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My Double Life

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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 anaemia," 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 knickknacks--I divided them and gave them away.
I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that
the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, but that
the struggle with life was about to commence, and I divined rightly.

My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I
knew that I was going into the 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. Mlle.
Brohan was to play the part of the Marquise de Prie. At this time she
was so fat as to be almost unsightly, while I was so thin that the
composers of popular and comic verses took my 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 _debut_. 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 death-like 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 hap-hazard, 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."

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