My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 14

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 ill.u.s.trious 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 a 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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 coa.r.s.e 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 Societaire of the Comedie Francaise.

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 Comedie."

"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 barege 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 Comedie.

The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother had recourse to the mother of Dica Pet.i.t, my fellow student at the Conservatoire. I went with Madame Dica Pet.i.t to M. Ma.s.sin, a manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Leontine Ma.s.sin, another Conservatoire pupil.

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

"Oh," she exclaimed, "what a surprise for us! t.i.tine," she then called out, "here is Mademoiselle Sarah!"

Leontine Ma.s.sin 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 debut at the Comedie. 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 Varietes," she said, and then she talked away at such a rate that I was bewildered. Madame Pet.i.t did not enter into all this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an indifferent "Thanks" to Leontine's inquiries about her daughter's health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to say, Madame Pet.i.t 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 pa.s.sage, and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going to rehearsal at the Varietes later on."

Madame Pet.i.t was furious, for she did not like Leontine Ma.s.sin.

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

Leontine 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 Pet.i.t, said: "I hope, Madame 'Gros-tas,' I shall never see you again." She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Pet.i.t 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 Ma.s.sin 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 Pet.i.t went out first; Leontine'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 Theatre Francais."

I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of this humble home.

XI

MY DeBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIeRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM

On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my _debut_, I was in the Rue Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then at the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honore. On the poster of the Comedie Francaise I read the words "_Debut of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt._" I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I blushed to the very roots of my hair.

At five o'clock I went to the theatre. I had a dressing-room on the top floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblentz. This room was on the other side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comedie Francaise. A small covered bridge over the street served as a pa.s.sage and means of communication for us to reach the Comedie.

I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I looked nice or not. _Mon pet.i.t Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.

de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the country.

When the call-boy announced that the play was about to begin, I broke into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint. I went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I arrived on the stage the curtain was rising. That curtain which was being raised so slowly and solemnly was to me like the veil being torn which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep gentle voice made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.

Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one of Moliere's comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson was small, precise, dainty; his shiny white hair curled firmly and closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was nevertheless so full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will, which was always struggling for victory over my physical weakness. They knew that my motto _"Quand-meme"_ had not been adopted by me merely by chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise of will power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this motto at the age of nine, after a formidable leap over a ditch which no one could jump and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. Whilst I was being carried home I exclaimed furiously, "Yes, I would do it again, _quand-meme_, if any one dared me again. And I will always do what I want to do all my life." In the evening of that day my aunt, who was grieved to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any pleasure. My poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and quite consoled, I whispered in a coaxing way, "I should like to have some writing-paper with a motto of my own."

My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a furious _"Quand-meme"_ that my Aunt Faure started back exclaiming, "What a terrible child!"

Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me courage, but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.

Provost heard my "cue" on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I made my entry and hurried towards Agamemnon, my father. I did not want to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then rushed to my mother, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress.

Madame Guerard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only played one act, and there were four more. I realised then that it would really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own motto, and, standing in front of the gla.s.s gazing into my own eyes, I ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was very insignificant in my part.

The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at Sarcey's article in _L'Opinion Nationale,_ and she now read me the following lines: "Mlle. Bernhardt who made her _debut_ yesterday in the _role_ of Iphigenie, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a very pleasing expression; the upper part of her face is remarkably beautiful. Her carriage is excellent, and her enunciation is perfectly clear. This is all that can be said for her at present."

"The man is an idiot," said my mother, drawing me to her. "You were charming."

She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.

I was happy, but not completely so.

When my G.o.dfather arrived in the afternoon he exclaimed, "Good heavens!

My poor child, what thin arms you have!"

As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when stretching out my arms towards Eurybate. I had said the famous line in which Favart had made her "effect" that was now a tradition. I certainly had made no "effect," unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be reckoned as such. My second appearance was in _Valerie_, when I did make some slight success.

My third appearance at the Comedie resulted in the following _boutade_ from the pen of the same Sarcey:

_L'Opinion Nationale_, September 12: "The same evening _Les Femmes Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt's third _debut_, and she a.s.sumed the _role_ of Henriette. She was just as pretty and insignificant in this as in that of Junie [he had made a mistake, as it was Iphigenie I had played] and of Valerie. both of which _roles_ had been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.

Bernhardt should be insignificant does not much matter. She is a _debutante,_ and among the number presented to us it is only natural that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they are Societaires of the Theatre Francais. All that they had more than their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years' time, if she stays at the Comedie Francaise."

I did not stay there, though, for one of those nothings which change a whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comedie expecting to remain there always. I had heard my G.o.dfather explain to my mother all about the various stages of my career.

"The child will have so much during the first five years," he said, "and so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have the pension given to Societaires--that is, if she ever becomes a Societaire." He appeared to have his doubts about that.