George Gilfillan - "Specimens with Memoirs of the Less known British Poets, Vol. 2"

Edwin Hodder - "Life in London"

Hannah. S. Battersby - "Home Lyrics"

F. Marion Crawford - "An American Politician"

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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North Pole is from
the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful, and captivating.

It was therefore with a rather heavy heart that I left Boston for New
Haven, and to my great surprise, on arriving at the hotel there I found
Henry Smith the famous whale man.

"Oh, Heavens!" I exclaimed, flinging myself into an armchair, "what does
this man want now with me?"

I was not left in ignorance very long, for the most infernal noise of
brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and, I should think, saucepans, drew
me to the window. I saw an immense carriage surrounded by an escort of
negroes dressed as minstrels. On this carriage was an abominable,
monstrous coloured advertisement representing me standing on the whale,
tearing away its blade while it struggled to defend itself.

Some sandwich-men followed with posters on which were written the
following words:

"COME AND SEE
THE ENORMOUS CETACEAN
WHICH
SARAH BERNHARDT
KILLED
BY TEARING OUT ITS WHALEBONE FOR HER CORSETS.
THESE ARE MADE BY MADAME LILY NOE,
WHO LIVES," ETC. ETC.

Some of the other sandwich-men carried posters with these words:

"THE WHALE IS JUST AS FLOURISHING (_sic_) AS
WHEN IT WAS ALIVE!

It has five hundred dollars' worth of salt in its stomach,
and every day the ice upon which it is resting is
renewed at a cost of one hundred dollars!"

My face turned more livid than that of a corpse, and my teeth chattered
with fury on seeing this.

Henry Smith advanced towards me, and I struck him in my anger, and then
rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with vexation, disgust, and utter
weariness.

I wanted to start back to Europe at once, but Jarrett showed me my
contract. I then wanted to take steps to have this odious exhibition
stopped, and in order to calm me I was promised that this should be
done, but in reality nothing was done at all.

Two days later I was at Hartford, and the same whale was there. It
continued its tour as I continued mine.

They gave it more salt and renewed its ice, and it went on its way, so
that I came across it everywhere. I took proceedings about it, but in
every State I was obliged to begin all over again, as the law varied in
the different States. And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found
there an immense bouquet awaiting me, with the horrible card of the
showman of the whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and trampled on
them, and much as I love flowers, I had a horror of these. Jarrett went
to see the man and begged him not to send me any more bouquets, but it
was all of no use, as it was the man's way of avenging the box on the
ears I had given him. Then too he could not understand my anger. He was
making any amount of money, and had even proposed that I should accept a
percentage of the receipts. Ah, I would willingly have killed that
execrable Smith, for he was poisoning my life. I could see nothing else
in all the different cities I visited, and I used to shut my eyes to go
from the hotel to the theatre. When I heard the minstrels I used to fly
into a rage and turn green with anger. Fortunately I was able to rest
when once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this show. I
should certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I saw nothing but
that, I could think of nothing else, and my very dreams were about it.
It haunted me; it was an obsession and a perpetual nightmare. When I
left Hartford, Jarrett swore to me that Smith would not be at Montreal,
as he had been taken suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had
found a way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine which
had stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of this, as the
ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily _en route_, but anyhow I was
infinitely grateful to him for ridding me of the man for the present.




XXXV


MONTREAL'S GRAND RECEPTION--THE POET FRECHETTE--AN ESCAPADE ON THE
ST. LAWRENCE RIVER


At last we arrived at Montreal.

For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had dreamed about
Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret, with considerable fury,
the surrender of that territory by France to England.

I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding them, the
pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense fortune that lay in its
lands, &c., and that country had seemed to my imagination the far-off
promised land.

Awakened some considerable time before by the strident whistle of the
engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o'clock in the evening, I was
informed. We were within fifteen minutes of the station. The sky was
black and smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns placed at distant
intervals caught the whiteness of the snow heaped up there for how many
days? The train stopped suddenly, and then started again with such a
slow and timid movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility
of its running off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing louder every
second, fell upon my attentive ears. This sound soon resolved itself
into music--and it was in the midst of a formidable "Hurrah! long live
France!" shouted by ten thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra
playing the "Marseillaise" with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry
into Montreal.

The place where the train stopped in those days was very narrow. A
somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the slight platform of the
station.

Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with emotion upon
the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank was packed with bears
holding lanterns. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. In the
narrow space between the bank and the train, which had come to a stop,
there were more bears, large and small, and I wondered with terror how I
should manage to reach my sleigh.

Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way, and I got out. But a
deputy, whose name I cannot make out on my notes (what commendation for
my writing!)--a deputy advanced towards me and handed me an address
signed by the notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I
could, and took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in
the name of the signatories to the address. When I lifted the flowers to
my face in order to smell them I hurt myself slightly with their pretty
petals, which were frozen by the cold.

However, I began myself to feel both arms and legs were getting
benumbed. The cold crept over my whole body. That night, it appears, was
one of the coldest that had been experienced for many years past.

The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the French
company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior of the station,
with the exception of Mrs. Jos. Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of rare
flowers and gave me a kiss. The temperature was twenty-two degrees below
zero. I whispered low to Jarrett, "Let us continue our journey; I am
turning into ice. In ten minutes I shall not be able to move a step."

Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey, who applied to the Chief of Police.
The latter gave orders in English, and another police officer repeated
them in French. And we were able to proceed for a few yards. But the
main station was still some way off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one
time I felt as though I were about to faint. I took courage, however,
holding or rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every
minute I thought I should fall, for the platform was like a mirror.

We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred lanterns,
held aloft by a hundred students' hands, suddenly lit up the place.

A tall young man separated himself from the group and came straight
towards me, holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice
declaimed:

A SARAH BERNHARDT.

Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante dona Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
Est-ce frisson d'orgueil ou d'amour? je ne sais;
Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang francais
Quelque chose qui nous enivre!

Femme vaillante au coeur sature d'ideal,
Puisque tu n'as pas craint notre ciel boreal,
Ni redoute nos froids severes.
Merci! De l'apre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers,
Nous revons a ta vue aux rayons printaniers
Qui font fleurir les primeveres!

Oui, c'est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rever!
Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver
L'horreur de nos saisons perfides,
Aux clairs rayonnements d'un chaud soleil de mai,
Nous croyons voir, du fond d'un bosquet parfume,
Surgir la reine des sylphides.

Mais non: de floreal ni du blond messidor,
Tu n'es pas, O Sarah, la fee aux ailes d'or
Qui vient repandre l'ambroisie;
Nous saluons en toi l'artiste radieux
Qui sut cueillir d'assaut dans le jardin des dieux
Toutes les fleurs de poesie!

Que sous ta main la toile anime son reseau;
Que le paros brilliant vive sous ton ciseau,
Ou l'argile sous ton doigt rose;
Que sur la scene, au bruit delirant des bravos,
En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux,
Ton talent se metamorphose;

Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain,
Toi-meme oses ravir la muse au front serein,
A ta sourire toujours prete;
Soit qu'aux mille vivats de la foule a genoux,
Des grands maitres anciens ou modernes, pour nous
Ta voix se fasse l'interprete;

Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent,
Qu'il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang,
Laissant glapir la calomnie,
Tour a tour par ton oeuvre et ta grace enchante
Chacun courbe le front devant la majeste
De ton universel genie!

Salut donc, O Sarah! salut, O dona Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Te montrer de l'indifference
Serait a notre sang nous-memes faire affront;
Car l'etoile qui luit la plus belle a ton front,
C'est encore celle de la France!

LOUIS FRECHETTE.


He read very well, it is true; but those lines, read at a temperature of
twenty-two degrees of cold to a poor woman dumfounded through listening
to a frenzied "Marseillaise," stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten
thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervour, were more than my
strength could bear.

I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed with
fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning round in a mad farandole. I
felt myself raised from the ground, and heard a voice which seemed to
come from far away, "Make room for our French lady!" Then I heard
nothing further, and only recovered my senses in my room at the Hotel
Windsor.

My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the movement of the
crowd. But the poet Frechette, a Franco-Canadian, acted as escort, and
brought her several minutes later, safe and sound, but trembling on my
account, and this is what she told me. "Just imagine. When the crowd was
pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head fall back
with closed eyes on to Abbey's shoulder, I shouted out, 'Help! My
sister is being killed.' I had become mad. A man of enormous size, who
had followed us for a long time, worked his elbows and hips to make the
enthusiastic but overexcited mob give way, with a quick movement placed
himself before you just in time to prevent you from falling. The man,
whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden beneath a fur
cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire face, raised you
up as though you had been a flower, and held forth to the crowd in
English. I did not understand anything he said, but the Canadians were
struck with it, for the pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two
compact files in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it
made me feel quite impressed to see you, so slender, with your head
back, and the whole of your poor frame borne at arm's length by that
Hercules. I followed as fast as I could, but having caught my foot in
the flounce of my skirt, I had to stop for a second, and that second was
enough to separate us completely. The crowd, having closed up after your
passage, formed an impenetrable barrier. I can assure you, dear sister,
that I felt anything but at ease, and it was M. Frechette who saved me."

I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman, and thanked him this time as
well as I could for his fine poem; then I spoke to him of other poems of
his, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for alas! to my shame
I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Frechette up to the time of
my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little in
Paris.

He was very much touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the
finest of his work. He thanked me. We remained friends.

The day following, nine o'clock had hardly struck when a card was sent
up to me on which were written these words, "He who had the joy of
saving you, Madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment's
interview." I directed that the man should be shown into the
drawing-room, and after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister.
"Come with me," I said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing-gown, and we
went in the direction of the large, the immense drawing-room of my
suite, for a bicycle would have been necessary to traverse without
fatigue the entire length of my rooms, drawing-room, dining-room and
bedroom. On opening the door I was struck by the beauty of the man who
was before me. He was very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard
look, hair thick and curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine-looking,
but seemed uneasy. He blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my
gratitude, and asked to be excused for my foolish weakness. I received
joyfully the bouquet of violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in
a low voice, "If you ever hear who I am, swear that you will only think
of the slight service I have rendered you." At that moment Jarrett
entered. His face was pale, as he walked towards the stranger and spoke
to him in English. I could, however, catch the words, "detective ...
door ... assassination ... impossibility ... New Orleans." The
stranger's sunburnt complexion became chalky, his nostrils quivered as
he glanced towards the door. Then, as flight appeared impossible, he
looked at Jarrett and in a peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said,
"Well!" as he went towards the door. My hands, which had opened under
the stupor, let fall his bouquet, which he picked up whilst looking at
me with a supplicating and appealing air. I understood, and said to him
in a loud tone of voice, "I swear to it, Monsieur." The man disappeared
with his flowers. I heard the uproar of people behind the door and of
the crowd in the street. I did not wish to listen to anything further.

When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell
me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.

Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an
account of his death by hanging, I refused to hear anything about it.
And now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to
remember the service rendered and my pledged word.

This incident left me somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal
was necessary to enable me to regain my good humour. That prelate, after
holding forth in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature,
forbade his flock to go the theatre. He spoke violently and spitefully
against modern France. As to Scribe's play (_Adrienne Lecouvreur_), he
tore it into shreds, as it were, declaiming against the immoral love of
the _comedienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the
Princesse de Bouillon. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and
he cried out, with fury intensified by outrage: "In this infamous
lucubration of French authors there is a court abbe, who, thanks to the
unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult
to the clergy." Finally he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who
was already dead, against Legouve, against me, and against all my
company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four
performances, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame aux Camelias_
(matinee), and _Hernani_ had a colossal success and brought in fabulous
receipts.

I was invited by the poet Frechette and a banker whose name I do not
remember to pay a visit to the Iroquois. I accepted with joy, and went
there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always
ready for a dangerous excursion. I felt in safety in the presence of
this artiste, full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean
strength. The only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He
had none then, and never did have any.

The St. Lawrence river was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in
a carriage along a route indicated by two rows of branches fixed in the
ice. We had four carriages. The distance between Caughnanwaga and
Montreal was five kilometres.

This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was introduced
to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes. Alas! this
former chief, son of "Big White Eagle," surnamed during his childhood
"Sun of the Nights," now clothed in sorry European rags, was selling
liquor, thread, needles, flax, pork fat, chocolate, &c. All that
remained of his mad rovings through the old wild forests--when he roamed
naked over a land free of all allegiance--was the stupor of the bull
held prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy, and that he
quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of
forgetfulness.

Sun of the Nights introduced me to his daughter, a girl of eighteen to
twenty years of age, insipid, and devoid of beauty and grace.

She sat down at the piano and played a tune that was popular at the
time--I do not remember what. I was in a hurry to leave the store, the
home of these two victims of civilisation.

I visited Caughnanwaga, but found no pleasure in it. The same
compression of the throat, the same retrospective anguish, caused me to
revolt against man's cowardice which hid under the name of civilisation
the most unjust and most protected of crimes.

I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success of our four
performances was extraordinary, but what gave them a special charm in my
eyes was the infernal and joyous noise made by the students. The doors
of the theatre were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They
then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were gifted with
magnificent voices. They separated into groups according to the
requirements of the songs they wished to sing. They then prepared, by
means of a strong string worked by a pulley, the aerial route that was
to be followed by the flower-bedecked baskets which descended from their
paradise to where I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves
bearing sonnets and good wishes.

These flowers and birds were sent off during the "calls," and by a happy
disposition of the strings the flowers fell at my feet, the doves flew
where their astonishment led them; and every evening these messages of
grace and beauty were repeated. I experienced considerable emotion the
first evening. The Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria,
Governor of Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The
house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the curtain I gazed
on the composition of this assembly. All of a sudden a silence came over
it without any outward reason for it, and the "Marseillaise" was sung by
three hundred warm young male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur
the Governor stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole
house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem echoed in
our hearts like a call from the mother-country. I do not believe I ever
heard the "Marseillaise" sung with keener emotion and unanimity. As soon
as it was over, the plaudits of the crowd broke out three times over;
then, upon a sharp gesture from the Governor, the band played "God save
the Queen."

I never saw a prouder or more dignified gesture than that of the Marquis
of Lorne when he motioned to the conductor of the orchestra. He was
quite willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen to feel a
regret, perhaps even a flickering hope. The first on his feet, he
listened to that fine plaint with respect, but he smothered its last
echo beneath the English National Anthem.

Being an Englishman, he was incontestably right in doing so.

I gave for the last performance, on December 25, Christmas Day,
_Hernani_.

The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against Scribe and
Legouve, and the poor artistes who had come with me, who could not help
it. I do not know whether he did not even threaten to excommunicate all
of us, living and dead. Lovers of France and French art, in order to
reply to his abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost
carried by an immense crowd, among which were the deputies and
notabilities of the city.

One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to realise the
crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel.

The day following, Sunday, I went at seven o'clock in the morning, in
company with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade on the banks of the
St. Lawrence river. At a given moment I ordered the carriage to stop,
with the object of walking a little way.

My sister laughingly said, "What if we climb on to that large piece of
ice that seems ready to crack?"

No sooner thought of than done.

And behold both of us walking on the ice, trying to break it loose! All
of a sudden a loud shout from Jarrett made us understand that we had
succeeded. As a matter of fact, our ice barque was already floating free
in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open on account
of the force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece of
ice rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh
inordinately. Jarret's cries caused people to gather. Men armed with
boat-hooks endeavoured to stop our progress, but it was not easy, for
the edges of the channel were too friable to bear the weight of a man.
Ropes were thrown out to us. We caught hold of one of them with our four
hands, but the sudden pull of the men in drawing us towards them cast
our raft so suddenly against the ice edges that it broke in two, and we
remained, full of fear this time, on one small part of our skiff. I
laughed no longer, for we were beginning to travel somewhat fast, and
the channel was opening out in width. But in one of the turns it made we
were fortunately squeezed in between two immense blocks, and to this
fact we owed being able to escape with our lives.

The men who had followed our very rapid ride with real courage climbed
on to the blocks. A harpoon was thrown with marvellous skill on to our
icy wreck so as to retain us in our position, for the current, rather
strong underneath, might have caused us to move. A ladder was brought
and planted against one of the large blocks; its steps afforded us means
of delivery. My sister was the first to climb up, and I followed,
somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous escapade.

During the length of time required to regain the bank the carriage, with
Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was pallid, not from fear of
the danger I had undergone, but at the idea that if I died the tour
would come to an end. He said to me quite seriously, "If you had lost
your life, Madame, you would have been dishonest, for you would have
broken your contract of your own free will."

We had just enough time to get to the station, where the train was ready
to take me to Springfield.

An immense crowd was waiting, and it was with the same cry of love,
underlined with _au revoirs_, that the Canadian public wished us
good-bye.




XXXVI


SPRINGFIELD--BALTIMORE--PHILADELPHIA--CHICAGO--ADVENTURES BETWEEN
ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI--CAPITAL PUNISHMENT


After our immense and noisy success at Montreal, we were somewhat
surprised with the icy welcome of the public at Springfield.

We played _La Dame aux Camelias_--in America _Camille_, why, no one was
ever able to tell me. This play, which the public rushed to see in
crowds, shocked the over-strained Puritanism of the small American
towns. The critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene.
But those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This
stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the
impurity of Marguerite Gautier, we met with from time to time in the
small cities. Springfield at that time had barely thirty thousand
inhabitants.

During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmith's to
purchase a rifle. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow
courtyard, where I tried several shots. On turning round I was surprised
and confused to see two gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I
wished to withdraw at once, but one of them came up to me:

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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