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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




"At night, when going to bed, repeat twenty times: _Didon dina, dit-on,
du dos d'un dodu dindon._

"And twenty times: _Le plus petit papa, petit pipi, petit popo, petit
pupu._ Open the mouth square for the _d_ and pout for the _p_."

He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. de Brabender, who
quite seriously wanted me to practise it. My governess was charming, and
I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when,
after making me go through the _te de de_ exercise, which went fairly
well, and then the _tres gros rat_, &c., she started on the _saucisson_
(sausages)! Ah, no. There was a cacophony of hisses in her toothless
mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl. And when she began
with the _Didon_, accompanied by the _plus petit papa_, I thought my
dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her eyes, her face
was red, her moustache bristled up, she put on a sententious, hurried
manner; her mouth widened out and looked like the slit in a money-box,
or else it was creased up into a little ring, and she purred and hissed
and chirped and fooled without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my
wicker chair, choking with laughter, and great tears poured from my
eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out right and left until
they were tired, and rocked myself backwards and forwards, pealing with
laughter.

My mother, attracted by the noise I was making, half opened the door.
Mlle. de Brabender explained to her very gravely that she was showing me
M. Meydieu's method. My mother expostulated with me, but I would not
listen to anything, as I was nearly beside myself with laughter. She
then took Mlle. de Brabender away and left me alone, for she feared that
I should finish with hysterics. When once I was by myself I began to
calm down. I closed my eyes and thought of my convent again. The _te de
de_ got mixed up in my enervated brain with the "Our Father," which I
used to have to repeat some days fifteen or twenty times as a
punishment. Finally I came to myself again, got up, and after bathing my
face in cold water went to my mother, whom I found playing whist with my
governess and godfather. I kissed Mlle. de Brabender, and she returned
my kiss with such indulgent kindness that I felt quite embarrassed by
it.

Ten days passed by, and I did none of M. Meydieu's exercises, except the
_te de de_ at the piano. My mother came and woke me every morning for
this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn _Aricie_, but I
understood nothing of what he told me about the verses. He considered,
and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an intonation, and
that all the value of it resided in the rhyme. His theories were boring
to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I could not understand
Aricie's character, for it did not seem to me that she loved Hippolyte
at all, and she appeared to me to be a scheming flirt. My godfather
explained to me that in olden times this was the way people loved each
other, and when I remarked that Phedre appeared to love in a better way
than that, he took me by the chin and said: "Just look at this naughty
child. She is pretending not to understand, and would like us explain to
her...."

This was simply idiotic. I did not understand, and had not asked
anything, but this man had a _bourgeois_ mind, and was sly and lewd. He
did not like me because I was thin, but he was interested in me because
I was going to be an actress. That word evoked for him the weak side of
our art. He did not see the beauty, the nobleness of it, nor yet its
beneficial power.

I could not fathom all this at that time, but I did not feel at ease
with this man, whom I had seen from my childhood and who was almost like
a father to me. I did not want to continue learning _Aricie_. In the
first place, I could not talk about it with my governess, as she would
not discuss the piece at all.

I then learnt _L'Ecole des Femmes_, and Mlle. de Brabender explained
Agnes to me. The dear, good lady did not see much in it, for the whole
story appeared to her of childlike simplicity, and when I said the
lines, "He has taken from me, he has taken from me the ribbon you gave
me," she smiled in all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed
heartily.




VIII


THE CONSERVATOIRE


Finally the examination day arrived. Every one had given me advice, but
no one any real helpful counsel. It had not occurred to any one that I
ought to have had a professional to prepare me for my examination. I got
up in the morning with a heavy heart and an anxious mind. My mother had
had a black silk dress made for me. It was slightly low-necked, and was
finished with a gathered berthe. The frock was rather short, and showed
my drawers. These were trimmed with embroidery, and came down to my
brown kid boots. A white guimpe emerged from my black bodice and was
fastened round my throat, which was too slender. My hair was parted on
my forehead and then fell as it liked, for it was not held by pins or
ribbons. I wore a large straw hat, although the season was rather
advanced. Every one came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and
round twenty times at least. I had to make my curtsey for every one to
see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. _Mon petit Dame_
came downstairs, with her grave husband, and kissed me. She was deeply
affected. Our old Marguerite made me sit down, and put before me a cup
of cold beef tea, which she had simmered so carefully for a long time
that it was then a delicious jelly; I swallowed it in a second. I was in
a great hurry to start. On rising from my chair, I moved so brusquely
that my dress caught on to an invisible splinter of wood, and was torn.
My mother turned to a visitor, who had arrived about five minutes before
and had remained in contemplative admiration ever since.

"There," she said to him in a vexed tone, "that is a proof of what I
told you. All your silks tear with the slightest movement."

"Oh no," replied our visitor quickly; "I told you that this one was not
well dressed, and let you have it at a low price on that account."

He who spoke was a young Jew, not ugly. He was a Dutchman--shy,
tenacious, but never violent. I had known him from my childhood. His
father, who was a friend of my grandfather's on my mother's side, was a
rich tradesman and the father of a tribe of children. He gave each of
his sons a small sum of money, and sent them out to make their fortune
where they liked. Jacques, the one of whom I am speaking, came to Paris.
He had commenced by selling Passover cakes, and as a boy had often
brought me some of them to the convent, together with the dainties that
my mother sent me. Later on, my surprise was great on seeing him offer
my mother rolls of oil-cloth such as is used for tablecloths for early
breakfast. I remember one of those cloths the border of which was formed
of medallions representing the French kings. It was from that oil-cloth
that I learned my history best. For the last month he had owned quite an
elegant vehicle, and he sold "silks that were not well dressed." At
present he is one of the leading jewellers of Paris.

The slit in my dress was soon mended, and, knowing now that the silk was
not well dressed, I treated it with respect. Well, finally we started,
Mlle. de Brabender, Madame Guerard, and I, in a carriage that was only
intended for two persons; and I was glad that it was so small, for I was
close to two people who were fond of me, and my silk frock was spread
carefully over their knees.

When I entered the waiting-room that leads into the recital hall of the
Conservatoire, there were about fifteen young men and twenty girls
there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father, aunt,
brother, or sister. There was an odour of pomade and vanilla that made
me feel sick.

When we were shown into this room I felt that every one was looking at
me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Madame Guerard drew me gently
along, and I turned to take Mlle. de Brabender's hand. She came shyly
forward, blushing more and still more confused than I was. Every one
looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her
direction.

One of them got suddenly up and moved across to her mother. "Oh, mercy,
look at that old sight!" she said. My poor governess felt most
uncomfortable, and I was furious, I thought she was a thousand times
nicer than all those fat, dressed-up, common-looking mothers. Certainly
she was different from other people in her appearance, for Mlle. de
Brabender was wearing a salmon-coloured dress and an Indian shawl, drawn
tightly across her shoulders and fastened with a very large cameo
brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches, so close together that it
looked like a nun's head-gear. She certainly was not at all like these
dreadful people in whose society we found ourselves, and among whom
there were not more than ten exceptions. The young men were standing in
compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I expect,
making remarks in doubtful taste.

The door opened and a girl with a red face, and a young man perfectly
scarlet, came back after acting their scene. They each went to their
respective friends and then chattered away, finding fault with each
other. A name was called out: Mlle. Dica Petit, and I saw a tall, fair,
distinguished-looking girl move forward without any embarrassment. She
stopped on her way to kiss a pretty woman, stout, with a pink and white
complexion, and very much dressed up.

"Don't be afraid, mother dear," she said, and then she added a few words
in Dutch before disappearing, followed by a young man and a very thin
girl who were to perform with her.

This was explained to me by Leautaud, who called over the names of the
pupils and took down the names of those who were up to pass their
examination and those who were to act with them and give them the cues.
I knew nothing of all this, and wondered who was to give me the cues for
Agnes. He mentioned several young men, but I interrupted him.

"Oh no," I said; "I will not ask any one. I do not know any of them, and
I will not ask."

"Well, then, what will you recite, Mademoiselle?" asked Leautaud, with
the most _fouchtre_ accent possible.

"I will recite a fable," I replied.

He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the title, _Deux
Pigeons_, which I gave him. I heard him still laughing under his heavy
moustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the
Conservatoire, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so much so
that Madame Guerard was anxious about me, as my health unfortunately was
very delicate. She made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of
eau-de-Cologne behind my ears.

"There, that will teach you to wink like that!" were the words I
suddenly heard, and a girl with the prettiest face imaginable had her
ears boxed soundly. Nathalie Mauvoy's mother was correcting her
daughter. I sprang up, trembling with fright and indignation; I was as
angry as a young turkey-cock. I wanted to go and box the horrible
woman's ears in return, and then to kiss the pretty girl who had been
insulted in this way, but I was held back firmly by my two guardians.

Dica Petit now returned, and this caused a diversion in the
waiting-room. She was radiant and quite satisfied with herself. Oh, very
well satisfied indeed! Her father held out a little flask to her in
which was some kind of cordial, and I should have liked some of it too,
for my mouth was dry and burning. Her mother then put a little woollen
square over her chest before fastening her coat for her, and then all
three of them went away. Several other girls and young men were called
before my turn came.

Finally the call of my name made me jump as a sardine does when pursued
by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake my hair back, and _mon petit
Dame_ stroked my badly dressed silk. Mlle. de Brabender reminded me
about the _o_ and the _a_, the _r_, the _p_, and the _t_, and I then
went alone into the hall.

I had never been alone an hour in my life. As a little child I was
always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the convent I was always
with one of my friends or one of the sisters; at home either with Mlle.
de Brabender or Madame Guerard, or if they were not there in the kitchen
with Marguerite. And now there I was alone in that strange-looking room,
with a platform at the end, a large table in the middle, and, seated
round this table, men who either grumbled, growled, or jeered. There was
only one woman present, and she had a loud voice. She was holding an
eyeglass, and as I entered she dropped it and looked at me through her
opera-glass. I felt every one's gaze on my back as I climbed up the few
steps on to the platform. Leautaud bent forward and whispered, "Make
your bow and commence, and then stop when the chairman rings." I looked
at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I had forgotten that he
was director of the Conservatoire, just as I had forgotten everything
else. I at once made my bow and began:

_Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre,
L'un d'eux s'ennuyant...._

A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a "ventriloquist" muttered,
"It isn't an elocution class here. What an idea to come here reciting
fables!"

It was Beauvallet, the deafening tragedian of the Comedie Francaise. I
stopped short, my heart beating wildly.

"Go on, my child," said a man with silvery hair. This was Provost.

"Yes, it won't be as long as a scene from a play," exclaimed Augustine
Brohan, the one woman present.

I began again:

_Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre,
L'un d'eux s'ennuyant au logis
Fut assez...._

"Louder, my child, louder," said a little man with curly white hair, in
a kindly tone. This was Samson.

I stopped again, confused and frightened, seized suddenly with such a
foolish fit of nervousness that I could have shouted or howled. Samson
saw this, and said to me, "Come, come; we are not ogres!" He had just
been talking in a low voice with Auber.

"Come now, begin again," he said, "and speak up."

"Ah no," put in Augustine Brohan, "if she is to begin again it will be
longer than a scene!" This speech made all the table laugh, and that
gave me time to recover myself. I thought all these people unkind to
laugh like this at the expense of a poor little trembling creature who
had been delivered over to them, bound hand and foot.

I felt, without exactly defining it, a slight contempt for these
pitiless judges. Since then I have very often thought of that trial of
mine, and I have come to the conclusion that individuals who are kind,
intelligent, and compassionate become less estimable when they are
together. The feeling of personal irresponsibility arouses their evil
instincts, and the fear of ridicule chases away their good ones.

When I had recovered my will power I began my fable again, determined
not to mind what happened. My voice was more liquid on account of the
emotion, and the desire to make myself heard caused it to be more
resonant.

There was silence, and before I had finished my fable the little bell
rang. I bowed and came down the few steps from the platform, thoroughly
exhausted. M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.

"Well, little girl," he said, "that was very good indeed. M. Provost and
M. Beauvallet both want you in their class."

I recoiled slightly when he told me which was M. Beauvallet, for he was
the "ventriloquist" who had given me such a fright.

"Well, which of these two gentlemen should you prefer?" he asked.

I did not utter a word, but pointed to M. Provost.

"That's all right. Get your handkerchief out, my poor Beauvallet, and I
shall entrust this child to you, my dear Provost."

I understood, and, wild with joy, I exclaimed, "Then I have passed?"

"Yes, you have passed; and there is only one thing I regret, and that is
that such a pretty voice should not be for music."

I did not hear anything else, for I was beside myself with joy. I did
not stay to thank any one, but bounded to the door.

"_Mon petit Dame_! Mademoiselle, I have passed!" I exclaimed, and when
they shook hands and asked me no end of questions I could only reply,
"Oh, it's quite true. I have passed, I have passed!"

I was surrounded and questioned.

"How do you know that you have passed? No one knows beforehand."

"Yes, yes; I know, though. Monsieur Auber told me. I am to go into
Monsieur Provost's class. Monsieur Beauvallet wanted me, but his voice
is too loud for me!"

A disagreeable girl exclaimed, "Can't you stop that? And so they all
want you!" A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came
nearer and asked me gently what I had recited.

"The fable of the 'Two Pigeons," I replied.

She was surprised, and so was every one; while, as for me, I was wildly
delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on my head, shook my
frock out, and, dragging my two friends along, ran away dancing. They
wanted to take me to the confectioner's to have something, but I
refused. We got into a cab, and I should have liked to push that cab
along myself. I fancied I saw the words, "I have passed," written up
over all the shops.

When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab had to stop, it seemed
to me that the people stared at me, and I caught myself tossing my head,
as though telling them all that it was quite true I had passed my
examination. I never thought any more about the convent, and only
experienced a feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first
venturesome enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had only depended
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265
Rue St. Honore. I kept putting my head out of the window, and saying,
"Faster, cabby, faster, please!"

At last we reached the house, and I sprang out of the cab and hurried
along to tell the good news to my mother. On the way I was stopped by
the daughter of the hall-porter. She was a corset-maker, and worked in a
little room on the top floor of the house which was opposite our
dining-room, where I used to do my lessons with my governess, so that I
could not help seeing her ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never
spoken to her, but I knew who she was.

"Well, Mademoiselle Sarah, are you satisfied?" she called out.

"Oh yes, I have passed," I answered, and I could not resist stopping a
minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of the hall-porter family. I
then hurried on, but on reaching the courtyard came to a dead stand,
anger and grief taking possession of me, for there I beheld my _petit
dame_, her two hands forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting
to my mother, who was leaning out of the window, "Yes, yes; she has
passed!"

I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and began to cry with rage, for
I had prepared a little story for my mother, ending up with the joyful
surprise. I had intended putting on a very sad look on arriving at the
door, and pretending to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I felt sure she
would say, "Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are so foolish!"
and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck and said, "It isn't
true, it isn't true; I have passed!" I had pictured to myself her face
brightening up, and then old Marguerite and my godfather laughing
heartily and my sisters dancing with joy, and here was Madame Guerard
sounding her trumpet and spoiling all the effects that I had prepared so
well.

I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she lived, that is
the greater part of my life, to spoil all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I related an
adventure and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I told a story with a
very lamentable ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh, roll
her eyes, and murmur, "Oh dear, oh dear!" so that I always missed the
effect I was counting on. All this used to exasperate me to such a
degree that before beginning a story or a game I used to ask her to go
out of the room, and she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of
the blunder she would make if there.

Abusing Guerard, I went upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open
door. She kissed me affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked if
I was not satisfied.

"Yes," I replied; "but I am furious with Guerard. Be nice, mamma, and
pretend you don't know. Shut the door, and I will ring."

She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the door, and my
mother came and pretended to be astonished. My sisters, too, arrived,
and my godfather and my aunt. When I kissed my mother, exclaiming, "I
have passed!" every one shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had
made my effect, anyhow. It was "the career" taking possession of me
unawares. My sister Regina, whom the sisters would not have in the
convent, and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learnt this
in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every
occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet:

_Mon p'tit ventr' ejouis toi
Tout ce ze gagn' est pou' toi...._

Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child, with her serious
air. Regina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played
over her thin lips and her mouth, which was too small. Nothing could be
more comic than to see her, looking grave and rough, dancing the jig.

She was funnier than ever that day, as she was excited by the general
joy. She was four years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was
both timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, and when
she was made to go into the dining-room she embarrassed people by her
crude remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers, and her kicks
and blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair, dark complexion,
blue eyes, too large for her face, and thick lashes which made a shadow
on her cheeks when she lowered the lids and joined her eyebrows when her
eyes were open. She would be four or five hours sometimes without
uttering a word, without answering any question she was asked, and then
she would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as she
could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good temper, for she
kissed me affectionately and opened her thin lips to smile. My sister
Jeanne kissed me and made me tell her about my examination. My godfather
gave me a hundred francs, and Meydieu, who had just arrived to find out
the result, promised to take me the next day to Barbedienne's to choose
a clock for my room, as that was one of my dreams.




IX


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS--THE CONSERVATOIRE


An evolution took place in me from that day. For rather a long time my
soul remained child-like, but my mind discerned life more distinctly. I
felt the need of creating a personality for myself. That was the first
awakening of my will. I wanted to be some one. Mlle. de Brabender
declared to me that this was pride. It seemed to me that it was not
quite that, but I could not then define what the sentiment was which
imposed this wish on me. I did not understand until a few months later
why I wished to be some one.

A friend of my godfather's made me an offer of marriage. This man was a
rich tanner and very kind, but so dark and with such long hair and such
a beard that he disgusted me. I refused him, and my godfather then asked
to speak to me alone. He made me sit down in my mother's boudoir, and
said to me: "My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse Monsieur Bed----.
He has sixty thousand francs a year and expectations." It was the first
time I had heard this use of the word, and when the meaning was
explained to me I wondered if that was the right thing to say on such an
occasion.

"Why, yes," replied my godfather; "you are idiotic with your romantic
ideas. Marriage is a business affair, and must be considered as such.
Your future father- and mother-in-law will have to die, just as we
shall, and it is by no means disagreeable to know that they will leave
two million francs to their son, and consequently to you, if you marry
him."

"I shall not marry him, though."

"Why?"

"Because I do not love him."

"But you never love your husband before----" replied my practical
adviser. "You can love him after."

"After what?"

"Ask your mother. But listen to me now, for it is not a question of
that. You must marry. Your mother has a small income which your father
left her, but this income comes from the profits of the manufactory,
which belongs to your grandmother, and she cannot bear your mother, who
will therefore lose that income, and then she will have nothing, and
three children on her hands. It is that accursed lawyer who is arranging
all this. The whys and wherefores would take too long to explain. Your
father managed his business affairs very badly. You must marry,
therefore, if not for your own sake, for the sake of your mother and
sisters. You can then give your mother the hundred thousand francs your
father left you, which no one else can touch. Monsieur Bed---- will
settle three hundred thousand francs on you. I have arranged everything,
so that you can give this to your mother if you like, and with four
hundred thousand francs she will be able to live very well."

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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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