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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




"Read this, please," I continued.

"I'll take it with me," he said.

"Oh no, read it here at once!" I insisted. "Shall I read it to you?"

"No, no," he replied; "your voice is treacherous. It makes charming
poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it," he continued,
sitting down in his arm-chair. He began to read whilst I looked at the
newspapers.

"It's delicious!" he soon exclaimed. "It's a perfect masterpiece."

I sprang to my feet in joy.

"And you will get Chilly to accept it?"

"Oh yes, you can make your mind easy. But when do you want to play it?"

"Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry," I said, "and Agar too."

"And you as well," he put in, laughing, "for this is a _role_ that just
suits your fancy."

"Yes, my dear '_Duq_,'" I acknowledged. "I too want it put on at once.
Do you want to be very nice?" I added. "If so, let us have it for the
benefit of Madame ---- in a fortnight from now. That would not make any
difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy."

"Good!" said Duquesnel, "I will settle it like that. What about the
scenery, though?" he muttered meditatively, biting his nails, which were
then his favourite meal when disturbed in his mind.

I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home, and on
the way I put my plan before him.

We might have the scenery of _Jeanne de Ligneris_, a piece that had been
put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered at by the
public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers,
statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them
to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost he would shriek, as he
had done in his _role_ of Rodin. Agar and I would supply our own
costumes.

When I arrived at Duquesnel's house, he asked me to go in and discuss
the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after
kissing the prettiest face one could possibly dream of, I told its owner
about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at
once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. Whilst she was
talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming
head, with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the face, with
its two little pink dimples. Her hair was soft and light, and formed a
halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists, finishing
with the loveliest hands imaginable, hands that were later on quite
famous.

On leaving my two friends I drove straight to Agar's to tell her what
had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of hers, a
priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted with my
story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a timid
ring at the bell, and Francois Coppee was announced.

"I am just going away," I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and
shook hands. "Agar will tell you everything."




XIV


LE PASSANT--AT THE TUILERIES--FIRE IN MY FLAT


The rehearsals of _Le Passant_ commenced very soon after this, and were
delightful, for the timid young poet was a most interesting and
intelligent talker.

The first performance took place as arranged, and _Le Passant_ was a
veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and Agar
and myself had eight curtain calls. We tried in vain to bring the author
forward, as the audience wished to see him. Francois Coppee was not to
be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become famous within a
few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and myself, we were
simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay for our
costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times
consecutively to full houses.

We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the house of Princess
Mathilde.

Oh, that first performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain
for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now.
It had been arranged between Duquesnel and the official sent from the
Court that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where
we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the
requirements of the piece. Count de Laferriere was to introduce me to
the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugenie. Agar
was to be introduced by Princess Mathilde, to whom she was then sitting
as Minerva.

M. de Laferriere came for me at nine o'clock in a state carriage, and
Madame Guerard accompanied me.

M. de Laferriere was a very agreeable man, with rather stiff manners. As
we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an
instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been
introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and Comte de Laferriere
explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me, "Good luck!"
Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and
called out, "Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of
good-for-nothings!"

On arriving at the Palace we all three got out of the carriage, and were
shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground floor.

"I will go and inform his Majesty that you are here," said M. de
Laferriere, leaving us.

When alone with Madame Guerard I thought I would rehearse my three
curtseys.

"_Mon petit Dame_," I said, "tell me whether they are right."

I made the curtseys, murmuring, "Sire... Sire..." I began over again
several times, looking down at my dress as I said "Sire..." when
suddenly I heard a stifled laugh.

I stood up quickly, furious with Madame Guerard, but I saw that she too
was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind
me--was the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing
quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was
embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been
curtseying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence
right, and saying, "There... that's too low... There; is that right,
Guerard?"

"Good Heavens!" I now said to myself. "Has he heard it all?"

In spite of my confusion, I now made my curtsey again, but the Emperor
said, smiling:

"Oh! no; it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for the
Empress, who is expecting you."

Oh, that "just now." I wondered when it had been?

I could not question Madame Guerard, as she was following at some
distance with M. de Laferriere. The Emperor was at my side, talking to
me of a hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way,
on account of that "just now."

I liked him much better thus, quite near, than in his portraits. He had
such fine eyes, which he half closed whilst looking through his long
lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale and his
voice faint, but seductive.

We found the Empress seated in a large arm-chair. Her body was sheathed
in a grey dress, and seemed to have been moulded into the material. I
thought her very beautiful. She too was more beautiful than her
portraits. I made my three curtseys under the laughing eyes of the
Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough,
hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.

From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her
graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been
introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room,
where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for
the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps where Agar had to
pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love and longing for
ideal love.

This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to
represent the first three steps of a huge flight leading up to a
Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for
some shrubs, flowers and plants, which I arranged along the three steps.

The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of
age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar
mounted the steps to try the effect. He was delicious, with his
magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those of his mother, and with his
father's long eyelashes. He was witty like the Emperor, whom people
surnamed "Louis the Imbecile," and who certainly had the most refined,
subtle, and at the same time the most generous wit.

We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we
should return two days later for a rehearsal before their Majesties.

How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the
rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of
us in the most charming manner, but her voice was very ugly. She told
the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits, and to
show us over the Palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much
about this, but _mon petit Dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the
offer that I gave in to them.

I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been
uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor's study
and the staircases. This inspection of the Palace bored me terribly. A
few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at
Winterhalter's portrait representing the Empress Eugenie. She looked
beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for
it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her Majesty.

The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young Prince
did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for we had made
it a dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the
_soiree_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a
_bal deguise_ which was to be given for the Imperial child. Our
performance was in honour of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the
Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as "Prince Citron."

A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had
remarkably small feet, and in order to make them look still smaller she
encased them in shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully
beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a
dress of pale blue satin embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair she
was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her small
feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppee's piece my
eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two little feet
moving restlessly about. Finally I saw one of the shoes pushing its
little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of the Empress
come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at the toe, and I
was very anxious to know how it would get back, for under such
circumstances the foot swells, and cannot go into a shoe that is too
narrow. When the piece was over we were recalled twice, and as it was
the Empress who started the applause, I thought she was putting off the
moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little sore foot trying in
vain to get back into its shoe. The curtains were drawn, and as I had
told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched through them its various
phases.

The Emperor rose, and every one followed his example. He offered his arm
to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet
risen. The Emperor's face lighted up with that smile which I had already
seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and
other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a
rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of
Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her Majesty's
distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped
the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw
that the Empress leaned more heavily on the Prince's arm than she would
have liked, for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.

We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and
feted so much that we were delighted with our evening.

After _Le Passant_ and the prodigious success of that adorable piece, a
success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me,
and began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was
great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the
students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and
long, long poems--too long to read. Sometimes on arriving at the theatre
as I was getting out of my carriage I received a shower of flowers which
simply covered me, and I was delighted, and used to thank my
worshippers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so
that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather
chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant and
would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well
that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odeon, who
were very kindly disposed towards me nevertheless, as they too used to
spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and
less headstrong. How many times one or another of these old subscribers
would come and give me a word of advice. "Mademoiselle, you were
charming in _Junie_," one of them observed; "but you bite your lips, and
the Roman women never did that!"

"My dear girl," another said, "you were delicious in _Francois le
Champi_, but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany
with her hair curled."

A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day rather curtly, "It is a
want of respect, Mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!"

"But, Monsieur," I replied, "I was accompanying an old lady to a door
at the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backwards."

"The artistes we had before you, Mademoiselle, who were quite as
talented as you, if not more so, had a way of going across the stage
without turning their back on the public."

And he turned quickly on his heel and was going away, when I stopped
him.

"Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass,
without turning your back on me?"

He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and
disappeared, slamming the door after him.

I lived some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor, which
was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture which
my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure against
fire, as this furniture, he told me, constituted a small fortune. I
decided to follow his advice, and asked _mon petit Dame_ to take the
necessary steps for me. A few days later she told me that some one would
call about it on the 12th.

On the day in question, towards two o'clock, a gentleman called, but I
was in an extremely nervous condition, and said: "No, I must be left
alone to-day. I do not wish to see any one."

I had refused to be disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a
frightfully depressed state.

That same evening I received a letter from the fire insurance company,
La Fonciere, asking which day their agent might call to have the
agreement signed. I replied that he might come on Saturday.

On Friday I was so utterly wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come
and lunch with me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to
perform on Tuesdays and Fridays, days on which repertoire plays only
were given. As I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was
feared that I should be over-tired.

My mother on arriving thought I looked very pale.

"Yes," I replied. "I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in
a very nervous state and most depressed."

The governess came to fetch my little boy, to take him out for a walk,
but I would not let him go.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "The child must not leave me to-day. I am afraid
of something happening."

What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than, with my
love for my family, I was dreading.

I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It
was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a
spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was
very tall indeed, six feet, but she looked like a giantess. She was thin
and very upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of
her, feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock
herself, although she was always accompanied by the nurse whom I had
engaged for her. Above this long body was her little face, with two
immense pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep at
night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in grey, and this
neutral colour gave something unreal to her general appearance.

My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o'clock. My
grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire armchair,
questioned me:

"What are you afraid of?" she asked. "Why are you so mournful? I have
not heard you laugh all day."

I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed to me that the
trouble I was dreading would come through her.

"Are you not there?" she insisted.

"Yes, I am here," I answered; "but please do not talk to me."

She did not utter another word, but with her two hands on her lap sat
there for hours. I sketched her strange, fatidical face.

It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and dress, after being
present at the meal taken by my grandmother and the child. My friend
Rose Baretta was dining with me that evening, and I had also invited a
most charming and witty man, Charles Haas. Arthur Meyer came too. He was
a young journalist already very much in vogue. I told them about my
forebodings with regard to that day, and begged them not to leave me
before midnight.

"After that," I said, "it will not be to-day, and the wicked spirits who
are watching me will have missed their chance."

They agreed to humour my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who was to have gone
to some first night at one of the theatres, remained with us. Dinner was
more animated than luncheon had been, and it was nine o'clock when we
left the table. Rose Baretta sang us some delightful old songs. I went
away for a minute to see that all was right in my grandmother's room. I
found my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative
water. I asked what was the matter, and she said that she had a terrible
headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything for me for the
night, and then to go to bed. She thanked me, and obeyed.

I went back to the drawing-room, and, sitting down to the piano, played
"Il Bacio," Mendelssohn's "Bells," and Weber's "Last Thought." I had not
come to the end of this last melody when I stopped, suddenly hearing in
the street cries of "Fire! Fire!"

"They are shouting 'Fire!'" exclaimed Arthur Meyer.

"That's all the same to me," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "It is not
midnight yet, and I am expecting my own misfortune."

Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see where the shouts
were coming from. He stepped out on to the balcony, and then came
quickly in again.

"The fire is here!" he exclaimed. "Look!"

I rushed to the window, and saw the flames coming from the two windows
of my bedroom. I ran back through the drawing-room in to the corridor,
and then to the room where my child was sleeping with his governess and
his nurse. They were all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door,
the bell of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women
quickly, wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed to the
door with my precious burden. I then ran downstairs, and, crossing the
street, took him to Guadacelli's chocolate shop opposite, just at the
corner of the Rue Caumartin.

The kind man took my little slumberer in and let him lie on a couch,
where the child continued his sleep without any break. I left him in
charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly back to the
flaming house. The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived,
and at all costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother. It was
impossible to go back up the principal staircase, as it was filled with
smoke.

Charles Haas, bareheaded and in evening dress, a flower in his
button-hole, started with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon
on the first floor, but when once there my knees shook; it seemed as
thought my heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair. The kitchen
door, at the top of the first flight of stairs, was locked with a triple
turn of the key. My amiable companion was tall, slight, and elegant, but
not strong. I besought him to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or
something, but just at that moment, a newcomer wrenched the door open by
a violent plunge with his shoulder against it. This new arrival was no
other than M. Sohege, a friend of mine. He was a most charming and
excellent man, a broad-shouldered Alsatian, well known in Paris, very
lively and kind, and always ready to do any one a service. I took my
friends to my grandmother's room. She was sitting up in bed, out of
breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon her. This
maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big, strapping girl from
Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully, in spite of the uproar in
the street, the noise of the fire-engines, which had arrived at last,
and the wild shrieks of the occupants of the house. Sohege shook the
maid, whilst I explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and
why we were in her room.

"Very good," she said; and then she added calmly, "Will you give me the
box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom of the wardrobe? The key of
it is here."

"But, grandmother," I exclaimed, "the smoke is beginning to come in
here. We have not any time to lose."

"Well, do as you like. I shall not leave without my box!"

With the help of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer we put my grandmother
on Sohege's back in spite of herself. He was of medium height, and she
was extremely tall, so that her long legs touched the ground, and I was
afraid she might get them injured. Sohege therefore took her in his
arms, and Charles Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke
stifled us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a
faint.

When I came to myself I was in my mother's bed. My little boy was asleep
in my sister's room, and my grandmother was installed in a large
armchair. She sat bolt upright, frowning, and with an angry expression
on her lips. She did not trouble about anything but her box, until at
last my mother was angry, and reproached her in Dutch with only caring
for herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward as
though to help her head to peer through the perpetual darkness which
surrounded her. Her thin body, wrapped in an Indian shawl of many
colours, the hissing of her strident words, which flowed freely, all
contributed to make her resemble a serpent in some terrible nightmare.
My mother did not like this woman, who had married my grandfather when
he had six big children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the
youngest, my uncle, five years. This second wife had never had any
children of her own, and had been indifferent, even harsh, towards those
of her husband; and consequently she was not liked in the family. I had
taken charge of her because small-pox had broken out in the family with
whom she had been boarding. She had then wished to stay with me, and I
had not had courage enough to oppose her.

On the occasion of the fire, though, I considered she behaved so badly
that a strong dislike to her came over me, and I resolved not to keep
her with me. News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage,
and burnt everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even to the very
last book in my library. My greatest sorrow was that I had lost a
magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre Severin, a pastelist
very much _a la mode_ under the Empire; an oil portrait of my father,
and a very pretty pastel of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewellery,
and all that was found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a
huge shapeless mass, which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem, set
with diamonds and pearls, given to me by Kalil Bey after a performance
at his house. The ashes of this had to be sifted in order to find the
stones. The diamonds were there, but the pearls had melted.

I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and his mother had
left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities, and a hundred other
useless things, which were the delight of my life. I had, too, and I own
it was absurd, a tortoise named Chrysagere. Its back was covered with a
shell of gold set with very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh,
how beautiful it was, and how droll! It used to wander round my flat,
accompanied by a smaller tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its
servant, and I used to amuse myself for hours watching Chrysagere,
flashing with a hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the moon.
Both my tortoises died in this fire.

Fidel and Che: a revolutionary friendship

After last week's fairly open theme, I thought I'd go with something a bit more structured this time. As I type this, I'm listening to Steeleye Span and thinking about the great ballad traditions of Britain and Ireland. What is a ballad? I suppose the most inclusive definition would be that it's a singable narrative poem: that covers a multitude but will do for the moment.

Ballads in English stretch back to the middle ages, with fine examples to be found among the Scottish border ballads and the English Robin Hood poems. These early ballads are among the best-known poems and stories in the language, and form part of the common heritage of English speakers everywhere. They gave rise to a tradition of ballad-making that endures down to the present day.

In fact, most poets since have tried their hand at the ballad at one time or another, and the result has been to deny any definition more specific than the one I ventured in my first paragraph. If you look around the internet, you'll come up with a wide selection of poems that are called ballads but have little in common formally. Stanza length varies from two to 10 or more lines, and all sorts of metrical and rhyming patterns are used. A good number will be singable in only the loosest possible sense, and at times the narrative tends to get lost in a mesh of more-or-less successful verbal embroidery.

So, what should a ballad be? Well, "proper" ballad stanzas are quatrains in which the first and third lines have four stresses and the second and third have three. The lines will rhyme A-B-C-B or A-B-A-B. It's as simple, and as difficult, as that. Here's an example, from Robert Burns's extremely singable Comin Thro' the Rye:

Gin a body meet a body
          Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body –
          Need a body cry.

Burns wrote a good number of ballads, and his lead was followed by many 19th-century poets. Two examples that I particularly like are Robert Browning's Confessions and Christina Rossetti's Up-Hill, but you can find ballads by just about any Romantic or Victorian poet if you look for them.

There is a long, strong tradition of ballads and ballad singers in Ireland, too. It is hardly surprising, then, that the great appropriator of tradition, WB Yeats, tried his hand at the form. At least four of his poems have the word "ballad" in the title; the pick of the bunch, for my money, is The Ballad of Father Gilligan, which may have benefited from having been written with a specific tune in mind.

Ballads continued to be written in the 20th century; perhaps the most unexpected exponents were Ezra Pound, with his Ballad of the Goodly Fere, and WH Auden. In fact, the ballad The Quarry is probably my favourite Auden poem.

And so, this week I invite a chorus of balladeering. You may choose to go the whole hog and write in ballad stanzas or you might prefer to take a more liberal view of the formal requirements. Either way, sing up and – as they say at all the best Irish sessions when calling for a bit of hush for the singer – one voice please.

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Obituary: Donald Westlake

The disputed Holocaust memoir, written by Herman Rosenblat, which was dropped from Penguin Group's publication schedule at the end of December is now set to appear as a work of fiction.

Rosenblat's memoir - which Oprah Winfrey called "the single greatest love story" she had heard in two decades in television - recounted how as a teenage boy in a Nazi concentration camp, he was kept alive by the food which was thrown to him by a young girl, Roma Radzicky. Penguin's US imprint Berkley Books had planned to publish the story, which sees Rosenblat reunited with Radzicky on a blind date years later, as Angel at the Fence: the True Story of a Love That Survived, next month.

But a Holocaust historian said it would have been impossible to approach the fence in the Schlieben concentration camp to throw food over it, concluding that this part of the story was made-up. Berkley initially defended the book, saying it was a work of memory, but then decided to cancel its planned publication, and demanded the return of the advance it had made to Rosenblat. A $25m film based on the book, to be called The Flower of the Fence, is still going ahead, with production due to start this year.

Publisher York House Press based in White Plains, New York, has entered into a tentative agreement with the film production company to publish a novel based on the film script early this spring. It said the book would be "grounded in fact", and would rise "to the proper levels of artistic value, ethical conduct and social responsibility".

A spokesperson for York House Press condemned the attacks which were made on the 80-year-old Rosenblat after the veracity of his story was questioned, describing them as a "savage" response to what was otherwise "a credible, heart-wrenching, and verifiable account" of his time in the concentration camp.

"No deliberate untruth is permissible, but beneath any fabrication is motivation and intent. We believe Mr. Rosenblat's motivations were very human, understandable and forgivable," the spokesperson said. "It is beyond our expertise to know how Holocaust survivors cope with their trauma. Do they deny, try to forget, rationalise or fantasise and promote fiction along with truth? Perhaps the coping mechanisms are as individual as the survivors themselves."

The president of the company producing the film, Harris Salomon from Atlantic Overseas Productions, said the book, "regardless of its shortcomings", would "challenge, educate and enlighten" readers about the horrors of the Holocaust. "The documented fact, acknowledged by his critics, is that Herman is a survivor of concentration camps," he said.

But Rosenblat's agent, Andrea Hurst, said that neither she nor Rosenblat were involved with this version of his story. "Usually book rights from films come out after the movie is released," she told guardian.co.uk. "I think the timing on this is very insensitive."

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