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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




I was destined to meet with them both again later in my life: Chilly
soon after, as manager at the Odeon, and Faille twenty years later, in
such a wretched condition that the tears came to my eyes when he
appeared before me and begged me to play for his benefit.

"Oh, I beseech you," said the poor man. "You will be the only attraction
at this performance, and I have only you to count on for the receipts."

I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered our first
interview and my "_audition_," but I who remembered it well only hope
that he did not.

Five days later Mile. Debay was well again, and took her _role_ as
usual.

Before accepting an engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, I wrote to
Camille Doucet. The following day I received a letter asking me to call
at the Ministry. It was not without some emotion that I went to see this
kind man again. He was standing up waiting for me when I was ushered
into the room. He held out his hands to me, and drew me gently towards
him.

"Oh, what a terrible child!" he said, giving me a chair. "Come now, you
must be calmer. It will never do to waste all these admirable gifts in
voyages, escapades, and boxing people's ears."

I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full of regret as I
looked at him.

"Now, don't cry, my dear child; don't cry. Let us try and find out how
we are to make up for all this folly."

He was silent for a moment, and then, opening a drawer, he took out a
letter. "Here is something which will perhaps save us," he said.

It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed manager of
the Odeon Theatre in conjunction with Chilly.

"They ask me for some young artistes to make up the Odeon company. Well,
we must attend to this." He got up, and, accompanying me to the door,
said as I went away, "We shall succeed."

I went back home and began at once to rehearse all my _roles_ in
Racine's plays. I waited very anxiously for several days, consoled by
Madame Guerard, who succeeded in restoring my confidence. Finally I
received a letter, and went at once to the Ministry. Camille Doucet
received me with a beaming expression on his face.

"It's settled," he said. "Oh, but it has not been easy, though," he
added. "You are very young, but very celebrated already for your
headstrong character. But I have pledged my word that you will be as
gentle as a young lamb."

"Yes, I will be gentle, I promise," I replied, "if only out of
gratitude. But what am I to do?"

"Here is a letter for Felix Duquesnel," he replied; "he is expecting
you."

I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said, "I shall see you
again, less officially, at your aunt's on Thursday. I have received an
invitation this morning to dine there, so you will be able to tell me
what Duquesnel says."

It was then half-past ten in the morning. I went home to put some pretty
clothes on. I chose a dress the underskirt of which was of canary
yellow, the dress being of black silk with the skirt scalloped round,
and a straw conical-shaped hat trimmed with corn, and black ribbon
velvet under the chin. It must have been delightfully mad looking.
Arrayed in this style, feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I
went to call on Felix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little
room, very artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very
elegant. He was smiling and altogether charming. I could not grasp the
fact that this fair-haired, gay young man would be my manager.

After a short conversation we agreed on every point we touched.

"Come to the Odeon at two o'clock," said Duquesnel, by way of
leave-taking, "and I will introduce you to my partner. I ought to say it
the other way round, according to society etiquette," he added,
laughing, "but we are talking _theatre_" (shop).

He came a few steps down the staircase with me, and stayed there leaning
over the balustrade to wish me good-bye.

At two o'clock precisely I was at the Odeon, and had to wait an hour. I
began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance of my promise to
Camille Doucet prevented me from going away.

Finally Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager's office.

"You will now see the other ogre," he said, and I pictured to myself the
other ogre as charming as his partner. I was therefore greatly
disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man, whom I recognised as
Chilly.

He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended not to recognise
me. He signed to me to sit down, and without a word handed me a pen and
showed me where to sign my name on the paper before me. Madame Guerard
interposed, laying her hand on mine.

"Do not sign without reading it," she said.

"Are you Mademoiselle's mother?" he asked, looking up.

"No," she said, "but it is just as though I were."

"Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly," he continued, "and then
sign or leave it alone, but be quick."

I felt the colour coming into my face, for this man was odious.
Duquesnel whispered to me, "There's no ceremony about him, but he's a
good fellow; don't take offence."

I signed my contract and handed it to his ugly partner.

"You know," he remarked, "He is responsible for you. I should not upon
any account have engaged you."

"And if you had been alone, Monsieur," I answered, "I should not have
signed, so we are quits."

I went away at once, and hurried to my mother's to tell her, for I knew
this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very day, I set off with
_mon petit Dame_ to buy everything necessary for furnishing my
dressing-room.

The following day I went to the convent in the Rue Notre Dame-des-Champs
to see my dear governess, Mlle. de Brabender. She had been ill with
acute rheumatism in all her limbs for the last thirteen months. She had
suffered so much that she looked like a different person. She was lying
in her little white bed, a little white cap covering her hair; her big
nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out eyes seemed to have no colour
in them. Her formidable moustache alone bristled up with constant spasms
of pain. Besides all this she was so strangely altered that I wondered
what had caused the change. I went nearer, and, bending down, kissed her
gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively that she understood
instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to look on the table near
her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old friend's teeth. I put
the three roses I had brought her in the glass, and, kissing her again,
I asked her forgiveness for my impertinent curiosity. I left the convent
with a very heavy heart, for the Mother Superior told me in the garden
that my beloved Mlle. de Brabender could not live much longer. I
therefore went every day for a time to see my gentle old governess, but
as soon as the rehearsals commenced at the Odeon my visits had to be
less frequent.

One morning about seven o'clock a message came from the convent to fetch
me in great haste, and I was present at the dear woman's death-agony.
Her face lighted up at the supreme moment with such a holy look that I
suddenly longed to die. I kissed her hands, which were holding the
crucifix, and they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be
there when she was placed in her coffin. On arriving at the convent the
next day, at the hour fixed, I found the sisters in such a state of
consternation that I was alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered?
They pointed to the door of the cell, without uttering a word. The nuns
were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary looking
being imaginable. My poor governess, lying rigid on her deathbed, had a
man's face. Her moustache had grown longer, and she had a beard nearly
half an inch long. Her moustache and beard were sandy, whilst the long
hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support of the
teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the sandy moustache. It was
like a terrible and ridiculous-looking mask, instead of the sweet face
of my friend. It was the mask of a man, whilst the little delicate hands
were those of a woman.

There was an awe-struck expression in the eyes of the nuns, in spite of
the assurance of the nurse who had dressed the poor dead body, and had
declared to them that the body was that of a woman. But the poor little
sisters were trembling and crossing themselves all the time.

The day after this dismal ceremony I made my _debut_ at the Odeon in _Le
jeu de l'amour et du hasard_. I was not suited for Marivaux's plays, as
they require a certain coquettishness and an affectation which were not
then and still are not among my qualities. Then, too, I was rather too
slight, so that I made no success at all. Chilly happened to be passing
along the corridor, just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging
me. Chilly pointed to me and remarked:

_"Une flute pour les gens du monde, il n'y a meme pas de mie."_

I was furious at the man's insolence, and the blood rushed to my face,
but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet's face, that face
always so clean shaven and young-looking under his crown of white hair.
I thought it was a vision of my mind, which was always on the alert, on
account of the promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he
came up to me.

"What a pretty voice you have!" he said. "Your second appearance will be
such a pleasure for us!"

This man was always courteous, but truthful. This _debut_ of mine had
not given him any pleasure, but he was counting on my next appearance,
and he had spoken the truth. I had a pretty voice, and that was all that
any one could say from my first trial.

I remained at the Odeon, and worked very hard. I was ready to take any
one's place at a moment's notice, for I knew all the _roles_. I made
some success, and the students had a predilection for me. When I came on
to the stage I was always greeted by applause from these young men. A
few old sticklers used to turn towards the pit and try and command
silence, but no one cared a straw for them.

Finally my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the happy idea of
putting _Athalie_ on again, with Mendelssohn's choruses.

Beauvallet, who had been odious as a professor, was charming as a
comrade. By special permission from the Ministry he was to play Joad.
The _role_ of Zacharie was assigned to me. Some of the Conservatoire
pupils were to take the spoken choruses, and the female pupils who
studied singing undertook the musical part. The rehearsals were so bad
that Duquesnel and Chilly were in despair.

Beauvallet, who was more agreeable now, but not choice in his language,
muttered some terrible words. We began over and over again, but it was
all to no purpose. The spoken choruses were simply abominable. When
suddenly Chilly exclaimed:

"Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. They will be right
enough with her pretty voice!"

Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his moustache to hide a
smile. Chilly was coming round to his _protegee_ after all. He nodded
his head in an indifferent way, in answer to his partner's questioning
look, and we began again, I reading all the spoken choruses. Every one
applauded, and the conductor of the orchestra was delighted, for the
poor man had suffered enough. The first performance was a veritable
little triumph for me! Oh, quite a little one, but still full of promise
for my future. The audience, charmed with the sweetness of my voice and
its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses, and I was
rewarded by three rounds of applause.

At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said, "_Thou_ art adorable!"
His _thou_ rather annoyed me, but I answered mischievously, using the
same form of speech:

"_Thou_ findest me fatter?"

He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we both used
the familiar _thou_ and became the best friends imaginable.

Oh, that Odeon Theatre! It is the theatre I loved most. I was very sorry
to leave it, for every one liked each other there, and every one was
gay. The theatre is a little like the continuation of school. The young
artistes came there, and Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and very
polite and young himself. During rehearsal we often went off, several of
us together, to play ball in the Luxembourg, during the acts in which we
were not "on." I used to think of my few months at the Comedie
Francaise. The little world I had known there had been stiff,
scandal-mongering, and jealous. I recalled my few months at the Gymnase.
Hats and dresses were always discussed there, and every one chattered
about a hundred things that had nothing to do with art.

At the Odeon I was happy. We thought of nothing but putting plays on,
and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I liked that
very much.

For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at
Auteuil. I went to the theatre in a _petit duc_, which I drove myself. I
had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me because they
had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a
whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the
quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine,
and the gaiety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold cracked
steps of the theatre with veritable joy, and rushed up to my
dressing-room, wishing every one I passed good morning on my way. When I
had taken off my coat and gloves I went on to the stage, delighted to be
once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light (a _servante_
hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a
bench) thrown on the faces of the artistes for a few seconds.

There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere, full of
microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more
brilliant than that darkness.

One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought
she would have died with horror and disgust. "Oh, you poor child," she
murmured, "how can you live in that!" When once she was outside again
she began to breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh yes, I
could live in it, and I really only lived well in it. Since then I have
changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that gloomy
workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the precious stones
supplied to us by the poets.

The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed
hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed
to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in _Le Marquis de Villemer_
and _Francois le Champi_. In the former I took the part of the foolish
baroness, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely
twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played
Mariette, and made a great success.

Those rehearsals of the _Marquis de Villemer_ and _Francois le Champi_
have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Madame George
Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk
much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always dreamy, and
her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the kindest
expression. She had perhaps had a medium-sized figure, but she was no
longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection,
for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!

I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as
long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.

Prince Napoleon, commonly known as "Plon-Plon," often used to come to
George Sand's rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I
ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped
beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I. that I disliked him for it.
By resembling him it seemed to me that he made him seem less far away,
and brought him nearer to every one.

Madame Sand introduced me to him, in spite of my wishes. He looked at me
in an impertinent way: he displeased me. I scarcely replied to his
compliments, and went closer to George Sand.

"Why, she is in love with you!" he exclaimed, laughing.

George Sand stroked my cheek gently.

"She is my little Madonna," she answered; "do not torment her."

I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the Prince.
Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his
conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He
sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle
crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not
very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things
about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew
such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that
George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called
the Prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same
time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an
artiste, named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in _Francois le Champi_,
came into the green-room. Prince Napoleon, Madame George Sand, the
curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and myself were
there. This artiste was common, and something of an anarchist. He bowed
to Madame Sand, and addressing the Prince, said:

"You are sitting on my gloves, sir."

The Prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out, and, throwing them on
the floor, remarked, "I thought this seat was clean."

The actor coloured, picked up the gloves, and went away, murmuring some
revolutionary threat.

I played the part of Hortense in _Le testament de Cesar_, by Girodot,
and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas's _Kean_.

On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece [Footnote:
February 18, 1868.] the audience was most aggravating. Dumas _pere_ was
quite out of favour on account of a private matter that had nothing to
do with art. Politics for some time past had been exciting every one,
and the return of Victor Hugo from exile was very much desired. When
Dumas entered his box he was greeted by yells. The students were there
in full force, and they began shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and
asked to be allowed to speak. "My young friends," he began, as soon as
there was silence. "We are quite willing to listen," called out some
one, "but you must be alone in your box."

Dumas protested vehemently. Several persons in the orchestra took his
side, for he had invited a lady into his box, and whoever that lady
might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner.
I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the
hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our
great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing,
and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had
disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when
Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering, "No, no,
this lady shall not leave the box!"

Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted,
shouted, "Bravo!" Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few
seconds. Cries of "_Ruy Blas! Ruy Blas_! Victor Hugo! Hugo!" could then
be heard again in the midst of an infernal uproar. We had been ready to
commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited. Chilly and
Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.

"_Courage, mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad," they said. "We
will commence anyhow, let what will happen."

"I'm afraid I shall faint," I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold
as ice, and my heart was beating wildly. "What am I to do," I asked him,
"if I get too frightened?"

"There's nothing to be done," he replied. "Be frightened, but go on
playing, and don't faint upon any account!"

The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird
cries, cat-calls, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of "_Ruy Blas! Ruy
Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!"

My turn came. Berton _pere_, who was playing Kean, had been received
badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the
year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I
stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. At the very same instant
the cheers of my dear friends the students drowned the laughter of the
aggravators. This gave me courage, and I even felt a desire to fight.
But it was not necessary, for after the second endlessly long harangue,
in which I give an idea of my love for Kean, the house was delighted,
and gave me an ovation.

"Ignotus" wrote the following paragraph in the _Figaro_:

"Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume which
increased the tumult, but her rich voice, that astonishing voice of
hers, appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little
Orpheus."

After _Kean_ I played in _La loterie du mariage_. When we were
rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I
usually sat. I had a little arm-chair there from my dressing-room, and
put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a
little gas-burner there, and I could work whilst waiting for my turn to
go on the stage. I loved embroidery and tapestry work. I had a quantity
of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up one or the
other as I felt inclined.

Madame Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created
for the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large,
dark, gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went
up at the corners with an imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth,
and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living
incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her
pretty hands were long and rather soft, whilst her slow and rather heavy
walk completed the illusion. She was the great _tragedienne_ of the
Odeon Theatre. She approached me, with her measured tread, followed by a
young man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.

"Well, my dear," she said, kissing me, "there is a chance for you to
make a poet happy!" She then introduced Francois Coppee. I invited the
young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His
handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A
thrill of emotion went through me, for I adore Napoleon I.

"Are you a poet, Monsieur?" I asked.

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was.

"I have written a little piece," he continued, "and Mlle. Agar is sure
that you will play it with her."

"Yes, my dear," put in Agar, "you are going to play it for him. It is a
little masterpiece, and I am sure you will make a gigantic success."

"Oh, and you too. You will be so beautiful in it!" said the poet, gazing
rapturously at Agar.

I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few
minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the
beautiful _tragedienne_. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my
arm-chair, wanted to give it me back. On my refusing it she pulled me
down on to her lap. The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away
together, our three heads almost touching. It was decided that after
reading the piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable
of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from both
managers to play it at a benefit that was to take place after our next
production.

The young man was delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a
grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as
far as the little landing which projected over the stage. I watched them
as they went, the magnificent statue-like woman and the slender outline
of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was
certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I
could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this
matronly woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she too
appeared to be in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them
clasp each other's hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward
movement, the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and
kissed it fervently.

Agar came back to me with a faint colour in her cheeks. This was rare
with her, for she had a marble-like complexion. "Here is the
manuscript!" she said, giving me a little roll of paper.

The rehearsal was over, and I wished Agar good-bye, and on my way home
read the piece. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to
the theatre to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming
downstairs.

"Do come back again, please!" I exclaimed.

"Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?" he asked. "You look as
though you have won a big lottery prize."

"Well, it is something like that," I said, and entering his office, I
produced the manuscript.

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We do not know the women's names, but their voices are quite distinct. All are pregnant. But while the first woman awaits the birth of her baby with a moon-like serenity, the other two are not so lucky. One, whose previous pregnancies have failed to go to term, is experiencing a heartbreaking late miscarriage; the other is a young student whose accidental pregnancy will end in her child being put up for adoption.

Sylvia Plath's only play was never intended for the stage, being broadcast instead on BBC radio in August 1962. Less than six months later, Plath killed herself, but not before the burst of astonishing creative energy that produced her extraordinary, terrifying Ariel poems.

Anyone who knows Plath's poetry will see the connection between Three Women and Plath's subsequent poems, particularly in the way she talks about the agony of childbirth, the rush of love for this tiny alien being, and both the wonder and wounded rawness of motherhood. It is a beautiful piece, full of startling imagery that draws you in through the sheer intensity of its femaleness, and because it so precisely articulates the emotions that are often thought but seldom voiced by women - certainly not in the early 1960s - about men, motherhood and our relationship to our bodies.

It's been 20 years since there has been an attempt at a professional stage version and - in a theatre world that happily accepts the poetic offerings of Sarah Kane and Debbie Tucker Green, or the staged possibilities of The Waves, one of Plath's own inspirations for the piece, I see no reason why it shouldn't be brought to life. Sadly, it doesn't breathe here, in a production by Robert Shaw that is clearly a labour of love, but which never finds a way to give the internal a physical reality. Plath's poetry, like most babies, is more robust than it appears - and won't break if treated with a little less reverence and considerably more grit.

Instead, what we are offered is tinkling piano music, mournful mood lighting, an innocuous pale setting, as well as three perfectly good but indisputably ladylike performances that capture none of the wounded redness of Plath's poetry, and do her the disservice of making her sound bleached and somewhat prissy. It's a pity. What might have been a wonder ends up a mere curiosity.

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