A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

My Double Life

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




"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 Havre, 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, Felix
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 nay 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 Havre
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, Felix 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_.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.