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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should be with her some
time during the day. She came at once, as she wanted to know how my
health was. We then arranged about the departure of the whole family,
with the exception of myself, as I wanted to stay in Paris during the
siege. My mother, my little boy and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt
Annette, who kept house for me, and my mother's maid were all ready to
start two days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati's, at Havre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and the
possibility of doing so another. The stations were invaded by families
like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate. I sent my
man-servant to engage a compartment, and he came back three hours later
with his clothes torn, after receiving no end of kicks and blows.

"Madame cannot go into that crowd," he assured me; "it is quite
impossible. I should not be able to protect her. Besides, Madame will
not be alone; there is Madame's mother, the other ladies, and the
children. It is really quite impossible."

I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty, and
asked them to accompany me. I told my steward to be ready, as well as my
other man-servant and my mother's footman. He in his turn invited his
younger brother, who was a priest, and who was very willing to go with
us. We all set off in a railway omnibus. There were seventeen of us in
all, but only nine who were really travelling. Our eight protectors were
none too many, for those who were taking tickets were not human beings,
but wild beasts haunted by fear and spurred on by a desire to escape.
These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the door leading
to the train, and then the train which would ensure their escape. The
presence of the young priest was a great help to us, for his religious
character made people refrain sometimes from blows.

When once all my people were installed in the compartment which had been
reserved for them, they waved their farewells, threw kisses, and the
train started. A shudder of terror ran through me, for I suddenly felt
so absolutely alone. It was the first time I had been separated from the
little child who was dearer to me than the whole world.

Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a voice murmured,
"My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too? You are so delicate. Will you
be able to bear the solitude without the dear child?"

It was Madame Guerard, who had arrived too late to kiss the boy, but was
there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to my despair, regretting
that I had let him go away. And yet, as I said to myself, there might be
fighting in Paris! The idea never for an instant occurred to me that I
might have gone away with him. I thought that I might be of some use in
Paris. Of some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to me that
every one who was fit ought to remain in Paris. In spite of my weakness,
I felt that I was fit, and with reason, as I proved later on. I
therefore remained, not knowing at all what I was going to do.

For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the life around me, and
missing the affection.




XVI


SARAH BERNHARDT'S AMBULANCE AT THE ODEON THEATRE


The defence, however, was being organised, and I decided to use my
strength and intelligence in tending the wounded. The question was,
where could we instal an ambulance?

The Odeon Theatre had closed its doors, but I moved heaven and earth to
get permission to organise an ambulance in that theatre, and, thanks to
Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my wish was gratified. I went to the
War Office and made my declaration and my request, and my offers were
accepted for a military ambulance. The next difficulty was that I wanted
food. I wrote a line to the Prefect of Police. A military courier
arrived very soon, with a note from the Prefect containing the following
lines:

"Madame,--If you could possibly come at once, I would wait for you until
six o'clock. If not I will receive you to-morrow morning at eight.
Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the Chamber at
nine in the morning, and, as your note seems to be urgent, I am anxious
to do all I can to be of service to you.

"COMTE DE KERATRY."


I remembered a Comte de Keratry who had been introduced to me at my
aunt's house, the evening I had recited poetry accompanied by Rossini,
but he was a young lieutenant, good-looking, witty, and lively. He had
introduced me to his mother. I had recited poetry at her _soirees_. The
young lieutenant had gone to Mexico, and for some time we had kept up a
correspondence, but this had gradually ceased, and we had not met again.
I asked Madame Guerard whether she thought that the Prefect were a near
relative of my young friend's. "It may be so," she replied, and we
discussed this in the carriage which was taking us at once to the
Tuileries Palace, where the Prefect had his offices. My heart was very
heavy when we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one
April morning, I had been there with Madame Guerard. Then, as now, a
footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage, but the April
sunshine had then lighted up the steps, caught the shining lamps of the
State carriages, and sent its rays in all directions. There had been a
busy, joyful coming and going of the officers then, and elegant salutes
had been exchanged. On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November
sun fell heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up
one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the steps,
advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts of their
drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations I heard now such phrases as:
"Well, how are you, old chap?" "Oh, _la gueule de bois_!" "Well, any
news?" "Yes, it's the very deuce with us!" &c. &c.

The Palace was no longer the same.

The very atmosphere had changed. The faint perfume which elegant women
leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A vague odour of
tobacco, of greasy clothes, of dirty hair, made the atmosphere seem
heavy. Ah, the beautiful French Empress! I could see her again in her
blue dress embroidered with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella's good
fairy to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful young
Prince Imperial, too! I could see him helping me to arrange the pots of
verbena and marguerites, and holding in his arms, which were not strong
enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons, behind which his handsome
face completely disappeared. Then, too, I could see the Emperor Napoleon
III. with his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of
the curtseys intended for him.

And the fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed away in the
carriage of her American dentist, for it was not even a Frenchman, but a
foreigner, who had had the courage to protect the unfortunate woman. And
the gentle Utopian Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the
battle-field. Two horses had been killed under him, and he had not
received so much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword.
And we at home had all wept with anger, shame, and grief at this giving
up of the sword. And yet what courage it must have required for so brave
a man to carry out such an act. He had wanted to save a hundred thousand
men, to spare a hundred thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred
thousand mothers. Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do
him justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas, alas! he was
too confiding!

I stopped a minute before entering the Prefect's suite of rooms. I was
obliged to wipe my eyes, and in order to change the current of my
thoughts I said to _mon petit Dame._

"Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now for the first
time?"

"Oh yes!" she replied warmly.

"So much the better," I said, "for I want this old Prefect to think me
pretty. There are so many things I must ask him for!"

On entering his room, my surprise was great when I recognised in him the
lieutenant I knew. He had become captain, and then Prefect of Police.
When my name was announced by the usher, he sprang up from his chair and
came forward with his face beaming and both hands stretched out.

"Ah, you had forgotten me!" he said, and then he turned to greet Madame
Guerard in a friendly way.

"But I never thought I was coming to see you!" I replied: "and I am
delighted," I continued, "for you will let me have everything I ask
for."

"Only that!" he remarked with a burst of laughter. "Well, will you give
your orders, Madame?" he continued.

"Yes. I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine, brandy,
potatoes, eggs, coffee," I said straight away.

"Oh, let me get my breath!" exclaimed the Count-Prefect. "You speak so
quickly that I am gasping."

I was quiet for a moment, and then I continued:

"I have started an ambulance at the Odeon, but as it is a military
ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food. I have five wounded
men already, and I can manage for them, but other wounded men are being
sent to me, and I shall have to give them food."

"You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes," said the
Prefect. "There is food in the Palace which was being stored by the
unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough for months and months. I
will have all you want sent to you, except meat, bread, and milk, and as
regards these I will give orders that your ambulance shall be included
in the municipal service, although it is a military one. Then I will
give you an order for salt and other things, which you will be able to
get from the Opera."

"From the Opera?" I repeated, looking at him incredulously. "But it is
only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet."

"Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding
opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase
leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with
what you want."

"There is still something else I want to ask," I said.

"Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders," he replied.

"Well, I am very uneasy," I said, "for they have put a stock of powder
in the cellars under the Odeon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a
shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that
is not the aim and object of an ambulance."

"You are quite right," said the kind man, "and nothing could be more
stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about
that, though," he continued, "for I shall have to deal with a crowd of
stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way.
You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential
householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you
satisfied?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. "You have been most
kind and charming. Thank you very much."

I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as
though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guerard
saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently.

"My dear Sarah," she whispered, "do not do that."

I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand.

"What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?" he asked.

I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.

"I am very sorry," he said, bewildered, "but I do not understand at
all."

I was still pointing to the coat.

"Give it me, will you?" I said.

"My overcoat?"

"Yes."

"What do you want it for?"

"For my wounded men when they are convalescent."

He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this
uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.

"There is nothing so funny about it," I said. "I have a poor fellow, for
instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to
stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier's cape is not warm
enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odeon
sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I
tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould's
overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge,
and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity
again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like
a very warm one."

I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the young
Prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the pockets of his
overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk muffler from the
largest pocket.

"Will you allow me to keep my muffler?" he asked.

I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent.

Our host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him the
overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter in his
eyes:

"Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?"

I thanked him again, and went away feeling very happy.

Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered with the
signatures of the householders and tradesmen residing near the Odeon.

On entering the Prefect's room I was petrified to see him, instead of
advancing to meet me, rush towards a cupboard, open the door, and fling
something hastily into it. After this he leaned against the door as
though to prevent my opening it.

"Excuse me," he said, in a witty, mocking tone, "but I caught a violent
cold after your first visit. I have just put my overcoat--oh, only an
ugly old overcoat, not a warm one," he added quickly, "but still an
overcoat--inside there, and there it now is, and I will take the key out
of the lock."

He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came forward and
offered me a chair. But our conversation soon took a more serious turn,
for the news was very bad. For the last twelve days the ambulances had
been crowded with wounded men. Everything was in a bad way, home
politics as well as foreign politics. The Germans were advancing on
Paris. The army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta, Chanzy,
Bourbaki, and Trochu were organising a desperate defence. We talked for
some time about all these sad things, and I told him about the painful
impression I had had on my last visit to the Tuileries, of my
remembrance of every one, so brilliant, so considerate, and so happy
formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at present. We were silent for a
moment, and then I shook hands with him, told him I had received all he
had sent, and returned to my ambulance.

The Prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of brandy; 30,000
eggs, all packed in boxes with lime and bran; a hundred bags of coffee
and boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert biscuits, a thousand tins of
preserves, and a quantity of other things.

M. Menier, the great chocolate manufacturer, had sent me five hundred
pounds of chocolate. One of my friends, a flour dealer, had made me a
present of twenty sacks of flour, ten of which were maize flour. This
flour-dealer was the one who had asked me to be his wife when I was at
the Conservatoire. Felix Potin, my neighbour when I was living at 11
Boulevard Malesherbes, had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels
of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two sacks
of lentils, and twenty sugar-loaves. From M. de Rothschild I had
received two barrels of brandy and a hundred bottles of his own wine for
the convalescents. I also received a very unexpected present. Leonie
Dubourg, an old school-fellow of mine at the Grand-Champs convent, sent
me fifty tin boxes each containing four pounds of salt butter. She had
married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated his own farms,
which it seems were very numerous. I was very much touched at her
remembering me, for I had never seen her since the old days at the
convent. I had also asked for all the overcoats and slippers of my
various friends, and I had bought up a job lot of two hundred flannel
vests. My Aunt Betsy, my blind grandmother's sister, who is still living
in Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed to get for me,
through the charming Ambassador for the Netherlands, three hundred
night-shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a hundred pairs of sheets.
I received lint and bandages from every corner of Paris, but it was more
particularly from the Palais de l'Industrie that I used to get my
provisions of lint and of linen for binding wounds. There was an
adorable woman there, named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all
the ambulances. All that she did was done with a cheerful gracefulness,
and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused sorrowfully, but
still in a gracious manner. She was at that time over thirty years of
age, and although unmarried she looked more like a very young married
woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes, and a laughing mouth, a
deliciously oval face, little dimples, and, crowning all this grace,
this dreamy expression, and this coquettish, inviting mouth, a wide
forehead like that of the Virgins painted by the early painters, rather
prominent, encircled by hair worn in smooth, wide, flat bandeaux,
separated by a faultless parting. The forehead seemed like the
protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle. Hocquigny was adored
and made much of by every one, but she remained invulnerable to all
homage. She was happy in being beloved, but she would not allow any one
to express affection for her.

At the Palais de l'Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated doctors
and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as the convalescents, were
all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny. As she and I were great
friends, she confided to me her observations and her sorrowful disdain.
Thanks to her, I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organised
my ambulance with a very small staff. My cook was installed in the
public _foyer_. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she
could make soups and herb-tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief
attendant. I had given him two assistants, and Madame Guerard, Madame
Lambquin, and I were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we
each went to bed one night in three. I preferred this to taking on some
woman whom I did not know. Madame Lambquin belonged to the Odeon, where
she used to take the part of the duennas. She was plain and had a common
face, but she was very talented. She talked loud and was very
plain-spoken. She called a spade a spade, and liked frankness and no
under meaning to things. At times she was a trifle embarrassing with the
crudeness of her words and her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert,
and devoted. My various friends who were on service at the
fortifications came to me in their free time to do my secretarial work.
I had to keep a book, which was shown every day to a sergeant who came
from the Val-de-Grace military hospital, giving all details as to how
many men came into our ambulance, how many died, and how many recovered
and left. Paris was in a state of siege; no one could go far outside the
walls, and no news from outside could be received. The Germans were not,
however, round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then to
see me, and I had as head surgeon Dr. Duchesne, who gave up his whole
time, night and day, to the care of my poor men during the five months
that this truly frightful nightmare lasted.

I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion. It was
no longer the country in danger that kept my nerves strung up, but the
sufferings of all her children. There were all those who were away
fighting, those who were brought in to us wounded or dying; the noble
women of the people, who stood for hours and hours in the _queue_ to get
the necessary dole of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones
at home. Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theatre
windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and stamping
their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing--for that winter was
the most cruel one we had had for twenty years. Frequently one of these
poor, silent heroines was brought in to me, either in a swoon from
fatigue or struck down suddenly with congestion caused by cold. On
December 20 three of these unfortunate women were brought into the
ambulance. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost the big toe of
her right foot. The second was an enormously stout woman, who was
suckling her child, and her poor breasts were harder than wood. She
simply howled with pain. The youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen
to eighteen years of age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I
had had her placed to send her home. On December 24, there were fifteen
degrees of cold. I often sent Guillaume, our attendant, out with a
little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh! the suffering they must have
endured--those heart-broken mothers, those sisters and _fiancees_--in
their terrible dread. How excusable their rebellion seems during the
Commune, and even their bloodthirsty madness!

My ambulance was full. I had sixty beds, and was obliged to improvise
ten more. The soldiers were installed in the green-room and in the
general _foyer_, and the officers in a room which had been formerly the
refreshment-room of the theatre.

One day a young Breton, named Marie Le Gallec, was brought in. He had
been struck by a bullet in the chest and another in the wrist. Dr.
Duchesne bound up his chest firmly, and attended to his wrist. He then
said to me very simply:

"Let him have anything he likes--he is dying."

I bent over his bed, and said to him:

"Tell me what would give you pleasure, Marie Le Gallec."

"Soup," he answered promptly, in the most comic way.

Madame Guerard hurried away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a
bowl of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the bowl on the little
four-legged wooden shelf, which was so convenient for the meals of our
poor sufferers. The wounded man looked up at me and said, "Barra." I did
not understand, and he repeated, "Barra." His poor chest caused him to
hiss out the word, and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his
emphatic request.

I sent immediately to the Marine Office, thinking that there would
surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my difficulty and my
ignorance of the Breton dialect.

I was informed that the word "barra" meant bread. I hurried at once to
Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted up, and taking
it from me with his sound hand, he broke it up with his teeth and let
the pieces fall in the bowl. He then plunged his spoon into the middle
of the broth, and filled it up with bread until the spoon could stand
upright in it. When it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier
smiled. He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when the
young priest from St. Sulpice who had my ambulance in charge arrived. I
had sent for him on hearing the doctor's sad verdict. He laid his hand
gently on the young man's shoulder, thus stopping the movement of his
arm. The poor fellow looked up at the priest, who showed him the holy
cup.

"Oh," he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief over the
steaming soup, he put his hands together.

We had arranged the two screens which we used for isolating the dead or
dying around his bed. He was left alone with the priest whilst I went on
my rounds to calm those who were chaffing, or help the believers raise
themselves for prayer. The young priest soon pushed aside the partition,
and I then saw Marie Le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his
abominable bread sop. He soon fell asleep but awoke before long and
asked for something to drink, and then died in a slight fit of choking.
Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred who came
into my ambulance, for the death of the unfortunate ones completely
upset me.

I was very young at that time, only twenty-four years of age, but I
could nevertheless see the cowardice of some of the men and the heroism
of many of the others. A young Savoyard, eighteen years old, had had his
forefinger shot off. Baron Larrey was quite sure that he had done it
himself with his own gun, but I could not believe that. I noticed,
though, that, in spite of our nursing and care, the wound did not heal.
I bound it up in a different way, and the following day I saw that the
bandage had been altered. I mentioned this to Madame Lambquin, who was
sitting up that night with Madame Guerard.

"Good; I will keep my eye on him. You go to sleep, my child, and rely on
me."

The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught the young
man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife. I called him, and
told him that I should have to report this to the Val-de-Grace Hospital.

He began to weep, and vowed to me that he would never do it again, and
five days later he was well. I signed the paper authorising him to leave
the ambulance, and he was sent to the army of the defence. I often
wondered what became of him. Another of our patients bewildered us too.
Each time that his wound seemed to be just on the point of healing up,
he had a violent attack of dysentery, which prevented him getting well.
This seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne, and he asked me to watch the
man. At the end of a considerable time we were convinced that our
wounded man had thought out the most comical scheme.

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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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