CHAPTER V
I RECITE “THE TWO PIGEONS”
I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to me from everywhere: Racine, Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne.... I opened them, but as I did not understand them at all, I quickly closed them again, and read my little La Fontaine, which I loved passionately. I knew all his fables, and one of my delights was to make a bet with my godfather or with M. Meydieu, our learned and tiresome friend. I used to bet that they would not recognize all the fables, if I began with the last verse and went backward to the first one, and I often won the bet.
A line from my aunt arrived one day, telling my mother that M. Auber, who was then Director of the Conservatoire, was expecting us the next day at nine in the morning. I was about to put my foot in the stirrup. My mother sent me with Mme. Guérard. M. Auber received us very affably, as the Duc de Morny had spoken to him of me. I was very much impressed by him, with his refined face and white hair, his ivory complexion and magnificent black eyes, his fragile and distinguished look, his melodious voice and the celebrity of his name. I scarcely dared answer his questions. He spoke to me very gently, and told me to sit down.
“You are very fond of the stage?” he began.
“Oh, no, monsieur!” I answered.
This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Mme. Guérard from under his heavy eyelids, and she at once said:
“No, she does not care for the stage, but she does not want to marry, and consequently she will have no money, as her father left her a hundred thousand francs, which she can only have on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have some profession, for Mme. Bernhardt only has an annuity, a fairly good one, but it is only an annuity, and so she will not be able to leave her daughters anything. On that account she wants Sarah to become independent. Sarah would like to enter a convent.”
“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said M. Auber, slowly. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Fourteen and a half,” replied Mme. Guérard.
“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.”
The kind old man smiled.
“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less about the exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long enough, he rose.
“It appears,” he said to Mme. Guérard, “that this little girl’s mother is very beautiful?”
“Oh, very beautiful!” she replied.
“You will please express my regret to her that I have not seen her, and my thanks for having so thoughtfully sent you.” He thereupon kissed Mme. Guérard’s hand, and she colored slightly.
This conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember every word of it, every movement and every gesture of M. Auber’s, for this little man, so charming and so gentle, held my future in his transparent-looking hand. He opened the door for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said:
“Come, courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank your mother some day for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad; life is well worth beginning, seriously, but gayly.”
I stammered out a few words of thanks, and, just as I was making my exit, a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She was heavy and extremely bustling, though, and M. Auber bent his head toward me and said quietly:
“Above all things don’t let yourself get stout like this singer. Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an artiste.”
The manservant was now holding the door open for us, and, as M. Auber returned to his visitor, I heard him say:
“Well, ... most ideal of women....”
I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in the carriage. Mme. Guérard told my mother about our interview, but the latter did not even let her finish, and only said: “Good, good; thank you.”
The examination was to take place a month after this visit. The difficulty was to choose a piece for the examination. My mother did not know any theatrical people. My godfather advised me to learn “Phèdre,” but Mlle. De Brabender objected, as she thought it a little offensive, and refused to help me if I chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend, wanted me to work at Chimène, in “Le Cid,” but first he declared that I clenched my teeth too much for it. It was quite true that I did not make the O open enough, and did not roll the R sufficiently, either. He wrote a little notebook for me, which I am copying exactly, as my poor, dear Guérard kept religiously everything concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a quantity of papers which are very useful now.
The following are my old friend’s instructions:
“Every morning instead of do ... re ... mi ... practice te ... de ... de ... in order to learn to vibrate....
“Before breakfast repeat forty times over: Un-très-gros-rat-dans-un-très-gros-trou—in order to vibrate the R.
“Before dinner repeat forty times: Combien ces six saucisses-ci? C’est six sous, ces six saucisses-ci. Six sous ces six saucisses-ci? Six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-là; six sous ces six saucisses-ci!—in order to learn not to whizz the S.
“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 practice 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 “très-gros-rat,” etc., she started on the saucisses (sausages). Ah, no, that 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 mustache 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 without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my wicker-work 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 useless, and rocked myself backward and forward, screaming 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 would 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 the value must only be put on 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 Phèdre 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 to 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 learned the “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.
Finally the examination day arrived. Everyone had given me advice, but no one any really helpful counsel. It had not occurred to anyone 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 bertha. 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. Everyone came to inspect my dress, and I was turned round and round twenty times at least. I had to make my courtesy for everyone to see. Finally I seemed to give general satisfaction. My petite 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, and 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 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.”
The man who spoke was the most extraordinary individual imaginable. I do not mean as regards his appearance, as he was like a not too ugly young Jew. He was shy and a Dutchman; never violent, but tenacious. 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 all 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 oilcloth 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 oilcloth 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 jewelers 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. Finally we started—Mlle. De Brabender, Mme. Guérard, 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 twenty young men and about thirty girls there. All these girls were accompanied by their mother, father, aunt, brother, or sister. There was an odor of pomade and vanilla that made me feel sick.
When we were shown into this room, I felt that everyone was looking at me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Mme. Guérard 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. Everyone looked at her, and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her direction. One of them suddenly got 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-colored dress, 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 headgear. 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 to the rule. The young men were standing in compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I suspect, making remarks in doubtful taste.
The heavy, red baize 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 give her her cues.
This was explained to me by Leautaud, who called over the names of the pupils and took down the names of those who were to act and those who were to give 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 anyone. I do not know any of them, and I will not ask.”
“Well, then, what will you recite, mademoiselle?” asked Leautaud, with the most outré 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 mustache as he continued his round. He then went back into the Conservatoire, and I began to get feverish with excitement, so that Mme. Guérard 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, and 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 woolen 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 my petite 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 Mme. Guérard, 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 everyone’s gaze on my back as I climbed up the few steps 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 thundering tragedian of the Comédie Française. 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....”
“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 encourages 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 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.
“Ah, well, that’s all right! Get your handkerchief out, my poor Beauvallet, and I shall intrust this child to you, my dear Provost.”
It was only at that moment that I comprehended, 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 anyone, but bounded to the door.
“Ma petite 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. M. Auber told me. I am to go into M. Provost’s class. M. 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 everyone; 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 stand, 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 depended only on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never arrive at 265 Rue St. Honoré. 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 staymaker, and worked in a little room on the top floor of the house, the window of 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, Mlle. 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 petite 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 Mme. Guérard sounding her trumpet and spoiling all my 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) spoiling all my effects. It was all in vain that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I told a good story and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I started on 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. Still more often, when anything was being guessed and I asked people for the answer, she would reply before anyone else, as she was always in my confidence, and I had perhaps told her the answer a second before. 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.
Furious, then, on this occasion, and abusing Mme. Guérard, 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 Guérard. 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!” everyone 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 Régina, whom the Sisters would not have in the convent and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learned this in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet:
My little dear, rejoice,
Everything is for you....
Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child with her serious air. Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a smile ever played over her thin lips and over 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, but if made to go in 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 M. Meydieu, who had just arrived to find out the result, promised to take me the next day to Barbédienne’s to choose a clock for my room, as that was one of my dreams.