My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 62

If Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertis.e.m.e.nt, if they had not added more than six hundred thousand francs' worth of jewellery to mine, this man, this wretched youth would not perhaps have had the stupid idea of robbing me. Who can say what schemes had floated through the mind of the poor fellow, who was perhaps half-starved, or perhaps excited by a clever, inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped and looked at the jeweller's window he said to himself: "There is jewellery there worth a million francs. If it were all mine I would sell it and go back to Belgium. What joy I could give to my poor mother, who is blinding herself with work by gaslight, and I could help my sister to get married." Or perhaps he was an inventor, and he thought to himself: "Ah, if only I had the money which that jewellery represents I could bring out my invention myself, instead of selling my patent to some highly esteemed rascal, who will buy it from me for a crust of bread. What would it matter to the artiste. Ah, if only I had the money!" Ah, if I had the money!--perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all this wealth belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime germinated in this way in a mind which had hitherto been pure. Ah, who can tell to what hope may give birth in a young mind? At first it may be only a beautiful dream, but this may end in a mad desire to realise the dream. To steal the goods of another person is certainly not right, but this should not be punished by death--it certainly should not. To kill a man of twenty-five years of age is a much greater crime than to steal jewellery even by force, and a society which bands together in order to wield the sword of Justice is much more cowardly when it kills than the man who robs and kills quite alone, at his own risk and peril. Oh, what tears I wept for that man, whom I did not know at all--who was a rascal or perhaps a hero! He was perhaps a man of weak intellect who had turned thief, but he was only twenty-five years of age, and he had a right to live.

How I hate capital punishment! It is a relic of cowardly barbarism, and it is a disgrace for civilised countries still to have their guillotines and scaffolds. Every human being has a moment when his heart is easily touched, when the tears of grief will flow; and those tears may fecundate a generous thought which might lead to repentance.

I would not for the whole world be one of those who condemn a man to death. And yet many of them are good, upright men, who when they return to their families are affectionate to their wives, and reprove their children for breaking a doll's head.

I have seen four executions, one in London, one in Spain, and two in Paris.

In London the method is hanging, and this seems to me more hideous, more repugnant, more weird than any other death. The victim was a young man of about thirty, with a strong, self-willed looking face. I only saw him a second, and he shrugged his shoulders as he glanced at me, his eyes expressing his contempt for my curiosity. At that moment I felt that individual's ideas were very much superior to mine, and the condemned man seemed to me greater than all who were there. It was, perhaps, because he was nearer than we all were to the great mystery. I can see him now smile as they covered his face with the hood, while, as for me, I rushed away completely upset.

In Madrid I saw a man garrotted, and the barbarity of this torture terrified me for weeks after. He was accused of having killed his mother, but no real proof seemed to have been brought forward against the wretched man. And he cried out, when they were holding him down on his seat before putting the garrotte on him, "Mother, I shall soon be with you, and you will tell them all, in my presence, that they have lied."

These words were uttered in Spanish, in a voice that vibrated with earnestness. They were translated for me by an _attache_ to the British Emba.s.sy, with whom I had gone to see the hideous sight. The wretched man cried out in such a sincere, heart-rending tone of voice that it was impossible for him not to have been innocent, and this was the opinion of all those who were with me.

The two other executions which I witnessed were at the Place de la Roquette, Paris. The first was that of a young medical student, who with the help of one of his friends had killed an old woman who sold newspapers. It was a stupid, odious crime, but the man was more mad than criminal. He was more than ordinarily intelligent, and had pa.s.sed his examinations at an earlier age than is usual. He had worked too hard, and it had affected his brain. He ought to have been allowed to rest, to have been treated as an invalid, cured in mind and body, and then returned to his scientific pursuits. He was a young man quite above the average as regards intellect. I can see him now, pale and haggard, with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, an expression of infinite sadness.

I know, of course, that he had killed a poor, defenceless old woman.

That was certainly odious, but he was only twenty-three years old, and his mind was disordered through study and overwork, too much ambition, and the habit of cutting off arms and legs and dissecting the dead bodies of women and children. All this does not excuse the man's abominable deed, but it had all contributed to unhinge his moral sense, which was perhaps already in a wavering state, thanks to study, poverty, or atavism. I consider that a crime of high treason against humanity was committed in taking the life of a man of intellect, who, when once he had recovered his reason, might have rendered great service to science and to humanity.

The last execution at which I was present was that of Vaillant, the anarchist. He was an energetic man, and at the same time mild and gentle, with very advanced ideas, but not much more advanced than those of men who have since risen to power.

My theatre at that time was the Renaissance, and he often applied to me for free seats, as he was too poor to pay for the luxuries of art. Ah, poverty, what a sorry counsellor art thou, and how tolerant we ought to be to those who have to endure misery!

One day Vaillant came to see me in my dressing-room at the theatre. I was playing Lorenzaccio, and he said to me: "Ah, that Florentine was an anarchist just as I am, but he killed the tyrant and not tyranny. That is not the way I shall go to work."

A few days later he threw a bomb in a public building, the Chamber of Deputies. The poor fellow was not as successful as the Florentine, whom he seemed to despise, for he did not kill any one, and did no real harm except to his own cause.

I said I should like to know when he was to be executed, and the night before, a friend of mine came to the theatre and told me that the execution was to take place the following day, Monday, at seven in the morning.

I started after the performance, and went to the Rue Merlin, at the corner of the Rue de la Roquette. The streets were still very animated, as that Sunday was Dimanche Gras (Shrove Sunday). People were singing, laughing, and dancing everywhere. I waited all night, and as I was not allowed to enter the prison, I sat on the balcony of a first floor flat which I had engaged. The cold darkness of the night in its immensity seemed to enwrap me in sadness. I did not feel the cold, for my blood was flowing rapidly through my veins. The hours pa.s.sed slowly, the hours which rang out in the distance, _L'heure est morte. Vive l'heure!_ I heard a vague, m.u.f.fled sound of footsteps, whispering, and of wood which creaked heavily, but I did not know what these strange, mysterious sounds were until day began to break. I saw that the scaffold was there.

A man came to extinguish the lamps on the Place de la Roquette, and an anaemic-looking sky spread its pale light over us. The crowd began to collect gradually, but remained in compact groups, and circulation in the streets was interrupted. Every now and then a man, looking quite indifferent, but evidently in a hurry, pushed aside the crowd, presented a card to a policeman, and then disappeared under the porch of the prison. I counted more than ten of these men: they were journalists.

Presently the military guard appeared suddenly on the spot, and took up its position around the melancholy-looking pedestal. The usual number of the guard had been doubled for this occasion, as some anarchist plot was feared. On a given signal swords were drawn and the prison door opened.

Vaillant appeared, looking very pale, but energetic and brave. He cried out in a manly voice, with perfect a.s.surance, _"Vive l'anarchie!"_ There was not a single cry in response to his. He was seized and thrown back over the slab. The knife fell with a m.u.f.fled sound. The body tottered, and in a second the scaffold was taken away, the place swept; the crowds were allowed to move. They rushed forward to the place of execution, gazing down on the ground for a spot of blood which was not to be seen, sniffing in the air for any odour of the drama which had just been enacted.

There were women, children, old men, all joking there on the very spot where a man had just expired in the most supreme agony. And that man had made himself the apostle of this populace; that man had claimed for this teeming crowd all kinds of liberties, all kinds of privileges and rights.

I was thickly veiled so that I could not be recognised, and accompanied by a friend as escort.

I mingled with the crowd, and it made me sick at heart and desperate.

There was not a word of grat.i.tude to this man, not a murmur of vengeance nor of revolt.

I felt inclined to cry out: "Brutes that you are! Kneel down and kiss the stones that the blood of this poor madman has stained for your sakes, for you, because he believed in you."

But before I had time for this a street urchin was calling out, "Buy the last moments of Vaillant! Buy, buy!"

Oh, poor Vaillant! His headless body was then being taken to Clamart, and the crowds for whom he had wept, worked, and died were now going quietly away, indifferent and bored. Poor Vaillant! His ideas were exaggerated ones, but they were generous.

x.x.xVII

NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES--A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA

We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances there, and set off once more for New Orleans.

Now, I thought, we shall have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm our poor limbs, which were stiffened with three months of mortal cold.

We shall be able to open our windows and breathe fresh air instead of the suffocating and anaemia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep, and dreams of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock roused me suddenly, and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did not growl, I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door, and Jarrett, followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came in on tip-toe, and closed the door again.

"Well, what is it now?" I asked.

"Why," replied Jarrett, "the incessant rain during the last twelve days has swollen the water to such a height that the bridge of boats across the bay here is liable to give way under the terrible pressure of the water. Do you hear the awful storm of wind that is now blowing? If we go back by the other route it will require three or four days."

I was furious. Three or four days, and to go back to the snow again! Ah no! I felt I must have sunshine.

"Why can we not pa.s.s? Oh, Heavens! what shall we do?" I exclaimed.

"Well, the engine-driver is here. He thinks that he might get across; but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition that you give him two thousand five hundred dollars, which he will at once send to Mobile, where his father and wife live. If we get safely to the other side he will give you back this money, but if not it will belong to his family."

I must confess that I was stupefied with admiration for this plucky man.

His daring excited me, and I exclaimed:

"Yes, certainly. Give him the money, and let us cross."

As I have said, I generally travelled by special train. This one was made up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a moment as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did not tell any one about it except my sister, my beloved Guerard, and my faithful Felicie and her husband Claude. The comedian Angelo, who was sleeping in Jarrett's berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was courageous, and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the engine-driver, who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of thirty-two persons. It was too late then to do anything: the train had started, and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge of boats. I had taken my seat on the platform, and the bridge bent and swayed like a hammock under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way across it gave way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered, "Ah, we are drowning!" She closed her eyes and clutched me nervously, but was quite brave. I certainly imagined as she did that the supreme moment had arrived; and abominable as it was, I never for a second thought of all those who were full of confidence and life, whom I was sacrificing, whom I was killing. My only thought was of a dear little face which would soon be in mourning for me. And to think that we take about within us our most terrible enemy, thought, and that it is continually at variance with our deeds. It rises up at times, terrible, perfidious, and we try to drive it away without success. We do not, thanks to G.o.d, invariably obey it; but it pursues us, torments us, makes us suffer. How often the most evil thoughts a.s.sail us, and what battles we have to fight in order to drive away these children of our brain!

Anger, ambition, revenge give birth to the most detestable thoughts, which make us blush with shame as we should at some horrible blemish.

And yet they are not ours, for we have not evoked them; but they defile us nevertheless, and leave us in despair at not being masters of our own heart, mind, and body.

My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the book of destiny. The train pulled itself together, and, half leaping and half rolling along, we arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we heard a terrible noise, a column of water falling back like a huge sheaf. The bridge had given way! For more than a week the trains from the east and the north could not run over this route.

I left the money to our brave engine-driver, but my conscience was by no means tranquil, and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most frightful nightmares; and when any of the artistes spoke to me of their child, their mother, or their husband, whom they longed to see once more, I felt myself turn pale; a thrill of deep emotion went through me, and I had the deepest pity for my own self.

When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive from retrospective emotion. I had to submit to receiving a most friendly though fatiguing deputation of my compatriots. Then, loaded with flowers, I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel.

The roads were rivers, and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part of the city, the coachman explained to us in French, with a strong Ma.r.s.eilles accent, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. Hundreds of negroes had been drowned. "Ah, _baga.s.se_!" he cried, as he whipped up his horses.

At that period the hotels in New Orleans were squalid--dirty, uncomfortable, black with c.o.c.kroaches, and as soon as the candles were lighted the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed round and fell on one's shoulder, sticking in one's hair. Oh, I shudder still when I think of it!

At the same time as our company, there was at New Orleans an opera company, the "star" of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The country was poor, like all the other American districts where the French were to be found preponderating.

The opera did very poor business, and we did not do excellently either.

Six performances would have been ample in that city: we gave eight.

Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely.

An infinite charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different, black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their windows. The open-air traders under the arcades challenged one another with joyful flashes of wit. The sun, however, did not show itself once. But these people had the sun within themselves.

I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a carriage if the pavements had not been a metre high and occasionally more.