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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




It was only at the hotel with Pere Batifoule that I learnt about the
octopus.

Only five more days' holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the
Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named
"Sarah Bernhardt's Arm-chair." Many tourists have sat there since.

After my holiday I returned to Paris. But I was still very weak, and
could only take up my work towards the month of November. I played all
the pieces of my _repertoire_, and I was annoyed at not having any new
_roles_.

One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor's studio. He began to talk
at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion,
and asked me incidentally if I knew the _role_ of Phedre. Up to that
time I had only played Aricie, and the part of Phedre seemed formidable
to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure.

"Yes, I know the _role_ of Phedre. But I think if ever I had to play it
I should die of fright."

He laughed with his silly little laugh, and said to me, squeezing my
hand (for he was very gallant), "Work it up. I think that you will play
it."

In fact, eight days after I was called to the manager's office, and
Perrin told me that he had announced _Phedre_ for December 21, the
_fete_ of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of Phedre. I
thought I should have fallen.

"Well, but what about Mademoiselle Rousseil?" I asked.

"Mademoiselle Rousseil wants the committee to promise that she shall
become a Societaire in the month of January, and the committee, which
will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and
declares that her demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mademoiselle
Rousseil will change her plans, and in that case you will play Aricie
and I will change the bill."

Coming out from Perrin's I ran up against M. Regnier. I told him of my
conversation with the manager and of my fears.

"No, no," said the great artiste to me, "you must not be afraid! I see
very well what you are going to make of this _role_. But all you have to
do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the _role_ rather
more sorrowful than furious--it will be better for every one, even
Racine."

Then, joining my hands, I said, "Dear Monsieur Regnier, help me to work
up Phedre I shall not be so much afraid!"

He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile
nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not
help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid.
Regnier accepted, and made an appointment with me for the following
morning at nine o'clock.

Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the committee, and _Phedre_
was billed for December 21, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the first
time in the _role_ of Phedre.

This caused quite a sensation in the artistic world and in theatrical
circles. That evening over two hundred people were turned away at the
box office. When I was informed of the fact I began to tremble a good
deal.

Regnier comforted me as best he could, saying, "Courage! Cheer up! Are
you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into
consideration your inexperience in important leading parts," &c.

These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt
stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to
encourage me.

I began to cry bitterly like a child. Perrin was called, and consoled me
as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face
so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.

Everybody on the stage knew about it, and stood at the door of my
dressing-room wishing to comfort me, Mounet-Sully, who was playing
Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed "we were playing _Phedre_, and
you were hissed; and my dreams always go by contraries--so," he cried,
"we shall have a tremendous success."

But what put me completely in a good humour was the arrival of the
worthy Martel, who was playing Theramene, and who had come so quickly,
believing me to be ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The
sight of this grey face, with a wide bar of red wax commencing between
the two eyebrows, coming down to half a centimetre below his nose and
leaving behind it the end of the nose with two large black
nostrils--this face was indescribable! And everybody laughed
irrepressibly. I knew that Martel made up his nose, for I had already
seen this poor nose change shape at the second performance of _Zaire_,
under the tropical depression of the atmosphere, but I had never
realised how much he lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all
my gaiety, and from thenceforth I was in full possession of my
faculties.

The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in
praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was
on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over "my
impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead
artiste." These are his own words addressed to Girardin, who immediately
communicated them to me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had
never seen Rachel, but I worshipped her talent, for I had surrounded
myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of
comparing me with their idol.

A few days after this performance of _Phedre_ the new piece of Bornier
was read to us--_La Fille de Roland_. The part of Berthe was confided to
me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, the
verses of which were nevertheless a little flat, though the play rang
with patriotism. There was in one act a terrible duel, not seen by the
public, but related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while the
incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who from a window
of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes of the encounter. This
scene was the only important one of my much-sacrificed _role_.

The play was ready to be performed, when Bornier asked that his friend
Emile Augier might attend the dress rehearsal. When this rehearsal was
over Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As
to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner.
Emile Augier followed him. "Well----" he said to me. I looked straight
at him, feeling at the moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and
scratched his head, then turned towards Augier and said:

"I beg you, _cher maitre_, explain to Mademoiselle yourself."

Emile Augier was a broad man, with wide shoulders and a common
appearance, and was at that time rather stout. He was in very good
repute at the Theatre Francais, of which he was at that epoch the
successful author. He came near me.

"You managed the part at the window very well, Mademoiselle, but it is
ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has
written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately.
This scene must be taken out."

I turned towards Perrin, who was listening silently. "Are you of the
same opinion, sir?"

"I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author
is master to do as he pleases with his work."

Then, addressing myself to Bornier, I said, "Well, my dear author, what
have you decided?"

Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching
and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene
which he prized, and of fear at vexing an Academician just at the time
when he was hoping to become a member of the Academy.

"Cut it out, cut it out--or you are done for!" brutally replied Augier,
and he turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome,
came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man
suffered from a distressing skin disease. He did not speak. He looked at
us searchingly. Poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin, who
had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking
place in the heart of the mild Bornier.

"Refuse energetically," murmured Perrin to me.

I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene were cut
out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands, which
he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he exclaimed, with comic
emphasis:

"But I cannot cut it out--I cannot cut it out! She will not play! And
the day after to-morrow the play is to be performed." Then, as Emile
Augier made a gesture and would have spoken: "No! No! To put back my
play eight days would be to kill it! I cannot cut it out! Oh, mon Dieu!"
And he cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and he stamped
with his short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He
was at the same time funny and pitiable. Emile Augier was irritated, and
turned on me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:

"Will you take the responsibility, Mademoiselle, of the absurd window
scene on the first performance?"

"Certainly, Monsieur; and I even promise to make of this scene, which I
find very beautiful, an enormous success!"

He shrugged his shoulders rudely, muttering something very disagreeable
between his teeth.

When I left the theatre I found poor Bornier quite transfigured. He
thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene,
and he dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined
the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well bred,
but a trifle Jesuitical.

The play was an immense success. But the window scene on the first night
was a veritable triumph.

It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained
frequent allusions to it, and owing to the patriotism of the public made
an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I sent for Emile
Augier. He came to my dressing-room with a surly air, and said to me
from the door:

"So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is
idiotic to make a success of such vileness!" And he disappeared without
having even entered my dressing-room.

His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced
me repeatedly, I scratched myself all over.

Two months later I played _Gabrielle_, by this same Augier, and I had
incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.
Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, made a great success. As for
me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying a great deal.

I had been appointed a Societaire in the month of January, and since
then it seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken an
engagement not to leave the House of Moliere for many years. This idea
made me sad. It was at Perrin's instigation that I had asked to become a
Societaire, and now I regretted it very much.

During all the latter part of the year I only played occasionally.

My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty
little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de
Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in
her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire
was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then
realising it. The son-in-law of M. Regnier, Felix Escalier, a
fashionable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused
me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house.
Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I
forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I
most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was
finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in
helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my
bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect
Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin,
and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I
played on one of my relations.

My aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native country, in order to
spend a few days in Paris. She was staying with my mother. I invited her
to lunch in my new unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends
were working, some in one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty
scaffoldings were erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more
easily I was wearing my sculptor's costume. My aunt, seeing me thus
arrayed, was horribly shocked, and told me so. But I was preparing yet
another surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary
house-painters, and considered I was too familiar with them. But she
nearly fainted when midday came and I rushed to the piano to play "The
Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs." This wild melody had been improvised
by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends.
Here it is:

Oh! Peintres de la Dam' jolie,
De vos pinceaux arretez la folie!
Il faut descendr' des escabeaux,
Vous nettoyer et vous faire tres beaux!
Digue, dingue, donne!
L'heure sonne.
Digue, dingue, di....
C'est midi!

Sur les grils et dans les cass'roles
Sautent le veau, et les oeufs et les soles.
Le bon vin rouge et l'Saint-Marceaux
Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux!
Digue, dingue, donne!
L'heure sonne.
Digue, dingue, di....
C'est midi!

Voici vos peintres, Dam' jolie
Qui vont pour vous debiter leur folie.
Ils ont tous lache l'escabeau
Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et tres beaux!
Digue, dingue, donne
L'heure sonne
Digue, dingue, di....
C'est midi.

When the song was finished I went into my bedroom and made myself into a
_belle dame_ for lunch.

My aunt had followed me. "But, my dear," said she, "you are mad to think
I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there
is no one but yourself who would do such a thing."

"No, no, Aunt; it is all right."

And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was
the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to
my aunt, who did not recognise them at first, for they had changed their
working clothes and looked like five nice young society swells. Madame
Guerard lunched with us. Suddenly in the middle of lunch my aunt cried
out, "But these are the workmen!" The five young men rose and bowed low.
Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself in every
possible manner, so confused was she.




XXIV


ALEXANDRE DUMAS--L'ETRANGERE--MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON


One day Alexandre Dumas, junior, was announced. He came to bring me the
good news that he had finished his play for the Comedie Francaise,
_L'Etrangere_, and that my _role_, the Duchesse de Septmonts, had come
out very well. "You can," he said to me, "make a fine success out of
it." I expressed my gratitude to him.

A month after this visit we were requested to attend the reading of this
piece at the Comedie.

The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my _role_,
Catherine de Septmonts. I also liked the _role_ of Croizette, Mrs.
Clarkson.

Got gave us each copies of our parts, and thinking that he had made a
mistake, I passed on to Croizette the _role_ of l'Etrangere which he had
just given me, saying to her, "Here, Got has made a mistake--here is
your _role_."

"But he is not making any mistake. It is I who am to play the Duchesse
de Septmonts."

I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody
present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me at whom I was laughing like
that, I exclaimed:

"At all of you--you, Dumas, Got, Croizette, and all of you who are in
the plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your
cowardice. Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play
the Duchesse de Septmonts, but I shall be ten times more delighted to
play l'Etrangere. And this time, my dear Sophie, I'll be quits with you;
no ceremony, I tell you; for you have played me a little trick which was
quite unworthy of our friendship!"

The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm
partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so
much so that one day Croizette, losing all patience, burst out:

"Well, Monsieur, you should have left the _role_ to Sarah; she would
have played it with the voice you wish in the love scenes; I cannot do
any better. You irritate me too much: I have had enough of it!" And she
ran off, sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of
hysteria.

I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of
her tears she kissed me, murmuring, "It is true. It is they who
instigated me to play this nasty trick, and now they are annoying me."
Croizette used vulgar expressions, very vulgar ones, and at times
uttered many a Gallic joke.

That day we made up our quarrel entirely.

A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter
informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change
the name of the play. He wished--it goes without saying--to have the
piece called _La Duchesse de Septmonts_.

I rushed off to the theatre to find Perrin at once.

At the entrance door I met Coquelin, who was playing the part of the Duc
de Septmonts, which he did marvellously well. I showed him the letter.
He shrugged his shoulders. "It is infamous! But why do you take any
notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!"

We were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.

"Here, show the letter to Perrin!" And he took it from my hands in order
to show it to him. Perrin blushed slightly.

"I know this writing," he said. "Some one from the theatre has written
this letter."

I snatched it back from him. "Then it is some one who is well informed,
and what he says is perhaps true. Is it not so? Tell me. I have the
right to know."

"I detest anonymous letters." And he went up the stairs, bowing
slightly, but without saying anything further.

"Ah, if it is true," said Coquelin, "it is too much. Would you like me
to go and see Dumas, and I will get to know at once?"

"No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head. I'll go there."
And shaking hands with him, I went off to see the younger Dumas. He was
just going out.

"Well, well? What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!"

I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He
had kept his hat on, and took it off to recover his self-possession. And
before he could speak a word I got furiously angry; I fell into one of
those rages which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of
madness. And in fact, all that I felt of bitterness towards this man,
towards Perrin, towards all this theatrical world that should have loved
me and upheld me, but which betrayed me on every occasion--all the hot
anger that I had been accumulating during the rehearsals, the cries of
revolt against the perpetual injustice of these two men, Perrin and
Dumas--I burst out with everything in an avalanche of stinging words
which were both furious and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made
in former days; of his visit to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers; of
the cowardly and underhand manner in which he had sacrificed me, at
Perrin's request and on the wishes of the friends of Sophie. I spoke
vehemently, without allowing him to edge in a single word. And when,
worn out, I was forced to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue,
"What--what--what have you to say for yourself?"

"My dear child," he replied, much touched, "if I had examined my own
conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to
me so eloquently! But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a
little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about the
stage; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your
court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all
that I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have
touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title
of _L'Etrangere_. And now embrace me with good grace, to show that you
are no longer angry with me."

I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.

That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew
nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that. The
play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the
laurels of the day.

I had just commenced in my studio in the Avenue de Clichy a large group,
the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of an old
woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trepasses.

One day I went up to her, wishing to speak to her, but I was so
terrified by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the
guardian told me her history.

She was the mother of five sons, all sailors. Two had been killed by the
Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She had brought up the
little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him far from the sea and
teaching him to hate the water. She had never left the little lad, but
he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said he was dying
because he wanted to see the sea. "Well, make haste and get well," said
the grandmother tenderly, "and we will go to see it together."

Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left the valley
in the company of her little grandson to go and see the ocean, the grave
of her three sons.

It was a November day; a low sky hung over the ocean, narrowing the
horizon. The child jumped with joy. He ran, gambolled, and sang for
happiness when he saw all this living water.

The grandmother sat on the sand, and hid her tearful eyes in her two
trembling hands; then suddenly, struck by the silence, she looked up in
terror. There in front of her she saw a boat drifting, and in the boat
her boy, her little lad of eight years old, who was laughing right
merrily, paddling as well as he could with one oar that he could hardly
hold, and crying out, "I am going to see what there is behind the mist,
and I will come back."

He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman
talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every
day to the water's edge, throwing in the bread which kind folks gave
her, and saying to the waves, "You must carry that to the little lad."

This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the
tall old woman, with her brown cape and hood.

I worked feverishly at this group. It seemed to me now that I was
destined to be a sculptor, and I began to despise the stage, I only went
to the theatre when I was compelled by my duties, and I left as soon as
possible.

I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was
going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges
Clairin, who came in just at that moment to see me, begged me not to do
so. And my good friend Mathieu Meusnier, who was a man of talent, also
added his voice against the destruction of my design.

Excited by their encouragement, I decided to hurry on with the work and
to make a large group. I asked Meusnier if he knew any tall, bony old
woman, and he sent me two, neither of whom suited me. Then I asked all
my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of old
and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a charwoman
who was about sixty years old. She was very tall, and had very sharp-cut
features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of fear. The idea
of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours together made
me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more comfortable. Her
timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy young girl,
contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When I showed her
the design she was stupefied. "Do you want me to have my neck and
shoulders bare? I really cannot." I told her that nobody ever came in
when I worked, and I asked to see her neck immediately.

Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long,
emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh;
the sterno-cleido-mastoid was remarkable--it was just what I wanted. I
went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What a treasure I had
found! The shoulder bone was visible under the skin, and she had two
immense "salt-cellars"! The woman was ideal for my work. She seemed
destined for it. She blushed when I told her so. I asked to see her
feet. She took off her thick boots and showed a dirty foot which had no
character. "No," I said, "thank you. Your feet are too small; I will
take only your head and shoulders."

After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea
of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry,
and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek
for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally
spent six months of the year in the country, in Sologne, near her
grandchildren.

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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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