My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 41

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

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

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

The play was ready to be performed, when Bornier asked that his friend Emile Augier might attend the dress rehearsal. When this rehearsal was over Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner.

Emile Augier followed him. "Well----" he said to me. I looked straight at him, feeling at the moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and scratched his head, then turned towards Augier and said:

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

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

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

This scene must be taken out."

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

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

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

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

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

"Refuse energetically," murmured Perrin to me.

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

"But I cannot cut it out--I cannot cut it out! She will not play! And the day after to-morrow the play is to be performed." Then, as Emile Augier made a gesture and would have spoken: "No! No! To put back my play eight days would be to kill it! I cannot cut it out! Oh, mon Dieu!"

And he cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and he stamped with his short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the same time funny and pitiable. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two months later I played _Gabrielle_, by this same Augier, and I had incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.

Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, made a great success. As for me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying a great deal.

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

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

My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then realising it. The son-in-law of M. Regnier, Felix Escalier, a fas.h.i.+onable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house.

Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin, and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I played on one of my relations.

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

Here it is:

Oh! Peintres de la Dam' jolie, De vos pinceaux arretez la folie!

Il faut descendr' des escabeaux, Vous nettoyer et vous faire tres beaux!

Digue, dingue, donne!

L'heure sonne.

Digue, dingue, di....

C'est midi!

Sur les grils et dans les ca.s.s'roles Sautent le veau, et les oeufs et les soles.

Le bon vin rouge et l'Saint-Marceaux Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux!

Digue, dingue, donne!

L'heure sonne.

Digue, dingue, di....

C'est midi!

Voici vos peintres, Dam' jolie Qui vont pour vous debiter leur folie.

Ils ont tous lache l'escabeau Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et tres beaux!

Digue, dingue, donne L'heure sonne Digue, dingue, di....

C'est midi.

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

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

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

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

Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself in every possible manner, so confused was she.

XXIV

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