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My Double Life

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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 Bias, 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.

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 today'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
Havre 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 armchair. He waited with a certain affectation until I was
seated before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper-knife, in
order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak
voice, the voice of the 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
Bias_ 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.

"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 faraway 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.

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