My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

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I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the
painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of
this humble home.

XI

MY DEBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIERE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM

On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my _debut_, I was in the Rue
Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then at
the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honore. On the poster of
the Comedie Francaise I read the words "_Debut of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt._" I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the
letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every
person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I
blushed to the very roots of my hair.

At five o'clock I went to the theatre. I had a dressing-room on the top
floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblentz. This room was on the other
side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comedie
Francaise. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage
and means of communication for us to reach the Comedie.

I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. _Mon petit Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.

When the call-boy announced that the play was about to begin, I broke
into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint. I
went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I
arrived on the stage the curtain was rising. That curtain which was
being raised so slowly and solemnly was to me like the veil being torn
which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to
encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.
Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one
of Moliere's comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was
tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson
was small, precise, dainty; his shiny white hair curled firmly and
closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of
protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was nevertheless so
full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will,
which was always struggling for victory over my physical weakness. They
knew that my motto _"Quand-meme"_ had not been adopted by me merely by
chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise of will
power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this motto at
the age of nine, after a formidable leap over a ditch which no one could
jump and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my
face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. Whilst I was being
carried home I exclaimed furiously, "Yes, I would do it again,
_quand-meme_, if any one dared me again. And I will always do what I
want to do all my life." In the evening of that day my aunt, who was
grieved to see me in such pain, asked me what would give me any
pleasure. My poor little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at
this, and quite consoled, I whispered in a coaxing way, "I should like
to have some writing-paper with a motto of my own."

My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for
a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a
furious _"Quand-meme"_ that my Aunt Faure started back exclaiming, "What
a terrible child!"

Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage, but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my "cue" on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried towards Agamemnon, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the
stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress.

Madame Guerard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only
played one act, and there were four more. I realised then that it would
really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own
motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I
ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a
state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.

The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at
Sarcey's article in _L'Opinion Nationale,_ and she now read me the
following lines: "Mlle. Bernhardt who made her _debut_ yesterday in the
_role_ of Iphigenie, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a
very pleasing expression; the upper part of her face is remarkably
beautiful. Her carriage is excellent, and her enunciation is perfectly
clear. This is all that can be said for her at present."

"The man is an idiot," said my mother, drawing me to her. "You were
charming."

She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so.

When my godfather arrived in the afternoon he exclaimed, "Good heavens!
My poor child, what thin arms you have!"

As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when
stretching out my arms towards Eurybate. I had said the famous line in
which Favart had made her "effect" that was now a tradition. I certainly
had made no "effect," unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can
be reckoned as such. My second appearance was in _Valerie_, when I did
make some slight success.

My third appearance at the Comedie resulted in the following _boutade_
from the pen of the same Sarcey:

_L'Opinion Nationale_, September 12: "The same evening _Les Femmes
Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt's third _debut_, and she
assumed the _role_ of Henriette. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of Junie [he had made a mistake, as it
was Iphigenie I had played] and of Valerie. both of which _roles_ had
been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not much matter. She is a
_debutante,_ and among the number presented to us it is only natural
that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the
comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they
are Societaires of the Theatre Francais. All that they had more than
their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are
just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years' time, if she stays at
the Comedie Francaise."

I did not stay there, though, for one of those nothings which change a
whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comedie expecting to remain
there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about
the various stages of my career.

"The child will have so much during the first five years," he said, "and
so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have
the pension given to Societaires--that is, if she ever becomes a
Societaire." He appeared to have his doubts about that.

My sister Regina was the cause (though quite involuntarily this time) of
the drama which made me leave the Comedie. It was Moliere's anniversary,
and all the artistes of the Francais salute the bust of the great
writer, according to the tradition of the theatre. It was to be my first
appearance at a "ceremony," and my little sister, on hearing me tell
about it at home, besought me to take her to it.

My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to
accompany us. All the members of the Comedie were assembled in the
_foyer_. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the
famous doctor's cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about
to commence, and every one hurried along the corridor of the busts. I
was holding my little sister's hand, and just in front of us was the
very fat and very solemn Madame Nathalie. She was a Societaire of the
Comedie, old, spiteful, and surly.

Regina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger's cloak, stepped on
to Nathalie's, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a
violent push that she was knocked against a column on which was a bust.
Regina screamed out, and as she turned back to me I saw that her pretty
face was bleeding.

"You miserable creature!" I called out to the fat woman, and as she
turned round to reply I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to faint;
there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval,
stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity for the poor child from those
artistes who were mothers, &c. &c. Two groups were formed, one around
the wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around
little Regina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather
strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women,
fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchief's or fans. A
young but severe-looking Societaire was sprinkling her with drops of
water. Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over
her face, and muttered in a far-away voice, "How stupid! You'll spoil my
make-up!"

The younger men were stooping over Regina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice, "I did not do it on purpose,
sister, I am certain I didn't. She's an old cow, and she just kicked for
nothing at all!" Regina was a fair-haired seraph, who might have made
the angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty--but
her language was by no means choice, and nothing in the world could
change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly group burst out laughing,
while all the members of the enemy's camp shrugged their shoulders.
Bressant, who was the most charming of the comedians and a general
favourite, came up to me and said:

"We must arrange this little matter, dear Mademoiselle, for Nathalie's
short arms are really very long. Between ourselves, you were a trifle
hasty, but I like that, and then that child is so droll and so pretty,"
he added, pointing to my little sister.

The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused
twenty minutes' delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at
once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying, "You are a plucky little comrade!"
Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring, "How dared you do it! She is a
Societaire!"

As for me, I was not very conscious as to what I had done, but my
instinct warned me that I should pay dearly for it.

The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call
at the Comedie at one o'clock, about a matter concerning me privately. I
had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than
from remorse, and I was particularly annoyed at the idea of the attacks
I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my mother see
the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comedie I had been
emancipated. I received my letters now direct, without her supervision,
and I went about alone.

At one o'clock precisely I was shown into the manager's office. M.
Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his eyes more crafty,
preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my want of discipline, absence of
respect, and scandalous conduct, and finished his pitiful harangue by
advising me to beg Madame Nathalie's pardon.

"I have asked her to come," he added, "and you must apologise to her
before three Societaires, members of the committee. If she consents to
forgive you, the committee will then consider whether to fine you or to
cancel your engagement."

I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother in distress,
my godfather laughing in his bourgeois way, and my Aunt Faure
triumphant, with her usual phrase, "That child is terrible!" I thought
too of my beloved Brabender, with her hands clasped, her moustache
drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute
supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Madame Guerard arguing with
every one, so courageous was she always in her confidence in my future.

"Well, Mademoiselle?" said M. Thierry curtly.

I looked at him without speaking, and he began to get impatient.

"I will go and ask Madame Nathalie to come here," he said, "and I beg
you will do your part as quickly as possible, for I have other things to
attend to than to put your blunders right."

"Oh no, do not fetch Madame Nathalie," I said at last. "I shall not
apologise to her. I will leave; I will cancel my engagement at once."

He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for the
ungovernable, wilful child, who was about to ruin her whole future for
the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once gentler and more
polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had not hitherto done, and he
sat down himself opposite to me, and spoke to me gently about the
advantages of the Comedie, and of the danger that there would be for me
in leaving that illustrious theatre, which had done me the honour of
admitting me. He gave me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which
softened me. When he saw the effect he had made he wanted to send for
Madame Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.

"Oh, don't let her come here; I should box her ears again!" I exclaimed.

"Well then, I must ask your mother to come," he said.

"My mother would never come," I said.

"Then I will go and call on her," he remarked.

"It will be quite useless," I persisted. "My mother has emancipated me,
and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone am responsible for all
that I do."

"Well then, Mademoiselle, I will think it over," he said, rising, to
show me that the interview was at an end. I went back home, determined
to say nothing to my mother; but my little sister when questioned about
her wound had told everything in her own way, exaggerating, if possible,
the brutality of Madame Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done.
Rose Baretta, too, had been to see me, and had burst into tears,
assuring my mother that my engagement would be cancelled. The whole
family was very much excited and distressed when I arrived, and when
they began to argue with me it made me still more nervous. I did not
take calmly the reproaches which one and another of them addressed to
me, and I was not at all willing to follow their advice. I went to my
room and locked myself in.

The following day no one spoke to me, and I went up to Madame Guerarde
comforted and consoled.

Several days passed by, and I had nothing to do at the theatre. Finally
one morning I received a notice requesting me to be present at the
reading of a play,--Dolores, by M. Bouilhet. This was the first time I
had been asked to attend the reading of a new piece. I was evidently to
have a role to "create." All my sorrows were at once dispersed like a
cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and she naturally
concluded that as I was asked to attend a reading my engagement was not
to be cancelled, and I was not to be asked again to apologise to Madame
Nathalie.

I went to the theatre, and to my utter surprise I received from M.
Davennes the role of Dolores, the chief part in Bouilhet's play. I knew
that Favart, who should have had this role, was not well; but there were
other artistes, and I could not get over my joy and surprise.
Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible presentiment has always
warned me of any troubles about to come upon me.

I had been rehearsing for five days, when one morning on going upstairs
I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie, seated under
Gerome's portrait of Rachel, known as "the red pimento." I did not know
whether to go downstairs again or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed
by the spiteful woman.

"Oh, you can pass, Mademoiselle," she said. "I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The _role_ that you like so much is not going to be
for you after all."

I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by her speech,
which I guessed would prove true.

I did not mention this incident to any one, but continued rehearsing. It
was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me, and on Friday I was
disappointed to hear that Davennes was not there, and that there was to
be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting into my cab the hall-porter ran
out to give me a letter from Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to
come himself and give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful
to me.

He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme
youth--the importance of the _role_--such responsibility for my young
shoulders--and finally that as Madame Favart had recovered from her
illness, it was more prudent that, &c. &c. I finished reading the
letter through blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of
grief. I rushed back again and sent my name in to the manager's office.
He could not see me just then, but I said I would wait. After one hour,
thoroughly impatient, taking no notice of the office-boy and the
secretary, who wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door of M.
Thierry's office and walked in. All that despair, anger against
injustice, and fury against falseness could inspire me with I let him
have, in a stream of eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The manager
gazed at me in bewilderment. He could not conceive of such daring and
such violence in a girl so young.

When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down in an arm-chair, he tried
to calm me, but all in vain.

"I will leave at once," I said. "Give me back my contract and I will
send you back mine."

Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary and
gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my
contract.

"Here is your mother's signature, Mademoiselle. I leave you free to
bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not
receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the
theatre. But believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over during
the next forty-eight hours."

I did not answer, but went out of his office. That very evening I sent
back to M. Thierry the contract bearing his signature, and tore up the
one with that of my mother.

I had left Moliere's Theatre, and was not to re-enter it until twelve
years later.

XII

AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE--A TRIP TO SPAIN

This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it
completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth
amongst my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my
violence. Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being
made by my aunt and my little sister. My godfather, whom I had once for
all requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me
openly; but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any
peace for me except at Madame Guerard's so I was constantly with her. I
enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to make
cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something else to
think about, and I soon recovered my gaiety.

One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She
kept looking at the clock, and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who
lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived.

"It's very strange," my mother said, "for last night after whist he said
he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It's very strange
indeed!"

She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and
when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should
serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait.

Finally the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister
was evidently in the secret.

"Well, it's settled!" exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his
hat. "Here, read that, you self-willed girl."

He handed me a letter stamped with the words "Theatre du Gymnase." It
was from Montigny, the manager of the theatre, to M. de Gerbois, a
friend of my godfather's whom I knew very well. The letter was very
friendly, as far as M. de Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with
the following words, "I will engage your _protegee_ in order to be
agreeable to you.... but she appears to me to have a vile temper."

I blushed as I read these lines, and I thought my godfather was wanting
in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided hurting my
feelings in this way, but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever
lived. My mother seemed very much pleased, so I kissed her pretty face
and thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face,
which was always so cool and always slightly dewy. When I was a little
child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long
lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her
eyes, tickling my cheeks whilst I lay back breathless with delight.

The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some
little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical
old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then
interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guerard I
very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to me, and
of taking stock of me generally roused my ire at once. I answered his
questions curtly, and our conversation, which seemed likely to take an
aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny, the
manager.

"Which of you is Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt?" he asked. I at once
rose, and he continued, "Will you come into my office, Mademoiselle?"

Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humoured. He appeared
to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his ego, but
that did not matter to me.

After some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my
outburst at the Comedie made me a great many promises about the _roles_
I should have to play. He prepared my contract, and gave it me to take
home for my mother's signature and that of my family council.

"I am emancipated," I said to him, "so that my own signature is all that
is required."

"Oh, very good," he said; "but what nonsense to have emancipated a
self-willed girl. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that."

I was just on the point of replying that what my parents chose to do did
not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the contract, and hurried
home feeling very joyful.

Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young artist very much in vogue just then, who had the
most delightful talent. I played in _La maison sans enfants_, and I took
her _role_ at a moment's notice in _Le demon du jeu_, a piece which made
a great success. I was fairly good in both plays, but Montigny, in spite
of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage
manager played me no end of tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger
stirring within me, and I struggled with myself as much possible to keep
my nerves calm.

One evening, on leaving the theatre, a notice was handed to me
requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following day.
Montigny had promised me a good part, and I fell asleep that night
lulled by fairies, who carried me off into the land of glory and
success. On arriving at the theatre I found Blanche Pierson and Celine
Montalant already there--two of the prettiest creatures that God has
been pleased to create, the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other
as dark as a starry night, for she was brilliant-looking in spite of her
black hair. There were other women there, too--very, very pretty ones.

The play to be read was entitled _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, and it
was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it without any great pleasure,
and I thought it stupid. I waited anxiously to see what _role_ was to be
given to me, and I discovered this only too soon. It was a certain
Princess Dimchinka, a frivolous, foolish, laughing individual, who was
always eating or dancing. I did not like the part at all. I was very
inexperienced on the stage, and my timidity made me rather awkward.
Besides, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and
conviction in order to create the _role_ of an idiotic woman in an
imbecile play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my
head. I wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of
this to our old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable. He
approved of my idea, and wanted me to take a shop--a confectioner's--on
the Boulevard des Italiens. This became a fixed idea with the worthy
man. He loved sweets himself, and he knew lots of recipes for various
sorts of sweets that were not generally known, and which he wanted to
introduce. I remember one kind that he wanted to call _"bonbon negre."_
It was a mixture of chocolate and essence of coffee rolled into grilled
licorice root. It was like black _praline_, and was extremely good. I
was very persistent in this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look
at a shop, but when he showed me the little flat over it where I should
have to live, it upset me so much that I gave up for ever the idea of
business.

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