My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 13

On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my G.o.dfather, our old friend Meydieu, Madame Guerard'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 G.o.dfather 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.dfather 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. Guerard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty years of age, and Madame Guerard 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. Guerard was a well of science, and I owe much to his kindness. My sister Jeanne whispered to me, "Sister's G.o.dfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible."

Jeanne always spoke of my G.o.dfather 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 Guerard: "When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother that Camille Doucet had just a.s.sured him that you were to be engaged at the Comedie Francaise. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child, but have faith in the future.--Your _pet.i.t 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 pet.i.t 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 G.o.dfather, 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."

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 "Comedie Francaise." 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 Guerard. 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 down-stairs again like this, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My G.o.dfather, 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 Theatre Francais 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_ st.i.tched 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 Guerard 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 Guerard 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 Guerard, asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract, and _mon pet.i.t 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 _debut_ 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 compet.i.tion was not at all good, but nevertheless we feel sure of you," put in M. Regnier, 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 Comedie, 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-meme_.

A few days after my engagement at the Comedie Francaise 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 maitre_."

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 Keratry, 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 pa.s.sed by without any particular events. I was working hard at Iphigenie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my _debut_ in that _role_.

At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to attend the rehearsal of _Iphigenie_. 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 _role_ while dressing.

I thought of my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading _tragedienne_ of the Comedie Francaise, 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 _role_.

"Oh yes," I exclaimed with conviction. "Come and rehea.r.s.e 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."