My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders

MY DOUBLE LIFE

_The Memoirs of
Sarah Bernhardt_

1907

CONTENTS

Chap.
I. CHILDHOOD

II. AT BOARDING SCHOOL

III. CONVENT LIFE

IV. MY DEBUT

V. THE SOLDIER'S SHAKO

VI. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE

VII. MY CAREER--FIRST LESSONS

VIII. THE CONSERVATOIRE

IX. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS--THE CONSERVATOIRE

X. MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT

XI. MY DEBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIERE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM

XII. AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE--A TRIP TO SPAIN

XIII. FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODEON

XIV. "LE PASSANT"--AT THE TUILERIES--FIRE IN MY FLAT

XV. THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR

XVI. SARAH BERNHARDT'S AMBULANCE AT THE ODEON THEATRE

XVII. PARIS BOMBARDED

XVIII. A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES

XIX. MY RETURN TO PARIS--THE COMMUNE--AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE

XX. VICTOR HUGO

XXI. A MEMORABLE SUPPER

XXII. AT THE COMEDIE FRANCAISE AGAIN--SCULPTURE

XXIII. A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF--MY FIRST APPEARANCE AS
PHEDRE--THE DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION

XXIV. ALEXANDRE DUMAS--"L'ETRANGERE"--MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON

XXV. "HERNANI"--A TRIP IN A BALLOON

XXVI. THE COMEDIE GOES TO LONDON

XXVII. LONDON LIFE--MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

XXVIII. MY PERFORMANCE IN LONDON--MY EXHIBITION--MY WILD
ANIMALS--TROUBLE WITH THE COMEDIE FRANCAISE

XXIX. THE COMEDIE FRANCAISE RETURNS TO PARIS--SARAH BERNHARDT'S COMMENTS
ON ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY

XXX. MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMEDIE FRANCAISE--PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
AMERICAN TOUR--ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON

XXXI. A TOUR IN DENMARK--ROYAL FAMILIES--THE "TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS" OF
SARAH BERNHARDT

XXXII. EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HAVRE TO NEW YORK

XXXIII. ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK--AMERICAN REPORTERS--THE CUSTOM
HOUSE--PERFORMANCES IN NEW YORK--A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK

XXXIV. AT BOSTON--STORY OF THE WHALE

XXXV. MONTREAL'S GRAND RECEPTION--THE POET FRECHETTE--AN ESCAPADE ON THE
ST. LAWRENCE RIVER

XXXVI. SPRINGFIELD--BALTIMORE--PHILADELPHIA--CHICAGO--ADVENTURES BETWEEN
ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI--CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

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

XXXVIII. THE RETURN TO FRANCE--THE WELCOME AT HAVRE

INDEX

I

CHILDHOOD

My mother was fond of travelling: she would go from Spain to England,
from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to
Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for
Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for
herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: "Look
after little Sarah; I shall return in a month's time." A month later she
would write to another of her sisters: "Go and see the child at her
nurse's; I shall be back in a couple of weeks."

My mother's age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts
were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and
the eldest was twenty-eight; but the last one lived at Martinique, and
was the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather
dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no
idea why he had gone there.

My youthful aunts always promised to come to see me, but rarely kept
their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany, and lived near Quimperle, in
a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild
gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a
child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and
sad-looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun.

Brittany is a long way off, even in our epoch of velocity! In those days
it was the end of the world. Fortunately my nurse was, it appears, a
good, kind woman, and, as her own child had died, she had only me to
love. But she loved after the manner of poor people, when she had time.

One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather
in potatoes; the over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time
to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his
Breton bedstead suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman
had placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the
wooden peg which supported the narrow table for my toys. She threw a
faggot in the grate, and said to me in Breton language (until the age of
four I only understood Breton), "Be a good girl, Milk Blossom." That was
my only name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the
wooden peg which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally
I succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the
ground, but--poor little me!--I fell into the fire, which was burning
joyfully.

The screams of my foster-father, who could not move, brought in some
neighbours. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk.
My aunts were informed of what had happened: they communicated the news
to my mother, and for the next four days that quiet part of the country
was ploughed by stage-coaches which arrived in rapid succession. My
aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest
alarm, hastened from Brussels, with Baron Larrey, one of her friends,
who was a young doctor, just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house
surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since
that nothing was so painful to witness and yet so charming as my
mother's despair. The doctor approved of the "mask of butter," which was
changed every two hours.

Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we
shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such
charming fashion how those kind folks loved Milk Blossom. And he could
never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was
butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards,
on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the
neighbours used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.

Mother, adorably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair
and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on
her cheeks when she looked down.

She distributed money on all sides. She would have given her golden
hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her life itself, in
order to save her child. And she was as sincere in her despair and her
love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to
Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and the surgeon with me.
Forty-two days later, mother took back in triumph to Paris the nurse,
the foster-father, and me, and installed us in a little house at
Neuilly, on the banks of the Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears.
My skin was rather too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy
and trustful once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of my
aunts.

Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of
horrible dahlias growing close together and coloured like wooden balls.
My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bon-bons, and
toys. The foster-father died, and my nurse married a concierge, who used
to pull open the door at 65 Rue de Provence.

Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my
nurse--without telling any of my friends--took me with her to her new
abode.

The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I
remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse's abode was just over
the doorway of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and
monumental door. From outside I thought it was beautiful, and I began to
clap my hands on reaching the house. It was towards five o'clock in the
evening, in the month of November, when everything looks grey. I was put
to bed, and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.

The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no
window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and
escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could
go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an
immense "bull's-eye" above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow
against the glass, and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no
box-weed, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone--cold, grey,
ugly stone--and panes of glass opposite me. "I want to go away! I don't
want to stay here! It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the
ceiling of the street!" and I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up
in her arms, and, folding me in a rug, took me down into the courtyard.
"Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See--there is the ceiling of
the street!"

It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly
place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale
and became anaemic, and should certainly have died of consumption if it
had not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I
was playing in the courtyard with a little girl, called Titine, who
lived on the second floor, and whose face or real name I cannot recall,
when I saw my nurse's husband walking across the courtyard with two
ladies, one of whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their
backs, but the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my heart to
stop beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous excitement.

"Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?" she asked.

"Yes, Madame, those four," he replied, pointing to four open ones on the
first floor.

The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.

"Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!" I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the
pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing,
laughing, and tearing her wide lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight. She
took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the concierge,
she stammered out to her friend: "I can't understand what it all means!
This is little Sarah! My sister Youle's child!"

The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their
windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the concierge's lodge, in
order to come to an explanation. My poor nurse told her about all that
had taken place, her husband's death, and her second marriage. I do not
remember what she said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was
deliciously perfumed, and I would not let go of her. She promised to
come the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any
longer in that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse. My
aunt stroked my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did
not understand. She tried in vain to explain something to me; I do not
know what it was, but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at
once. In a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real
affection, she said all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her
gloved hands, patted my frock, which was turned up, and made any amount
of charming, frivolous little gestures, but all without any real
feeling. She then went away, at her friend's entreaty, after emptying
her purse in my nurse's hands. I rushed towards the door, but the
husband of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it again. My
nurse was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she opened the window,
saying to me, "Don't cry, Milk Blossom. Look at your pretty aunt; she
will come back again, and then you can go away with her." Great tears
rolled down her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the
dark, black hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit
of despair I rushed out to my aunt, who was just getting into a
carriage. After that I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark, there
was a noise in the distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had
managed to escape from my poor nurse, and had fallen down on the
pavement in front of my aunt. I had broken my arm in two places, and
injured my left knee-cap. I only came to myself again a few hours later,
to find that I was in a beautiful, wide bed which smelt very nice. It
stood in the middle of a large room, with two lovely windows, which made
me very joyful, for I could see the ceiling of the street through them.

My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me,
and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little
brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so
fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by
one single person.

As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I was two years
recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time was nearly
always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my life, which
have left me only a vague memory of being petted and of a chronic state
of torpor.

II

AT BOARDING SCHOOL

One day my mother took me on her knees and said to me, "You are a big
girl now, and you must learn to read and write." I was then seven years
old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years
with the old nurse and two years ill. "You must go to school," continued
my mother, playing with my curly hair, "like a big girl." I did not know
what all this meant, and I asked what a school was.

"It's a place where there are many little girls," replied my mother.

"Are they ill?" I asked.

"Oh no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they play together, and
are very gay and happy."

I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing
tears in my mother's eyes I flung myself in her arms.

"But what about you, Mamma?" I asked. "You will be all alone, and you
won't have any little girl."

She bent down to me and said: "God has told me that He will send me some
flowers and a little baby."

My delight was more and more boisterous. "Then I shall have a little
brother!" I exclaimed, "or else a little sister. Oh no, I don't want
that; I don't like little sisters."

Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember,
in a blue corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus
in all my splendour, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine's carriage,
which was to take us to Auteuil.

It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an
hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys
being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by
the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When
my aunt's magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in,
slowly and calmly. I got in when my turn came, giving myself airs,
because the concierge and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt
then sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders
in English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a
paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours,
in which three men were seated: Regis L----, a friend of my father's,
General de P----, and an artist, named Fleury, I think, whose pictures
of horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then.

I heard on the way that these gentlemen were to make arrangements for a
little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in
being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet
them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt
said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either
English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was
greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window
and my eyes wide open I gazed out eagerly at the grey muddy road, with
its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all
very beautiful, because it kept changing.

The carriage stopped at 18 Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a
long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma
said, "You will be able to read that soon, I hope." My aunt whispered to
me, "Boarding School, Madame Fressard," and very promptly I said to
mamma, "It says 'Boarding School, Madame Fressard.'"

Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my
assurance, and we entered the house. Madame Fressard came forward to
meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather
stout, and her hair turning grey, _a la Sevigne_. She had beautiful
large eyes, rather like George Sand's, and very white teeth, which
showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked
healthy, spoke kindly; her hands were plump and her fingers long. She
took my hand gently in hers, and half kneeling, so that her face was
level with mine, she said in a musical voice, "You won't be afraid of
me, will you, little girl?" I did not answer, but my face flushed as red
as a cockscomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply.
They all gathered round me.

"Speak, child----Come, Sarah, be a good girl----Oh, the naughty little
child!"

It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was
then made, to the bed-rooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the
usual exaggerated compliments were paid. "How beautifully it is all
kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!" and a hundred stupidities of
this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother
went aside with Madame Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she
could not walk. "This is the doctor's prescription," she said, and then
followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.

Madame Fressard smiled rather ironically. "You know, Madame," she said
to my mother, "we shall not be able to curl her hair like that."

"And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it," replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. "It's a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could
not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too
much. What do you give the children at four o'clock?" she asked,
changing the subject.

"Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them."

"There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam," said my mother, "but
she must have jam one day, and chocolate another, as she has not a good
appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of
chocolate." Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the name of
the maker.

"Ah! from Marquis's! What a spoiled little girl it is!" She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar
she looked surprised. "That's cold cream," said my mother. "I make it
myself, and I should like my little girl's face and hands to be rubbed
with it every night when she goes to bed."

"But----" began Madame Fressard.

"Oh, I'll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets," interrupted my
mother impatiently. (Ah, my poor mother! I remember quite well that my
sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.)

The farewell moment came at last, and every one gathered round mamma,
and finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing and with all
kinds of consoling words. "It will be so good for her--it is just what
she needs--you'll find her quite changed when you see her again"--&c.
&c.

The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and
tossed me in the air.

"You little chit," he said; "they are putting you into barracks, and
you'll have to mind your behaviour!"

I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Madame Fressard, who had a slight moustache, "You mustn't
do that to the lady, you know!"

My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and
the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and
farewells, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.

I spent two years at this pension. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learnt a hundred new games. I learnt to sing
_rondeaux_ and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was
relatively happy there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and
Sundays, and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in
the street seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large
garden belonging to the pension. Besides, there were little festivities
at Madame Fressard's which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella
Colas, who had just made her _debut_ at the Theatre Francais, came
sometimes on Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a
wink the night before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair
carefully and get ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in order
to listen to something I did not understand at all, but which
nevertheless left me spell-bound. Then, too, there was quite a legend
attached to this pretty girl. She had flung herself almost under the
horses' feet as the Emperor was driving along, in order to attract his
attention and obtain the pardon of her brother, who had conspired
against his sovereign.

Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Madame Fressard's, and this sister,
Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlou, Under Secretary of State
in the Treasury Department. Stella was slight and fair, with blue eyes
that were rather hard but expressive. She had a deep voice, and when
this pale, fragile girl began to recite Athalie's Dream, it thrilled me
through and through. How many times, seated on my child's bed, did I
practise saying in a low voice, "_Tremble, fille digne de moi_"--I used
to twist my head on my shoulders, swell out my cheeks, and commence:

"_Tremble--trem-ble--trem-em-ble----_"

But it always ended badly, and I would begin again very quietly, in a
stifled voice, and then unconsciously speak louder; and my companions,
roused by the noise, were amused at my attempts, and roared with
laughter. I would then rush about to the right and left, giving them
kicks and blows, which they returned with interest.

Madame Fressard's adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline (whom I chanced to
meet a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon), would
then appear on the scene. Angry and implacable, she would give us all
kinds of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get
locked up for three days: that was followed by my being detained on the
first day we were allowed out. And in addition I would receive five
strokes with a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler strokes of Mlle.
Caroline's! I reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five
years later. She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and
hold our hands straight out to her, and then bang came her wide ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, sharp blow which made the
tears spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was
beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a
very white complexion, and very black hair, which she wore in waved
_bandeaux_. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives
brought her to my house and said, "I am sure you will not recognise this
lady, and yet you know her very well." I was leaning against the large
mantelpiece in the hall, and I saw this tall woman, still beautiful, but
rather provincial-looking, coming through the first drawing-room. As she
descended the three steps into the hall the light fell on her protruding
forehead, framed on each side with the hard, waved _bandeaux_.

"Mademoiselle Caroline!" I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish
movement I hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw her again, for
the grudge I had owed her from my childhood must have been apparent
under my politeness as hostess.

As I said before, I was not unhappy at Madame Fressard's, and it seemed
quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite a
grown-up girl. My uncle, Felix Faure, who has entered the Carthusian
monastery, had stipulated that his wife, my mother's sister, should
often take me out. He had a very fine country place at, Neuilly, with a
stream running through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours,
together with my two cousins, a boy and girl.

These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any other events
than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole pension and
always left me in the infirmary for two or three days. These outbursts
of temper were like attacks of madness.

One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly to take me away altogether. My
father had written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and
these orders were imperative. My mother was travelling, so she had sent
word to my aunt, who had hurried off at once, between two dances, to
carry out the instructions she had received.

The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard to my own
wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled
about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out
all kinds of reproaches, blaming mamma, my aunts, and Madame Fressard
for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two
hours, and while I was being dressed I escaped twice into the garden and
attempted to climb the trees and to throw myself into the pond, in which
there was more mud than water.

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