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My Double Life

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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 or 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 hairpins, 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 hair-dressing, 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.

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 pastry-cook'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.

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