My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

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I adored her as a child adores the being who has entirely won its heart,
without knowing, without reasoning, without even being aware that it was
so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since
then, however, I have understood and admired her, realising how unique
and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set exterior and happy
face of that holy woman. I have loved her ever since for all that she
awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the letters which she
wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over again. I love her
also because, imperfect as I am, it seems to me that I should have been
one hundred times more so had I not known and loved that pure creature.

Once only did I see her severe and felt that she was suddenly angry. In
the little room used as a parlour, leading into her cell, there was a
portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was stamped with a certain
nobility.

"Is that the Emperor?" I asked her.

"No," she answered, turning quickly towards me; "it is the King; it is
Henri V."

It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All
the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognised sovereign.
They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day
when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of
bon-bons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded
to all the colleges, boarding-schools, and convents. Politics were a
dead letter to me, and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother St.
Sophie.

Then, too, I was a favourite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did
my compositions for me. I did not care for any studies, except geography
and drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and
I thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid, and quite lost my
head when questioned unexpectedly.

I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me,
in small cardboard boxes or cages that I manufactured myself, adders, of
which our woods were full, crickets that I found on the leaves of the
tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails
broken, as, in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid
of the box a little, and on seeing this the lizards rushed to the
opening. I shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such
assurance, and _crac!_ in a twinkling, either at right or left, there
was nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and
whilst one of the sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the
blackboard, the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard's tail in
my hand, how I could fasten it on again. I had some _toc-marteau_ (death
watches) in a little box, and five spiders in a cage that Pere Larcher
had made for me with some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give
flies to my spiders, and they, fat and well fed, would spin their webs.
Very often during recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little
girls, would stand round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and
watch the wonderful work of these little creatures. If one of my
schoolfellows cut herself I used to go at once to her, feeling very
proud and important: "Come at once," I would say, "I have some fresh
spider-web, and I will wrap your finger in it." Provided with a little
thin stick, I would take the web and wrap it round the wounded finger.
"And now, my lady spiders, you must begin your work again," and, active
and minute, _mesdames_ the spiders began their spinning once more.

I was looked upon as a little authority, and was made umpire in
questions that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for
fashionable trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy
thing for me in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets
and muff, and this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I
charged for my _trousseaux_, according to their importance, two pencils,
five _tete-de-mort_ nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In
short, I became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride.
I did not learn anything, and I received no distinctions. My name was
only once on the honour list, and that was not as a studious pupil, but
for a courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool.
She had fallen in whilst trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the
large orchard, on the poor children's side of the grounds. As a
punishment for some misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent
away for two days among the poor children. This was supposed to be a
punishment, but I delighted in it. In the first place, I was looked upon
by them as a "young lady." Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous
to bring me, on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard
some heartrending shrieks, and, rushing to the pool from whence they
came, I jumped into the water without reflecting. There was so much mud
that we both sank in it. The little girl was only four years old, and so
small that she kept disappearing. I was over ten at that time. I do not
know how I managed to rescue her, but I dragged her out of the water
with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes all filled with mud. I was told
afterwards that it was a long time before she was restored to
consciousness. As for me, I was carried away with my teeth chattering,
nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish afterwards, and Mother
St. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard her words to the doctor:

"This child," she said, "is one of the best we have here. She will be
perfect when once she has received the holy chrism."

This speech made such an impression on me that from that day forth
mysticism had great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was
extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me,
heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the
Mother of the Seven Sorrows my ideal.

IV

MY DEBUT

An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of
our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I
wanted to remain for ever.

The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of
visits to some of the communities, and ours was among the chosen ones.
The news was told us by Mother St. Alexis, the _doyenne_, the most aged
member of the community, who was so tall, so thin, and so old that I
never looked upon her as a human being or as a living being. It always
seemed to me as though she were stuffed, and as though she moved by
machinery. She frightened me, and I never consented to go near her until
after her death.

We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays.
Mother St. Alexis, supported by two lay sisters, stood on the little
platform, and in a voice that sounded far, far off announced to us the
approaching visit of Monseigneur. He was to come on St. Catherine's Day,
just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother.

Our peaceful convent was from thenceforth like a bee-hive into which a
hornet had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might
have time to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall arm-chair
of carved wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and
polished. We made lamp-shades covered with crystalline. The grass was
pulled up in the courtyard--and I cannot tell what was not done in
honour of this visitor.

Two days after the announcement made by Mother St. Alexis, the programme
of the _fete_ was communicated to us by Mother St. Sophie. The youngest
of the nuns was to read a few words of welcome to Monseigneur. This was
the delightful Sister Seraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a
pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by
Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled _Tobit Recovering his Eyesight_. It had been written by Mother
St. Therese. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with
age and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of
the phrases. Scene I. Tobias's farewell to his blind father. He vows to
bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabael, one of his relatives.
Scene II. Tobias, asleep on the banks of the Tigris, is being watched
over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a monster fish which had
attacked Tobias whilst he slept. When the fish is killed the angel
advises Tobias to take its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to
preserve these religiously. Scene III. Tobias's return to his blind
father. The angel tells him to rub the old man's eyes with the entrails
of the fish. The father's eyesight is restored, and when Tobit begs the
Angel Raphael to accept some reward, the latter makes himself known,
and, in a song to the glory of God, vanishes to heaven.

The little play was read to us by Mother St. Therese, one Thursday, in
the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother St.
Therese was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid committing,
if only for a second, the sin of pride.

I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy,
for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no
doubt that some _role_ would be given to me. The very thought of it made
me tremble beforehand. I began to get quite nervous; my hands became
quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I did not
approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother St.
Therese said in her calm voice:

"Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen to your names and the
different parts:

_Tobit_ EUGENIE CHARMEL

_Tobias_ AMELIE PLUCHE

_Gabael_ RENEE D'ARVILLE

_The Angel Raphael_ LOUISE BUGUET

_Tobias's mother_ EULALIE LACROIX

_Tobias's sister_ VIRGINIE DEPAUL."

I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied,
amazed, and furious. Mother St. Therese then added. "Here are your
manuscripts, young ladies," and a manuscript of the little play was
handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it.

Louise Buguet was my favourite playmate, and I went up to her and asked
her to let me see her manuscript, which I read over enthusiastically.

"You'll make me rehearse, when I know my part, won't you?" she asked,
and I answered, "Yes, certainly."

"Oh, how frightened I shall be!" she said.

She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale
and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we
used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow
limpid and pearl-like from her grey, questioning eyes.

She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd's dog
going from one to another among the chosen ones. It had really nothing
to do with me, but I wanted to be "in it." The Mother Superior passed
by, and as we all curtseyed to her she patted my cheek.

"We thought of you, little girl," she said, "but you are so timid when
you are asked anything."

"Oh, that's when it is history or arithmetic," I said. "This is not the
same thing, and I should not have been afraid."

She smiled distrustfully and moved on. There were rehearsals during the
next week. I asked to be allowed to take the part of the monster, as I
wanted to have some _role_ in the play at any cost. It was decided,
though, that Cesar, the convent dog, should be the fish monster.

A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless
amount of trouble cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted,
and sewing them together afterwards. I made some enormous gills, which
were to be glued on to Cesar. My costume was not chosen; it was passed
over for that of a stupid, big girl whose name I cannot remember. She
had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but
there were no scales, and we should have to see Cesar's shaggy coat. I
nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet's costume and worked
at it with two of the lay sisters, Sister St. Cecile and Sister St.
Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.

At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael.
She stood there stupefied on the little platform, tears dimming her
beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept
appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and, getting up,
rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was
beginning to be "in it" myself at last.

Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress
rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but, immediately on entering, she
sank down on a bench, sobbing out in an imploring voice:

"Oh no; I shall never be able to do it, never!"

"Quite true, she never will be able to," sighed Mother St. Sophie.

Forgetting for the moment my little friend's grief, and wild with joy,
pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the
form on which the Angel Raphael had sunk down weeping.

"Oh, Mother, I know her part. Shall I take her place for the rehearsal?"

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed voices from all sides.

"Oh yes, you know it so well," said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to put
her band on my head.

"No, let me rehearse as I am, first," I answered.

They began the second scene again, and I came in carrying a long branch
of willow.

"Fear nothing, Tobias," I commenced. "I will be your guide. I will
remove from your path all thorns and stones. You are overwhelmed with
fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I will watch over you."

Whereupon Tobias, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue
muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about,
represented the Tigris.

I then continued with a prayer to God whilst Tobias fell asleep. Cesar
next appeared as the Monster Fish, and the audience trembled with fear.
Cesar had been well taught by the gardener, Pere Larcher, and he
advanced slowly from under the blue muslin. He was wearing his mask,
representing the head of a fish. Two enormous nut-shells for his eyes
had been painted white, and a hole pierced through them, so that the dog
could see. The mask was fastened with wire to his collar, which also
supported two gills as large as palm leaves. Cesar, sniffing the ground,
snorted and growled, and then leaped wildly on to Tobias, who with his
cudgel slew the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back with his
four paws in the air, and then rolled over on to his side, pretending to
be dead.

There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped and
stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and shouted, "Good
Cesar! Clever Cesar! Oh, good dog, good dog!" The sisters, touched by
the efforts of the guardian of the convent, shook their heads with
emotion. As for me, I quite forgot that I was the Angel Raphael, and I
stooped down and stroked Cesar affectionately. "Ah, how well he has
acted his part!" I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the
other in my hand, whilst the dog, motionless, continued to be dead.

The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again, and,
accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise a duet to the
glory of God, who had just saved Tobias from the fearful monster.

After this the little green serge curtain was drawn, and I was
surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother St. Sophie came up on to the
platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise Buguet, she was now
joyful again and her angelic face beamed.

"Oh, how well you knew the part!" she said. "And then, too, every one
can hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!" She kissed me and I
hugged her with all my might. At last I was in it!

The third scene began. The action took place in Father Tobit's house.
Gabael, the Angel, and young Tobias were holding the entrails of the
fish in their hands and looking at them. The Angel explained how they
must be used for rubbing the blind father's eyes. I felt rather sick,
for I was holding in my hand a skate's liver and the heart and gizzard
of a fowl. I had never touched such things before, and every now and
then the nausea overcame me and the tears rose to my eyes.

Finally the blind father came in, led by Tobias's sister. Gabael knelt
down before the old man and gave him the ten silver talents, telling
him, in a long recital, of Tobias's exploits in Medea. After this Tobias
advanced, embraced his father, and then rubbed his eyes with the skate's
liver.

Eugenie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes she exclaimed:

"I can see, I can see. Oh! God of goodness, God of mercy! I can see, I
can see!"

She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in an ecstatic
attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded and loving,
wept.

All the actors except old Tobit and the Angel sank on their knees and
gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving the public,
moved by religious sentiment and discipline repeated, Amen!

Tobias's mother then approached the Angel and said, "Oh, noble stranger,
take up your abode from henceforth with us. You shall be our guest, our
son, our brother!"

I advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines made known
that I was the messenger of God, that I was the Angel Raphael. I then
gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan, which was being concealed
for a final effect, and veiled myself in cloudy tissue which was
intended to simulate my flight heavenwards. The little green serge
curtain was then closed on this apotheosis.

Finally the solemn day arrived.

I was so feverish with expectation that I could not sleep the last three
nights.

The dressing bell was rung for us earlier than usual, but I was already
up and trying to smooth my rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet
brush by way of making it behave better.

Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o'clock in the morning. We therefore
lunched at ten, and were then drawn up in the principal courtyard. Only
Mother St. Alexis, the eldest of the nuns, was in front, and Mother St.
Sophie just behind her. The chaplain was a little distance away from the
two Superiors. Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls, and
then all the little children. The lay sisters and the servants were also
there. We were all dressed in white, with the respective colours of our
various classes.

The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first
courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened, and
Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps which the footman lowered for
him. Mother St. Alexis advanced and, bending down, kissed the episcopal
ring. Mother St. Sophie, the Superior, who was younger, knelt down to
kiss the ring. The signal was then given to us, and we all knelt to
receive the benediction of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the big
gate was closed, and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the
Mother Superior. Mother St. Alexis was exhausted, and went back to her
cell.

In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees. We then
went to the chapel, where a short Mass was celebrated, after which we
had an hour's recreation. The concert was to commence at half-past one.
The recreation hour was devoted to preparing the large room and to
getting ready to appear before Monseigneur. I wore the angel's long
robe, with a blue sash round my waist and two paper wings fastened on
with narrow blue straps that crossed over each other in front. Round my
head was a band of gold braid fastening behind. I kept mumbling my
"part," for in those days we did not know the word _role_. People are
more familiar with the stage nowadays, but at the convent we always said
"part," and years afterwards I was surprised, the first time I played in
England, to hear a young English girl say, "Oh, what a fine part you had
in _Hernani_!"

The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were festoons of
green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere. Then there
were little lustres hung about with gold cord. A wide piece of red
velvet carpet was laid down from the door to Monseigneur's arm-chair,
upon which were two cushions of red velvet with gold fringe.

I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!

The concert began, and it seemed to me that everything went very well.
Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the sight of Cesar, and
it was he who led the applause when the dog died. It was Cesar, in fact,
who made the greatest success, but we were nevertheless sent for to
appear before Monseigneur Sibour. He was certainly the kindest and most
charming of prelates, and on this occasion he gave to each of us a
consecrated medal.

When my turn came he took my hand in his and said, "It is you, my child,
who are not baptized, is it not?"

"Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur," I replied in confusion.

"She is to be baptized this spring," said the Mother Superior. "Her
father is coming back specially from a very distant country."

She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in a very low
voice.

"Very well; if I can, I will come again for the ceremony," said the
Archbishop aloud. I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the
old man's ring. I then ran away to the dormitory and cried for a long
time. I was found there later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.

From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and less
violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of Monseigneur
Sibour's name, and reminded of his promise to come for my baptism.

Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning in January,
when we were all assembled in the chapel for Mass, I was surprised and
had a foreboding of coming evil as I saw the Abbe Lethurgi go up into
the pulpit before commencing the Mass. He was very pale, and I turned
instinctively to look at the Mother Superior. She was seated in her
regular place. The almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion,
to tell us of the murder of Monseigneur Sibour.

Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us, and a hundred stifled
cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant the priest's voice.
Murdered! The word seemed to sting me personally even more than the
others. Had I not been, for one instant, the favourite of the kind old
man? It was as though the murderer, Verger, had struck at me too, in my
grateful love for the prelate, in my little fame, of which he had now
robbed me. I burst into sobs, and the organ, accompanying the prayer for
the dead, increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted. It
was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love for mysticism.
It was fortified by the religious exercises, the dramatic effect of our
worship, and the gentle encouragement, both fervent and sincere, of
those who were educating me. They were very fond of me, and I adored
them, so that even now the very memory of them, fascinating and restful
as it is, thrills me with affection.

The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew more and more
excitable. My nervous attacks were more and more frequent--fits of tears
for no reason at all, and fits of terror without any cause. Everything
seemed to take strange proportions as far as I was concerned. One day
one of my little friends dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I
played with dolls until I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all
over, as I adored that doll, which had been given to me by my father.

"You have broken my doll's head, you naughty girl!" I exclaimed. "You
have hurt my father!"

I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a
great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing, "Papa is dead! Papa is
dead!"

Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlour,
and, making me stand in front of her, she said, "My poor little girl, I
have something to tell you that will cause you great sorrow. Papa is
dead."

"I know," I said, "I know"; and the expression in my eyes, my mother
frequently told me afterwards, was such that she trembled a long time
for my reason.

I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything, except
catechism and scripture, and I wanted to be a nun.

My mother had succeeded in arranging that my two sisters should be
baptized with me--Jeanne, who was then six years old, and Regina, who
was not three, but who had been taken as a boarder at the convent with
the idea that her presence might cheer me up a little.

I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week afterwards,
as I was to be confirmed one week after the event.

My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt and Aunt Henriette Faure, my godfather
Regis, Monsieur Meydieu, Jeanne's godfather, and General Polhes,
Regina's godfather, the godmothers of my two sisters and my various
cousins, all came, and revolutionised the convent. My mother and my
aunts were in fashionable mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray
of lilac in her bonnet, "to enliven her mourning," as she said. It was a
strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by other
people besides her.

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