 398
   _Comédie Française_—
     Andromaque, 249;
     L’Aventurière, 331–34;
     La Belle Paule, 254;
     Britannicus, 248–49;
     Dalila, 249;
     L’Etrangère, 272–75;
     La Fille de Roland, 266–68;
     Gabrielle, 269;
     Hernani, 282;
     Iphigénie, 90–97;
     Mlle. de Belle-Isle, 245–48;
     Le Mariage de Figaro, 249;
     Mithridate, 291;
     Phèdre, 249, 264–66;
     Rome Vaincue, 279;
     Ruy Blas, 291;
     Le Sphinx, 251–54;
     Zaïre, 254–56
   _Denmark, Tour in_—
     _Brussels_, Adrienne Lecouvreur and Froufrou, 342;
     _Copenhagen_, Adrienne Lecouvreur and Froufrou, 343–44
   _London, the Gaiety Theatre_—
     Adrienne Lecouvreur, 339;
     L’Etrangère, 310–13, 320;
     Froufrou, 339–40;
     Phèdre, 305–8;
     Zaïre, 315
   _Odéon Theatre_—
     L’Affranchi, 150;
     Athalie, 126;
     L’Autre, 150;
     Le Bâtard, 150;
     La biche au bois, 119–22;
     François le Champi, 128;
     Jean-Marie, 150, 224–225;
     Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard, 125;
     Kean, 130–31;
     La loterie du mariage, 131;
     Le Marquis de Villemer, 128;
     Ruy Blas, 226–30;
     Le testament de César, 130
   _Painting_—
     “Palm Sunday,” 292;
     “The Young Girl and Death,” 282–83
   _Sculpture_—
     _Busts_: Alphonse de Rothschild, 257;
       Miss Multon, 257;
       Mlle. Hocquigny, 257;
       Régina Bernhardt, 257–58;
     _Group_, “After the Storm,” 251, 275–78, 315

 “Bernhardtists,” the, at the Comédie, 252–254

 Berton, Pierre, 131, 329, 338

 Bertrand, M. Eugène, director of the Variétés, 349–50

 Bismarck, Prince, 186, 346

 Bloas, Désiré, 185

 Bocher, Emmanuel, 191–92

 Bois de Boulogne, 304

 Booth, actor, 354

 Booth’s Theatre, New York, 369, 373

 Bornier, Henri de, 266–68, 351

 Boston—
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 380–381;
   the women of, 381, 385;
   story of the whale, 381–87

 Bouilhet, M., 129;
   _Dolorès_, 104;
   _Mlle. Aïssé_, 325

 Boulevard Medicis, ambulance of, 174

 Bourbaki, M., defence of Paris, 165

 Bourg de Batz, 259

 Boyer, Georges, 179, 438

 Brabender, Mlle. de—
   Governess to Sarah Bernhardt, 45;
   at the family council, 48–55;
   accompanies her mistress to the Comédie Française, 56–58, 98;
   first lessons in elocution, 61–63;
   accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Conservatoire, 65–72, 79, 82–84,
      88;
   the embroidered handkerchief, 91;
   death of, 124–25

 Bradford, 427

 Bressant, M.—
   At the Comédie, 102;
   in _Mlle. de Belle-Isle_, 245–48, 337;
   in _Hernani_, 281;
   benefit performance for, 291

 _Britannicus_, 57, 248–49

 Brittany, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 259–64

 Brohan, Augustine, 68–69

 —— Madeleine, 245;
   her advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 318–19

 —— Marie, 245

 Brooklyn Bridge, 372

 Brussels, 211;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 342

 Buffalo, 422, 426, 427

 Buguet, Louise, 28–31

 —— Marie, 28

 Busigny, 211

 Busnach, William, wit of, 233–34

 Butin, 269


 Campbell, Beatrice Patrick, 330

 Canadian Falls, the, 431

 Canrobert, Marshal, at Saint-Privat, 154;
   his friendship for Sarah Bernhardt, 227, 233–34, 300, 347

 Cap Martin, 289

 Capital, punishment, opinions of Sarah Bernhardt concerning, 408–13

 Cardaños, Dolores, 21

 —— Pepa, 21

 Caroline, maid, journey to Spain, 110–15, 119

 Carthusians, the, 14

 Cateau, 205, 211

 Catherine, servant, 143

 Caughnanwaga, 394

 Cauterets, the visit to, 37–39

 Caux, Marquis de, 145

 —— Marquise de; _see_ Patti, Adelina

 Célimène played by Marie Lloyd, 86

 Cerise, Baron, 12

 César, the convent dog, 29–33, 43

 Chanzy, defence of Paris, 165

 Charing Cross Station, first arrival of Sarah Bernhardt, 298

 Charmel, Eugénie, 28–32

 Châtelain, pupil at the Conservatoire, 79, 88

 Châtillon Plateau, collecting the dead from, 183

 Chatterton, M., secretary, 406

 Chesneau, Commandant Monfils, 188

 Chester Square, 298–300

 Cheval-Blanc, Hôtel du, Amiens, 195

 _Chez l’Avocat_, 249, 337

 Chicago—
   Arrival of Sarah Bernhardt, 399–400;
   the stock-yards, 400–401

 Chilly, M. de—
   Treatment of Sarah Bernhardt, 120–21, 124, 125–26;
   his change of attitude, 126–27, 139, 145;
   manager of the Odéon, 130, 133, 134, 135;
   the law-suit against Sarah Bernhardt, 236–37, 239;
   the supper at the Odéon, 239;
   his death, 241–43

 Chrysagère, the tortoise, 145

 Cincinnati, 414, 420

 Cladel, Léon, 280

 Clairin, Georges—
   Interest in career of Sarah Bernhardt, 269, 276, 282;
   the trip in the “Dona Sol,” 284–87;
   sketch of the animals, 318;
   at the farewell reception in Paris, 347

 Clamart, 176, 413

 Claretie, Jules, 278

 Clarisse, Mlle., 47–48

 Claude, serving-man, 154, 259–61, 297, 415–16, 421

 Cleveland, 422

 Coblentz, Mlle., 98

 Colas, Mlle. Stella, 9

 Cologne, Sarah Bernhardt’s adventure at, 212–13

 Colt gun factory, 398

 Columbus, 420

 Comédie Française, the—
   First visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 55–58;
   her first engagement as Iphigénie, 90–97;
   her _début_, 98–101;
   Molière’s anniversary ceremony, 101;
   the Sociétaires, 101, 102, 269;
   resignations of Sarah Bernhardt, 101–6, 331–34;
   social spirit of the, 127;
   letter from M. Perrin to Sarah Bernhardt, 235–36;
   her engagement signed with M. Perrin, 238–39;
   the “Croizettists” and “Bernhardtists,” 252–54;
   Sarah Bernhardt becomes a Sociétaire, 269;
   transference of the company to London, 293;
   their request to Mr. Johnson, 312;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s trouble with, 320–25;
   their return to Paris and the opening ceremony, 326–28;
   the law-suit against Sarah Bernhardt, 334, 336–38;
   receipts from the Gaiety performances, 336–38

 Commune, the Paris, 174, 221–24, 304

 Compagnie Transatlantique, 352

 “Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs,” _quoted_, 270

 Connaught, Duke of, 298

 Conservatoire, the—
   Advice of the Duc de Morny, 52–55;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s first examination, 64–72;
   her second examination and prize for comedy, 80–86

 Copenhagen, Sarah Bernhardt’s week in, 342–47

 Coppée, François, 351;
   success of _Le Passant_, 132–39

 Coquelin, M.—
   Style of, 80;
   meeting with Sarah Bernhardt at the Théâtre Français, 92;
   in _Chez l’Avocat_, 249;
   in _Gabrielle_, 269;
   in _L’Etrangère_, 273, 275, 311, 312;
   his mission to Marie Lloyd, 320;
   advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322–23;
   comments of Sarah Bernhardt on, 329;
   his return to London, 340

 Creil, 192

 Croizette, Mme., 40

 —— Pauline, 39

 —— Sophie—
   Friendship with Sarah Bernhardt, 39, 245, 247–48, 322;
   in _Mlle. de Belle-Isle_, 248;
   in _Dalila_, 249;
   in _Le Mariage de Figaro_, 249;
   her method with M. Perrin, 250;
   in _Le Sphinx_, the quarrel over the “moon,” 251–54;
   in _L’Etrangère_, 272–75, 311–13;
   appointed Sociétaire permanently, 293

 “Croizettists,” the, at the Comédie, 252–54

 Cross, Mr., his Zoo in Liverpool, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 315–17

 Custom-House, the New York, 369–373


 _Daily Telegraph_, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307

 _Dalila_, by Octave Feuillet, 249

 Damien, Hortense, 300–301

 _Davenant_, 337

 Davennes, M., of the Comédie, 94–95, 104

 Dayton, 420

 Debay, Mlle., in _La biche au bois_, 119–22

 Delaunay, M.—
   In _Le Sphinx_, 252, 253;
   in _Hernani_, 281;
   drawing-room entertainments in London, 294–95;
   his advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322–23

 Delavigne, Casimir—
   _L’Ecole des Viellards_, 80;
   _La Fille du Cid_, 80;
   _L’Ame du Purgatoire_, 93

 Delorme, René, 278

 Delpit, Albert, 157

 Denayrouse, Louis, _La Belle Paule_, 254

 Denmark—
   King and Queen of, present at the performances of Sarah Bernhardt,
      343–44;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions of, 343

 Depaul, Virginie, 28

 Deschamp, Georges, visit to Sarah Bernhardt, 317–18

 Deshayes, Paul, 129–30

 Deslandes, Raymond, _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, 109, 349

 Desmoulins, M. de la Tour, 89

 Despagne, Dr., 44

 Detroit, 422

 Devoyod, Mme., 94, 338

 _Diamond_, the vessel, 438

 Dieudonnée, Mme., 113, 338

 “Dona Sol,” the balloon, 284

 Doré, Gustave, lunch with Victor Hugo, 280–81;
   visit to Sarah Bernhardt, 317

 Doucet, M. Camille, Sarah Bernhardt’s interview with, 76–77;
   his kindnesses to her, 83, 90–93, 122–23, 126

 Doutre, Mr. Jos., 389

 Drouet, Mme., 233, 280–81

 Dubourg, Léonie, 160

 Duchesne, Dr., surgeon at the Odéon ambulance, 167–68, 170, 178

 Dudlay, Mlle., 339

 Dudley, Lady, 294

 —— Lord, 300

 Duez, 269

 Dumas, Alexandre—
   _Kean_ at the Odéon, 130–31;
   _L’Etrangère_, 272–75, 309–13;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s anger with, 274–75

 Dupuis, the Communard, 280

 Duquesnel, Mme., 134

 —— Félix—
   Manager Of the Odéon, 122–24, 126–27, 130–31;
   production of _Athalie_, 126;
   accepts Coppée’s _Le Passant_, 132–34;
   benefit performance for Sarah Bernhardt, 145–46;
   arrangements for the Odéon ambulance, 160;
   production of _Ruy Blas_, 226–30;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s treatment of, 235–37, 239;
   at the Odéon supper, 240–43;
   at Sarah Bernhardt’s farewell reception, 347–48;
   arranges the “Twenty-eight Days of Sarah Bernhardt,” 348–49

 Durieux, Mme., 182–83

 —— Victor, “Toto,” the errand boy, 180–83

 Duse, Eleonora, comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 329–30


 Eaux-Bonnes, Sarah Bernhardt ordered to, 153–55

 Ecole Chrétienne brothers, collecting the dead from the Châtillon
    Plateau, 183

 —— Polytechnique, 254

 Edison, Thomas, receives Sarah Bernhardt at Menlo Park, 375–79

 —— Mrs., 377

 Elie, M., deportment class of, 78–79

 Elsinore, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 343–34

 Emerainville, 287

 Emmanuel, Victor, 115

 Enfer du Plogoff, Sarah Bernhardt’s descent into, 261–264

 English hospitality, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 303–4

 Erie, 427

 Escalier, Félix, 269

 Essler, Jane, 226

 Estebenet, M., 88

 Eugénie, Empress, 289;
   sketch of, 135, 136–39


 Faille, M., 120–22

 Fallesen, Baron, 343–45

 Faure, Mme., 12–15, 17, 35, 44, 99

 —— Félix, uncle, 11, 12–15, 147;
   at the family council, 50–55

 —— Félix, afterwards President, 157

 Favart, Mlle., 95, 100, 104–5

 Favre, Jules, 186

 Febvre, Frédéric, 247;
   as Don Salluste, 291;
   advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 323

 _Fédora_, by Victorien Sardou, 440

 Félicie, the maid, 155, 262, 359, 363–65, 371, 372, 415–16

 Ferrier, Paul, _Chez l’Avocat_ by, 249

 Ferrières, the wood of, 285

 Feuillet, Octave, _Dalila_, 249;
   _Le Sphinx_, 251–54

 _Figaro_ criticisms _quoted_, 312, 332, 338, 343

 Finistère, 259

 Flaubert, Gustave, 225;
   death of, 399

 Fleury, the artist, 7

 —— General, 136, 139

 Flourens, M., 220

 Folkestone, reception of Sarah Bernhardt in, 297–98

 Fortin, soldier, 171, 177

 Fould, Henri, 164

 Fournier, Marc, 119, 120

 _François le Champi_, 128

 Franco-Prussian War, outbreak and incidents, 151–59

 Fréchette, Louis, his “A Sarah Bernhardt” _quoted_, 389–91;
   his service to Jeanne Bernhardt, 391–92

 Fressard, Mme., her boarding school, 7–11

 Fressard, Mlle. Caroline, 10–11

 Frossard, General, 153

 _Froufrou_, 335, 339–40, 342–44, 374, 393, 422, 426, 440


 _Gabrielle_, by E. Augier, 269

 Gaiety Theatre, London—
   Agreement with the Comédie Française, 293;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s first appearance in _Phèdre_, 305–8;
   receipts from the Comédie performances, 336–338

 Gaîté Theatre, the, 236

 Gallec, Marie Le, 168

 Gambard of Nice buys the group, _After the Tempest_, 289–90

 Gambetta, M., defence of Paris, 165;
   sketch of, 218–19

 Gare St. Lazare, 216

 _Gaulois_, the, criticisms, 307, 333

 Gautier, Théophile, 240

 Geffroy, M., 226, 229;
   as Don Salluste, 231, 291

 Gérard, Mlle. Laurence, 120–21

 Gerbois, M., 108

 German demands on Paris, 186;
   insolence after the siege, 199, 201–2;
   fomentation of the revolutionary spirit in Paris, 218

 Gérôme, portrait of Rachel, 105

 Gerson, M., 190, 194, 195

 Gibert, Dr., 333

 Giffard, M., balloon of, 283–87

 Girardin, Emile de—
   Arrangements for the Odéon ambulance, 160;
   his friendship for Sarah Bernhardt, 231, 233, 266, 347, 351

 Gladstone, Mr., 314

 Godard, Louis, balloon ascent of, 284–87

 Gonesse, 190

 Gordon, Mr. Max, of Boston, 383

 Got, M., of the Comédie Française, 272, 293, 306, 318, 320, 323, 340

 Grand Rapids, 422

 Grand-Champs Convent—
   Sarah Bernhardt taken to, 15–26;
   loyalty of, 23–24;
   visit of Monseigneur Sibour, 27–34;
   return of Sarah Bernhardt to, 39

 Greece, the Queen of, 344

 Grévy, Presidency of, 304

 Griffon, René, 189–90

 _Gringoire_, 337

 Grosos, M., cable message from, 435;
   reads address to Sarah Bernhardt at Hâvre, 439

 Guadacelli, chocolate maker, 142

 Guérard, Ernest, 37

 —— Mme.—
   At Cauterets, 37, 38;
   at the family council, 50–55;
   attends the interview with M. Auber, 59–60;
   notes, &c. kept by, 61;
   accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Conservatoire, 62–72, 82–84, 88;
   visit to M. Doucet, 76;
   notes of, to Sarah Bernhardt, 90, 116;
   visit to M. Thierry, 92–93;
   accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Comédie Française, 98;
   aids the preparations for the Spanish trip, 110–12;
   telegram sent to Spain by, 115;
   visit to the Rue Duphot, 118–19;
   accompanies Sarah Bernhardt to the Odéon, 124;
   to the Tuileries, 135–39;
   return from Eaux-Bonnes, 155;
   remains in Paris for the siege, 158;
   visit to the Prefect of Police, 161–63;
   nurse at the Odéon ambulance, 167, 168, 173, 176–77, 182, 186, 187;
   as secretary, 235;
   goes for news of Mme. Bernhardt, 248;
   illness of, 259;
   lunch in the new mansion, 271;
   portrait of, by Sarah Bernhardt, 282;
   her terror of the animals, 317;
   at Hâvre, 333, 335;
   journey to America, 353, 359, 360;
   in New York, 364, 365, 373;
   in Boston, 382, 383;
   the crossing to New Orleans, 415–416;
   at Niagara, 432;
   _otherwise mentioned_, 74, 91–92, 104, 107, 149, 232

 —— M., 89, 111, 188;
   “The Life of St. Louis,” 51

 Guillaume, attendant, 168

 Guitry, M., 329

 Gymnase, Théâtre du, 127, 236;
   engagement of Sarah Bernhardt, 107–9


 Haarlem, 12

 Haas, Charles, 141–44

 Hague, The, 172

 Hamlet’s tomb, Elsinore, 344

 Haraucourt, 351

 Hartford, 386

 Hâvre—
   Frascati Hotel at, 158, 333;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s benefit performance for the Life Saving Society,
      435;
   her welcome home at, 438–40

 Hayné, Captain, 420

 Henry V. of France, 23–24

 Herisson, M., mayor of Paris, 173

 _Hernani_, by Victor Hugo, 219, 280–82, 335, 337, 374, 384, 393, 395,
    440

 Herz, Henri, 28

 Her Majesty’s Theatre, 294

 Hocquigny, Mlle.—
   Help sent to the Odéon ambulance by, 166, 171, 173;
   lunch at Sarah Bernhardt’s, 234;
   bust of, by Sarah Bernhardt, 257

 Holland, Queen of, present at Sarah Bernhardt’s performance of _Le
    Passant_, 138–39

 Hollingshead, John, of the Gaiety, London, 293, 309–10, 336, 340

 Holmes, Augusta, 347

 Homburg, 18, 214–15

 Hôtel d’Angleterre, Buffalo, 427

 —— du Nord, Cologne, 212–13

 —— de la Puerta del Sol, Madrid, 115

 —— Vendome, Boston, 382

 —— Windsor, Montreal, 391

 Hudson river, the, 361

 Hugo, Victor—
   Clamour for his return, 130–131;
   the reading of _Ruy Blas_, 226–30;
   sketch of, 228–29;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s estimation of, 231–33, 240, 351;
   the Odéon supper given by, 239–43;
   _Hernani_, 280–82;
   note and present to Sarah Bernhardt, 282

 Hyde Park, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 341


 Ibé, hairdresser, 418

 “Ignotus,” paragraph in the _Figaro_ _quoted_, 131

 _Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte ou fermée_, 337

 _Il ne faut jurer de rien_, 337

 Imperial, the Prince, baptism, 24;
   present during rehearsal of _Le Passant_, 137;
   al Saarbruck, 153

 Indianapolis, 420

 _Iphigénie_, 94–101

 Iroquois, visit of Sarah Bernhardt to the, 393–94

 Irving, Henry, 299, 329

 Ivry, 185


 Jadin, M., 269

 Jarrett, Mr.—
   Arranges with Sarah Bernhardt for the drawing-room entertainments,
      292–94;
   his way with reporters, 299–300, 364, 367, 381, 426–27;
   contract for first American tour, 334–35;
   in New York, 362, 368, 370, 373, 375, 434;
   personality, 365–66;
   visit to Edison, 376;
   action regarding Henry Smith, 385–87;
   in Montreal, 388, 392–93, 396;
   visit to the Iroquois, 393–94;
   the American receipts, 402;
   his arrangement with the St. Louis jeweller, 403–4;
   the attempted train robbery, 405–8;
   the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16;
   visit to Niagara, 427–32;
   journey to Chicago, 421–22;
   the return from America, 434;
   his influence over Sarah Bernhardt, 441

 _Jean-Marie_, by André Theuriet, 150, 224–25

 Johnson, T., London correspondent of the _Figaro_, 312

 Josephine, maid, 146

 Josse, of the Porte St. Martin Théâtre, 119–20

 Jouassain, M., 245

 Jouclas, Captain, 354, 357, 434

 Joussian, Théodore, 190–91, 194–96

 Jullien, Mary, 338


 Kalb, M., 338

 Kalil Bey, 144

 Kapenist, Count, 347

 _Kean_, by A. Dumas, 130

 Kératry, Comte de, 93;
   aid given to Sarah Bernhardt with the Odéon ambulance, 160–65, 172

 Knoedler, M., 367

 Kremlin, the, 176

 Kronborg, castle of, 344


 _L’Amérique_, the boat, 352–60, 434

 _L’Autre_, 150

 _La Belle Paule_, 254

 _La Bénédiction_, 337

 _La bergère d’Ivry_, by Thiboust, 120

 _La biche au bois_, 119

 _La Dame aux Camélias_, 335, 374, 375, 393, 398, 419–20, 422, 433, 440

 _L’Ecole des femmes_, 63

 _L’Ecole des Viellards_, by Delavigne, 80

 _L’Etincelle_, 337

 _La fausse Agnès_, 75

 _La Fille de Roland_, 266–68

 _La Fille du Cid_, by Delavigne, 80

 La Foncière fire insurance company, 140;
   claim against Sarah Bernhardt, 145, 146

 La Hêve, 333

 _La loterie du mariage_, 130

 _La maison sans enfants_, 109

 _La Princesse Georges_, 335, 426, 433–34, 440

 “La Quenelle,” his invention, 295–97

 Lacour, Marie de, 28

 Lacroix, Eulalie, 28

 Laferrière, Count de, 135–36

 —— Messrs., dresses from, 335

 Lafontaine, M., in _Ruy Blas_, 229, 291;
   at the Odéon supper, 241

 —— Victoria, 109

 Lambquin, Mme.—
   Nurse at the Odéon ambulance, 167, 169, 173, 185;
   at the Odéon supper, 240, 242;
   death of, 243

 Lapommeraye, criticisms of, 338, 339

 Larcher, Père, gardener at the Grand-Champs Convent, 19–21, 24, 30, 41,
    42

 Laroche, M., 245, 255

 Laroque, Mme., 157

 Larrey, Baron, 2–3, 37, 44;
   visits to the Odéon ambulance, 167, 169, 180–81

 _L’Absent_, by Eugène Manuel, 249

 _L’Affranchi_, 150

 _L’Ami Fritz_, 337

 _L’Assommoir_, 332

 _L’Avare_, 337

 _Le Barbier de Seville_, 337

 _Le Bâtard_, 150

 _Le Demi-Monde_, 337

 _Le demon du jeu_, 109

 _Le Dépit amoureux_, 337

 _L’Eté de la St. Martin_, 337

 _L’Etourdi_, 337

 _L’Etrangère_, by A. Dumas, 272–75, 309–13, 335–37, 340, 374

 _Le fils naturel_, 336

 _Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard_, 125, 337

 _Le Juif errant_, 120

 _Le Luthier de Crémône_, 337

 _Le Mariage de Figaro_, 249

 _Le Mariage de Victorine_, 337

 _Le Marquis de Villemer_, 128, 337

 _Le Médecin malgré lui_, 337

 _Le Menteur_, 337

 _Le Misanthrope_, 336, 337

 _Le Passant_, 132–39

 _Le Post-scriptum_, 337

 _Le Sphinx_, by Octave Feuillet, 251–54, 335, 337, 374, 440

 _Le testament de César_, by Girodot, 130

 Léautaud of the Conservatoire, 66, 67, 82

 Leavenworth, 421

 Lecouvreur, Adrienne, bust in the Française, 94

 Legouvé, M., 393, 395

 Leighton, Frederic, 314

 Lemaître, Jules, 351

 Leopold, Prince, 314

 Lepaul, _costumier_, story of the _Phèdre_ costume, 335–36

 _Les Caprices de Marianne_, 337

 _Les Femmes Savantes_, 100, 337

 _Les Fourberies de Scapin_, 337

 _Les Fourchambault_, 337

 _Les Plaideurs_, 337

 _Les Précieuses Ridicules_, 337

 Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 256

 Lethurgi, the Abbé, 34

 Leudet, Dr., 153, 155

 Lincoln, President, 354

 Lind, Jenny, 366

 “Little Incline,” 405

 Liverpool, Cross’s Zoo, 315–17

 Lloyd, Marie—
   First prize for comedy at the Conservatoire, 85;
   friendship with Sarah Bernhardt, 82, 88–89, 96, 245;
   refusal to play in _L’Etrangère_, 320

 Loire, the Army of the, 165

 London, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 303–4, 340–41;
   capital punishment in, 410

 Lorne, Marquis of, Governor of Canada, 395

 Louisville, 420

 Lucas, Père, lighthouse keeper, 261, 262

 Luxembourg Gardens, the, 180


 MacMahon, Marshal, 154, 304

 _Mademoiselle Aïssé_, 325

 _Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle_, 245–48, 337

 _Mademoiselle de la Seiglière_, 337

 Madrid, visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 115;
   garrotting in, 410

 Magnus, Baron, his toast of “To France,” 345–47

 Manuel, Eugène, _L’Absent_, 249

 Marguerite, servant, 38, 47, 48, 49, 50, 64, 67, 71, 91, 101, 107, 112,
    115, 234

 Marie, maid at Neuilly, 14–16

 —— Sister, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 22, 23

 Marienlyst, castle of, Elsinore, 344

 Mariquita, dancing of, 119

 Marivaux, _Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard_, 125

 Marquis, chocolate maker, 8

 Marseilles, 113

 Martel, M., in _Phèdre_, 266;
   poses to Sarah Bernhardt, 277–78

 Massin, Léontine, 96–97

 Massin, M., 96–97

 Masson, Cécile, 40

 —— M., antiquary, 40

 Mathilde, Princess, 135

 Maubant, M., 94, 236;
   the man and the actor, 328–29

 Maunoir, M., 155

 Mauvoy, Nathalie, 67

 Mayer, Frantz, German soldier at the Odéon ambulance, 177–78, 180, 186

 —— Mr., of the Gaiety, 293, 309–10, 320, 336, 340

 Mélingue, M., 231

 Memphis, 420

 Mendès, Catulle, 351

 Menesson, Captain, 170

 Menier, M., 165

 Menlo Park, New York, 375–79

 Mentone, 289

 _Mercadet_, 337

 Mercier, M., 362

 Merlou, M. Pierre, 9

 —— Mme. Pierre, 9–10

 Meunier, Dr., of Tergnier, 205

 Meurice, Paul—
   Friend of Victor Hugo, 226, 229, 280;
   meeting with Sarah Bernhardt in the Odéon arcade, 237–38;
   at the Odéon supper, 243

 Meusnier, Mathieu, 276

 Meydieu, M.—
   Godfather of Jeanne Bernhardt, 35;
   at the family council, 50–55;
   notes given to Sarah Bernhardt, 61–63;
   his present to her, 72;
   subsequent kindness, 89, 109–10, 117

 Meyer, Arthur, 142–44, 145, 349

 —— Marcus, 420

 Millais, 300

 Milwaukee, 422

 _Mithridate_, 291

 Mobile, difficulties of playing in, 418–20

 Mohère, anniversary ceremony at the Comédie, 101

 Monbel, M. de, 234

 Monod, Dr., 12, 44

 Montalant, Céline, 109

 Montbel, Raymond de, 347

 Montigny, M., manager of the Gymnase Theatre, 108–109, 112–13

 Montreal—
   Reception of Sarah Bernhardt, 388–93;
   the Bishop’s sermons against the French artistes, 393, 395–96;
   admiration of the students, 394–95

 Monval, M., 108, 113

 _Morning Post_, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 308

 Morny, Duc de, his advice concerning the Conservatoire, 48–52;
   his interest in career of Sarah Bernhardt, 90, 93

 Moscow, 176

 Mounet-Sully, M.—
   _Britannicus_, in, 248–49;
   in _rôle_ of Orestes, 249;
   in _Zaïre_, 255;
   in _Phèdre_, 266;
   in _Rome Vaincue_, 279;
   in _Hernani_, 281–82;
   in _Othello_, 291;
   in _Ruy Blas_, 291;
   supports Sarah Bernhardt on her first appearance at the Gaiety,
      307–8;
   advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 322, 323;
   comments of Sarah Bernhardt on, 329

 Multon, Miss, bust of, 257

 Murray, John, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307


 Napoleon III., 24, 304;
   commands Sarah Bernhardt to the Tuileries, 135–39, 144;
   his defeat at Sedan, 154–55;
   his treatment by Rochefort, 219

 —— Prince Jerome, “Plon-Plon,” 129, 284

 Narrey, Charles, 256

 Nashville, 420

 Nathalie, Mme., the incident with Sarah Bernhardt, 101–4;
   her revenge, 105

 _National_, the, 295

 Neuilly, visits to, 3, 11–15

 New Haven, 385

 New Orleans, the crossing to, 414–16;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 416–18

 New York—
   Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 361–367;
   the reporters, 367–68;
   the Custom-House, 369–73;
   Brooklyn Bridge, 372;
   the police, 375;
   the professional _matinée_ at, and departure from, 433–434

 Newark, 433

 Niagara Falls, 426;
   visit of Sarah Bernhardt, 427–32

 Nittis the painter, 317

 Noe, Mme. Lily, 386

 Nordenskjold, M., 347

 Novelli, 330


 O’Connor, Captain, 222–24, 347

 Odéon, the—
   Success of _Athalie_, 126–27;
   sociability among the actors, 127, 244;
   reception of Dumas _père_, 130–31;
   success of _Le Passant_, 135–39;
   enthusiasm of the students for Sarah Bernhardt, 139;
   benefit for Sarah Bernhardt, 145–46;
   welcome to Adelina Patti, 145–46;
   the Sarah Bernhardt ambulance, 160–87;
   patients of, transferred to the Val-de-Grâce, 186;
   reopened after the Treaty of Paris, 224;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s break with the, 234–36;
   Victor Hugo’s supper to the artistes, 239–43

 Ohio river, the, 423

 _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_, 121, 337

 Opéra, the, 163

 Ophelia, the spring of, Elsinore, 344

 Orange, Prince of, 138

 _Othello_, 291


 Palais de l’Industrie, 166

 Palmer House, Chicago, the, 400

 Parc Monceau, 187

 Paris—
   Popular feeling on outbreak of Franco-Prussian War, 151–53;
   siege proclaimed, 155–59;
   organisation of the defence, 160;
   the Odéon ambulance, 160–87;
   bombarding of, 172–87;
   effect of the sufferings on the _morale_ of the people, 185–86;
   the armistice, 186;
   sights after, 187;
   the Commune, 217–24;
   the peace signed, 224;
   Presidents, 304;
   capital punishment in, 410–13

 Parodi, M., 351;
   _Rome Vaincue_, 279

 Parrot, M., artist, 269

 ——, Dr., 309–10

 “Part,” use of the term, 33

 Patti, Adelina, 145–46

 Pelissier, General, 190, 195

 Père Lachaise Cemetery, 174

 Perrin, M.—
   Engagement of Sarah Bernhardt, 235–36, 238–39, 245;
   staging of _Dalila_, 249;
   fury of, 249–50;
   incident of the “moon” in _Le Sphinx_, 251–53;
   insists on Sarah Bernhardt playing Zaïre, 254–55;
   strained relations with Sarah Bernhardt, 256, 282–83, 288, 291;
   staging of _Phèdre_, 264–66;
   discussion concerning _La Fille de Roland_, 267–68;
   his tricks in _L’Etrangère_, 272–75;
   anger at the balloon ascent, 284, 288;
   the agreement with John Hollingshead, 293;
   attitude regarding the drawing-room entertainments, 294–95;
   letter to Sarah Bernhardt from Paris, 322;
   his lecture on her return, 326–27;
   production of _L’Aventurière_ and resignation of Sarah Bernhardt,
      331–34;
   influences Coquelin to leave London, 340

 Petit, Mlle. Dica, at the Conservatoire, 66, 67

 ——, Mme., visit to M. Massin, 96–97

 _Phèdre_, 249, 265–66, 305–8, 335, 337, 399, 401, 440

 Philadelphia, 399, 433

 _Philiberte_, 337

 Picard, 269

 Pierson, Blanche, 109

 Pisa, 49

 Pittsburg, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 422–23

 Place de la Roquette, executions in, 410–13

 Pluche, Amélie, 28

 Poissy, prisoners of, 222

 Polhes, General, 35

 Pons, M., 79

 Pont, l’Abbé, 259

 Porel, M. Paul, 85, 150;
   at the Odéon ambulance, 171;
   in _Jean-Marie_, 224–225

 Porte Saint Martin Theatre, 119–22

 Potin, Félix, 165

 Potter-Palmer, Mr., 400

 Providence, 433

 Provost, M.—
   The Conservatoire examination, 68–69;
   instruction of Sarah Bernhardt, 75;
   his style of teaching, 80;
   visit to the Comédie Française, 98–99

 Prudhon, artiste, 319

 Public buildings, Sarah Bernhardt’s opinion of seeing, 349

 Puget, Louise, 28


 Quand-même, Sarah Bernhardt’s motto, 99

 Quimperlé, 1

 Quincy, 421


 Rachel, 53, 56, 266, 339, 347;
   Gérôme’s portrait, 105

 Racine, _Phèdre_, 265–66

 Raz, Pointe du, ascent of, 259–60;
   “Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair,” 264

 Régis, M.—
   Godfather of Sarah Bernhardt, 7, 35, 39, 45, 100;
   the family council, 48–55;
   interest in welfare of Sarah Bernhardt, 57–59, 61–63, 72, 89, 90,
      140;
   arranges the marriage proposal, 73–74;
   obtains the engagement at the Gymnase for Sarah Bernhardt, 107–8;
   his relations with Mme. Bernhardt, 116–17

 Régnier, M. Prof.—
   Offers _Germaine_ to Sarah Bernhardt, 76–77;
   his class at the Conservatoire, 79–80;
   helps Sarah Bernhardt to work up _Phèdre_, 265–66

 Réjane, Mme., 85, 329

 Rémusat, Paul de, 187, 234;
   sketch of, 219;
   letter to Sarah Bernhardt _quoted_, 220

 Renaissance Theatre, the, 411

 Richepin, M., 351

 Rigault, Raoul, 220–21

 Robert Houdin Theatre, the, 55

 Robertson, Forbes, 297

 Rochester, 433

 Rochefort, M., 219

 Roger, Marie, 101, 102

 _Rome Vaincue_, 279

 Rossini, M., 11–12, 93

 Rostand, Edmond, 351

 Rothschild, Baron Alphonse—
   Gifts to the Odéon ambulance, 165;
   pays the German demand on Paris, 187;
   Sarah Bernhardt attempts the bust of, 257

 Rotten Row, Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 300, 303–4, 341

 Rousseil, Mlle. Roselia, 265

 Rudcowitz, Mme., 115

 Rue Auber flat, the fire at, 140–45

 —— de la Chaussée d’Antin, 11

 —— Duphot, the posters of, 98;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s flat in, 118–19

 —— Notre Dame de Champs, convent of the, 45, 124

 —— St. Honoré, posters of, 98

 —— Taitbout, patients from the Odéon established at, 186

 _Ruth and Boaz_, 219

 _Ruy Blas_, 226–30, 239–43, 291, 337


 Saarbruck, 153

 St. Alexis, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 27, 32, 33

 St. Appoline, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 20, 53

 St. Cécile, Sister, 29

 St. Cloud, 128

 St. Denis, 216

 St. Germain-en-Laye, 221–24

 St. Jeanne, Sister, 29

 St. Joseph, 420–21

 St. Lawrence river, Sarah Bernhardt’s escapade, 396–97

 St. Louis, Sarah Bernhardt’s visit to the grotto, 402–3;
   the jewellery exhibition and the attempted train robbery, 403–8

 St. Quentin, after the battle, 209–11

 St. Sophie, Mother, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 17, 21, 23;
   her influence over Sarah Bernhardt, 23–25, 36–37;
   visit of Mgr. Sibour, 27, 30, 32, 33;
   incident of the shako, 41–45

 St. Sulpice, the priest of, 169, 171

 St. Thérèse, Mother, _Tobit recovering his Eyesight_, 28–34

 Saint-Privat, battle of, 153–54

 Saints-Pères Bridge, 284

 Salon of 1876, honourable mention for Sarah Bernhardt, 278

 Salvini, M., 433

 Samson, M., 68, 80, 99

 Sand, Mme. George, 7;
   description by Sarah Bernhardt, 128–29;
   _L’Autre_, 150

 Ste. Adresse, Hâvre, 440

 Santelli, Captain, 434, 437

 “Sara-dotards,” the, 220

 “Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair” at the Pointe du Raz, 264

 Sarcey, Francisque, articles on Sarah Bernhardt _quoted_, 100–101, 246,
    320, 338–40

 Sardou, Victorien—
   Relates the Montigny incident, 112–13;
   engagement of Sarah Bernhardt for his play at the Vaudeville, 350;
   reading of _Fédora_, 440

 Sarony, Adèle, 53

 Sassoon, Alfred, 282

 Satory barracks, the, 16;
   incident of the shako, 40–45

 —— woods, the, 20

 Scribe, M., _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, 393, 395

 Sedan, battle of, 154–55

 Séraphine, Sister, of the Grand-Champs Convent, 18, 27–28

 Severin, Bassompierre, 144

 Seylor, Suzanne, 235

 Sibour, Monseigneur, visit to the Grand-Champs Convent, 27–34;
   death of, 34

 Smith, Henry, of Boston—
   Story of the whale, 383–87;
   in Chicago, 400;
   present to Sarah Bernhardt, 434–35

 Snowstorm at sea, Sarah Bernhardt’s description, 354–55

 Sociétaires of the Comédie Française, 101

 Sohège, M., 143–44

 Sologne, 277

 Soubise, Mlle., 188;
   the journey through the German lines, 191–216

 Spa, 183

 Spain, visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 110–15

 Springfield, Illinois, 421

 —— Massachusetts, 398–99

 Stage fright, 305–6

 _Standard_, the, tribute to Sarah Bernhardt, 307

 Stevens, Alfred, 282

 Syracuse, 433


 Talbot, M., 338

 Talien, M., in _Ruy Blas_, 228–30;
   at the Odéon supper, 241–42

 _Tartufe_, 320, 337

 Tergnier, 202, 204–5

 Théâtre de la Monnaie, Brussels, 342

 Theatre Royal, Copenhagen, 342–47

 Thénard, Mlle., 306

 Theuriet, André, _Jean-Marie_, 150, 224–25

 Thiboust, Lambert, 120–21

 Thierry, M., director of the Française, 91, 94;
   attitude concerning affair of Mme. Nathalie, 103–5

 Thiers, M.—
   Grants passport to Sarah Bernhardt, 187;
   politics of, 219;
   Presidency of, 304

 _Times_, the, paragraph from, _quoted_, 294

 Tissandier, M., 283–84

 Titine, child friend, 4

 Toronto, 427

 Train, 338

 Triel, 222

 Trochu, M., defence of Paris, 165

 Troy, 433

 Tuileries, Sarah Bernhardt commanded to the, 135–39;
   her second visit, 161

 Turquet, M., 288


 Ulgade, Mme., in _La biche au bois_, 119–20

 _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, 109, 349

 Utica, 433


 Vachère, descent of the “Dona Sol” at, 286

 Vacquerie, Auguste, 226, 229

 Vaillant, execution of, 411–13

 Val-de-Grâce military hospital, 167, 169, 170, 176;
   the Odéon patients transferred to, 186

 Vallès, Jules, 351

 Variétés, the, 349

 Vaudeville, the, 76–77, 236, 349

 Verger, murderer, 34

 Versailles, 16, 36, 40, 223

 Victor, Paul de St., at the Odéon supper, 240–41;
   adverse criticism of Sarah Bernhardt, 266

 Villa Montmorency at Auteuil, 127

 Villaret, M., 190, 193, 195

 Vintras, Dr., 309–10

 Vitu, Auguste, _Figaro_ articles of, _quoted_, 332, 338–39


 Wagner, Sarah Bernhardt’s opinion of, 213

 Wales, Prince of, visit to the Piccadilly exhibition, 313–14

 —— Princess of, at the Theatre Royal, Copenhagen, 343–44

 Walewski, M. de, 93

 Walt, Robert, 345

 Washington, 433

 Weiss, J. J., 351

 Wilde, Oscar, 298

 Winterhalter, 138

 Wirbyn, Albert, 408

 Wolff, Albert, of the _Figaro_, Sarah Bernhardt’s letter to, 321–22

 Worcester, 433

 Worms, M.—
   Charles Quint in _Hernani_, 282;
   campaign against Sarah Bernhardt, 320;
   advice to Sarah Bernhardt, 323;
   Sarah Bernhardt’s comment on, 329


 Yvon, the artist, 10


 Zaïre, 75, 254–56, 315, 337

 Zelern, Baron van, 157

 Zerbinette, the tortoise, 145

 Zola, M., 332, 333, 351


                  Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
                        Tavistock Street, London

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.