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My Double Life

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"Second prize for comedy: Mademoiselle Bernhardt." I had not heard, and
was pushed forward by my companions. On reaching the stage I bowed, and
all the time I could see hundreds of Marie Lloyds dancing before me.
Some of them were making grimaces at me, others were throwing me kisses;
some were fanning themselves, and others bowing. They were very tall,
all these Marie Lloyds, too tall for the ceiling, and they walked over
the heads of all the people and came towards me, stifling me, crushing
me, so that I could not breathe. My face, it seems, was whiter than my
dress.

On leaving the stage I went and sat down on the bench without uttering a
word, and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was
greatly complimented by every one. She was wearing a pale blue tarlatan
dress, with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the bodice and another in her
black hair. She was very tall, and her delicate white shoulders emerged
modestly from her dress, which was cut very low ... but in her case this
was without danger. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud
expression, was charming and very beautiful.

Although very young, she had more of a woman's fascination than any of
us. Her large brown eyes shone with dilating pupils; her small round
mouth gave a sly little smile at the corners, and her wonderfully shaped
nose had quivering nostrils. The oval of her beautiful face was
intercepted by two little pearly, transparent ears of the most exquisite
shape. She had a long, flexible white neck, and the pose of her head was
charming. It was a beauty prize that the jury had conscientiously
awarded to Marie Lloyd.

She had come on to the stage gay and fascinating in her _rôle_ of
Célimène, and in spite of the monotony of her delivery, the carelessness
of her elocution, the impersonality of her acting, she had carried off
all the votes because she was the very personification of Célimène, that
coquette of twenty years of age who was so unconsciously cruel.

She had realised for every one the ideal dreamed of by Molière. All
these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain, and this first
lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of great service to me in
my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd's prize, and every time that I
have had a _rôle_ to create, the personage always appears before me
dressed from head to foot, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up.

But that is but the vision of a second; my mind has been thinking of the
soul that is to govern this personage. When listening to an author
reading his work, I try to define the intention of his idea, in my
desire to identify myself with that intention. I have never played an
author false with regard to his idea. And I have always tried to
represent the personage according to history, whenever it is a
historical personage, and as the novelist describes it if an invented
personage.

I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth and
to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, with
all its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality, but the
public never followed me. I soon realised that legend remains victorious
in spite of history. And this is perhaps an advantage for the mind of
the people. Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet,
and Napoleon I. have all entered into legend.

It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the Virgin Mary
accomplishing humiliating human functions. They lived the life that we
are living. Death chilled their sacred limbs, and it is not without
rebellion and grief that we accept this fact. We start off in pursuit of
them in an ethereal heaven, in the infinite of our dreams. We cast aside
all the failings of humanity in order to leave them, clothed in the
ideal, seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the
rustic, bold peasant girl, repulsing violently the hardy soldier who
wants to joke with her, the girl sitting astride her big Percheron horse
like a man, laughing readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers,
submitting to the lewd promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in which she
lived, and having on that account all the more merit in remaining the
heroic virgin.

We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile
woman guided by a divine soul. Her girlish arm which holds the heavy
banner is supported by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is
something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors
drew strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the
legend remains triumphant.




X


MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE


But to return to the Conservatoire. Nearly all the pupils had gone away,
and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my bench. Marie Lloyd came and
sat down by me.

"Are you unhappy?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered. "I wanted the first prize, and you have it. It is not
fair."

"I do not know whether it is fair or not," answered Marie Lloyd, "but I
assure you that it is not my fault."

I could not help laughing at this.

"Shall I come home with you to luncheon?" she asked, and her beautiful
eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an orphan and unhappy, and on
this day of triumph she felt the need of a family. My heart began to
melt with pity and affection. I threw my arms round her neck, and we all
four went away together--Marie Lloyd, Madame Guérard, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone on home.

In the cab my "don't care" character won the day once more, and we
chattered about every one. "Oh, how ridiculous such and such a person
was!" "Did you see her mother's bonnet?" "And old Estebenet; did you see
his white gloves? He must have stolen them from some policeman!" And
hereupon we laughed like idiots, and then began again. "And that poor
Châtelain had had his hair curled!" said Marie Lloyd. "Did you see his
head?"

I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of how my own
hair had been uncurled, and it was thanks to that I had not won the
first prize for tragedy.

On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather, our old
friend Meydieu, Madame Guérard's husband, and my sister Jeanne with her
hair all curled. This gave me a pang, for she had straight hair and it
had been curled to make her prettier, although she was charming without
that, and the curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked
uglier.

My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and distinguished
indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a great fuss of her, for
success was everything to this _bourgeois_. He had seen my young friend
a hundred times before, and had not been struck by her beauty nor yet
touched by her poverty, but on this particular day he assured us that he
had for a long time predicted Marie Lloyd's triumph. He then came to me,
put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him. "Well, you
were a failure," he said. "Why persist now in going on the stage? You
are thin and small, your face is pretty enough when near, but ugly in
the distance, and your voice does not carry!"

"Yes, my dear girl," put in M. Meydieu, "your godfather is right. You
had better marry the miller who proposed, or that imbecile of a Spanish
tanner who lost his brainless head for the sake of your pretty eyes. You
will never do anything on the stage! You'd better marry."

M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man of nearly sixty
years of age, and Madame Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and timid: he had been awarded the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, used aristocratic
gestures, and was private secretary to M. de la Tour Desmoulins, a
prominent deputy at the time. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I
owe much to his kindness. My sister Jeanne whispered to me, "Sister's
godfather said when he came in that you looked as ugly as possible."
Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in this way. I pushed her away, and
we sat down to table. All through the meal my one wish was to go back to
the convent. I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so
tired that I had to go to bed.

When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with tired limbs,
my head heavy, and my heart oppressed with keeping back my sighs, I
tried to consider my wretched situation; but sleep, the great restorer,
came to the rescue, and I was very soon slumbering peacefully. When I
woke I could not collect my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it
was, and looked at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep
since three o'clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but
everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed was a small
tray on which were a cup of chocolate and a cake. A sheet of writing
paper was placed upright against the cup. I trembled as I took it up,
for I never received any letters. With great difficulty, by my
night-light, I managed to read the following words, written by Madame
Guérard: "When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your
mother that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be
engaged at the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my
dear child, but have faith in the future.--Your _petit Dame_."

I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I got up and
rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky was black. Yes, it was
black to every one else, but starry to me. The stars were shining, and I
looked for my own special one, and chose the largest and brightest.

I went back towards my bed and amused myself with jumping on to it,
holding my feet together. Each time I missed I laughed like a lunatic. I
then drank my chocolate, and nearly choked myself devouring my cake.

Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the Virgin Mary
at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary, and I explained to her
my reasons for not being able to take the veil, in spite of my vocation.
I tried to charm and persuade her, and I kissed her very gently on her
foot, which was crushing the serpent. Then in the darkness I tried to
find my mother's portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses
to it. I then took up again the letter from _mon petit Dame_, and went
to sleep with it clasped in my hand. I do not remember what my dreams
were.

The next day every one was very kind to me. My godfather, who arrived
early, nodded his head in a contented way.

"She must have some fresh air," he said. "I will treat you to a landau."

The drive seemed to me delicious, for I could dream to my heart's
content, as my mother disliked talking when in a carriage.

Two days later our old servant Marguerite, breathless with excitement,
brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope there was a large
stamp, around which stood the magic words "Comédie Française." I glanced
at my mother, and she nodded as a sign that I might open the letter,
after blaming Marguerite for handing it to me before obtaining her
permission to do so.

"It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!" I exclaimed. "I am to go there
to-morrow! Look--read it!"

My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I danced round with
them, singing, "It's for to-morrow! It's for to-morrow!" My younger
sister was eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs
to the flat above to tell Madame Guérard. She was just soaping her
children's white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands and
kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with a soapy
lather, and left a snowy patch on each side of my head. I rushed
down-stairs again like this, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My
godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just beginning a game
of whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a patch of soap-suds on their
faces, at which I laughed heartily. But I was allowed to do anything
that day, for I had become a personage.

The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français at one
o'clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director.

What was I to wear? That was the great question. My mother had sent for
the milliner, who arrived with various hats. I chose a white one trimmed
with pale blue, a white _bavolet_ and blue strings. Aunt Rosine had sent
one of her dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks were too
childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was hideous,
cabbage-green, with black velvet put on in a Grecian pattern. I looked
like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged to wear it. Fortunately,
it was covered by a mantle of black _gros-grain_ stitched all round with
white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a grown-up
person, and all my clothes were only suitable for a school-girl. Mlle.
de Brabender gave me a handkerchief that she had embroidered, and Madame
Guérard a sunshade. My mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring.

Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat, uncomfortable in
my green dress, but comforted by my mantle, I went, the following day,
with Madame Guérard to M. Thierry's. My aunt lent me her carriage for
the occasion, as she thought it would look better to arrive in a private
carriage. Later on I heard that this arrival in my own carriage, with a
footman, made a very bad impression. What all the theatre people thought
I never cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must
really have protected me from all suspicion.

M. Thierry received me very kindly, and made a little nonsensical
speech. He then unfolded a paper which he handed to Madame Guérard,
asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract,
and _mon petit Dame_ explained that she was not my mother.

"Ah," said M. Thierry, getting up, "then will you take it with you and
have it signed by Mademoiselle's mother?"

He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at his, for it was
flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I quickly took
mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face and eyes that
avoided one's gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I
was there, had waited to see me. He had made his _début_ a year before
with great success.

"Well, it's settled then!" he said gaily.

I showed him the contract and shook hands with him. I went quickly down
the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theatre found myself in the
midst of a group in the doorway.

"Are you satisfied?" asked a gentle voice which I recognised as M.
Doucet's.

"Oh yes, Monsieur; thank you so much," I answered.

"But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it," he said.

"Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we feel sure of
you," put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked,
"What do you say, Excellency?"

"I think that this child will be a very great artist," he replied.

There was a silence for a moment.

"Well, you have got a fine carriage!" exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He
was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in
France or anywhere else.

"This carriage belongs to Mademoiselle's aunt," remarked Camille Doucet,
shaking hands with me gently.

"Oh--well, I am glad to hear that," answered the tragedian.

I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my
mother. She signed it without reading it.

I made my mind resolutely to be some one _quand-même_.

A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française my aunt gave a
dinner-party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet and
the Minister of Fine Arts, M. de Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. de
Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people came. My
mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time I had
worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Every one paid me
great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I consented
willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I chose
Casimir Delavigne's poem, "_L'Ame du Purgatoire_." "That should be
spoken with music as an accompaniment," exclaimed Rossini when I came to
an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; "Mademoiselle
will begin again, and you could improvise, _cher maître_."

There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini
improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My
tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end
my mother kissed me, saying: "This is the first time that you have
really moved me."

As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini's
improvisation that had moved her.

The Comte de Kératry, an elegant young hussar, was also present. He paid
me great compliments, and invited me to go and recite some poetry at his
mother's house.

My aunt then sang a song which was very much in vogue, and made a great
success. She was coquettish and charming, and just a trifle jealous of
this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her adorers
for a few minutes.

When I returned home I was quite another being. I sat down, dressed as I
was, on my bed, and remained for a long time deep in thought. Hitherto
all I had known of life had been through my family and my work. I had
now just had a glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the
hypocrisy of some of the people and the conceit of others. I began to
wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was. I thought of
my mother. She did not do anything, though she was indifferent to
everything. I thought of my aunt Rosine, who, on the contrary, liked to
mix in everything.

I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a whirl, and
feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until I was thoroughly
chilled.

The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at Iphigénie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my
_début_ in that _rôle_.

At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to attend the
rehearsal of _Iphigénie_. Oh, that first notice, how it made my heart
beat. I could not sleep at night, and daylight did not come quickly
enough for me. I kept getting up to look at the time. It seemed to me
that the clock had stopped. I had dozed, and I fancied it was the same
time as before. Finally a streak of light coming through my window-panes
was, I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I got up at
once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my _rôle_ while dressing.

I thought of my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading
_tragédienne_ of the Comédie Française, with Maubant, with--I trembled
as I thought of all this, for Madame Devoyod was said to be anything but
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my _rôle_.
"Oh yes," I exclaimed with conviction. "Come and rehearse it. Would you
like to?" and he took me to the stage.

I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the
green-room to the stage. He told me the names of the celebrities
represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before that of
Adrienne Lecouvreur.

"I love that artiste," I said.

"Do you know her story?" he asked.

"Yes; I have read all that has been written about her." "That's right,
my child," said the worthy man. "You ought to read all that concerns
your art. I will lend you some interesting books."

He took me towards the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared
up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of
weights, ropes, trees, borders, battens overhead, the yawning house
completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and
the vault-like chill that one felt--all this together awed me. It did
not seem to me as if I were entering the brilliant ranks of living
artistes who every night won the applause of the house by their
merriment or their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead
glories, and the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the
illustrious shadows of those whom the stage manager had just mentioned.
With my highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking
something, now saw them advance towards me stretching out their hands.
These spectres wanted to take me away with them. I put my hands over my
eyes and stood still. "Are you not well?" asked M. Davenne.

"Oh yes, thank you; it was just a little giddiness."

His voice had chased away the spectres, and I opened my eyes and paid
attention to the worthy man's advice. Book in hand, he explained to me
where I was to stand, and my changes of place, &c. He was rather pleased
with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At
the line,

_Eurybate à l'autel, conduisez la victime,_

he said, "Mademoiselle Favart was very effective there."

The artistes gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They
glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any notice
of me at all.

I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
three coarse words used by one or another of the artistes. I was not
accustomed to this somewhat brutal language. At home every one was
rather timorous. At my aunt's people were a trifle affected, whilst at
the convent, it is unnecessary to say, I had never heard a word that was
out of place. It is true that I had been through the Conservatoire, but
I had not cultivated any of the pupils with the exception of Marie Lloyd
and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now a
Sociétaire of the Comédie Française.

When the rehearsal was over it was decided that there should be another
one at the same hour the following day in the public foyer.

The costume-maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my
costume. Mlle. de Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went
up with me to the costume-room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but
the costume-maker told her gently that this was impossible in tragedy.

A dress of white woollen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and
the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on,
but this too was so unsightly that I refused to wear it.

"Well, then, Mademoiselle," said the costume-maker dryly, "you will have
to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume
supplied by the Comédie."

"Very well," I answered, blushing; "I will get them myself."

On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as she was always
very generous, she promptly bought me a veil of white barège that fell
in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a wreath of hedge roses which at
night looked very soft and white. She also ordered me buskins from the
shoemaker employed by the Comédie.

The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother
had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my fellow student at the
Conservatoire. I went with Madame Dica Petit to M. Massin, a
manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Léontine
Massin, another Conservatoire pupil.

We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réaumur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words _Massin, manufacturer of make-up
boxes_, I knocked, and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognised Léontine's sister, as she had come several times to the
Conservatoire.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "what a surprise for us! Titine," she then called
out, "here is Mademoiselle Sarah!"

Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanour. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming, "How glad I am to see you! And so you are going to make your
début at the Comédie. I saw it in the papers."

I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the papers.

"I am engaged at the Variétés," she said, and then she talked away at
such a rate that I was bewildered. Madame Petit did not enter into all
this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an
indifferent "Thanks" to Léontine's inquiries about her daughter's
health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to
say, Madame Petit remarked:

"You must order your box. We have come here for that, you know."

"Oh you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the passage,
and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going to
rehearsal at the Variétés later on."

Madame Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.

"Don't wait, Mademoiselle," she said; "it will be impossible for us to
stay afterwards."

Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned her back on
my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely to
Madame Petit, said: "I hope, Madame 'Gros-tas,' I shall never see you
again." She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Petit mutter
a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but the meaning of them was only
explained to me later on. We then went to the workshop, and found old
Massin at his bench, planing some small planks of white wood. His
hunch-back daughter kept coming in and out, humming gaily all the time.
The father was glum and harsh, and had an anxious look. As soon as we
had ordered the box we took our leave. Madame Petit went out first;
Léontine's sister held me back by the hand and said quietly, "Father is
not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted my sister to
be at the Théâtre Français."

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