Memories of My Life by Sarah Bernhardt - HTML preview

CHAPTER II
 I BEGIN MY CONVENT LIFE

I did not sleep well that night and the following morning, at eight o’clock, we started by diligence for Versailles. I can see Marie now, in tears, great big girl as she was. All the members of the family were assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my little trunk and then a wooden case of games which my mother had brought, and a kite that my cousin had made, which he gave me at the last moment just as the carriage was starting. I can still see the large white house, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther we drove away from it. I stood up, with my father holding me and waved his blue silk muffler which I had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the heavy-looking door of the Grandchamps Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked at everything around me. The paving stones of the street were round and small, with grass growing everywhere. There was a wall and then a great gateway surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing whatever to be seen. To the left there was a house and to the right the Sartory barracks. Not a sound to be heard, not a footfall, not even an echo.

“Oh, mamma!” I exclaimed, “is it inside there I am to go? Oh, no, I would rather go back to Mme. Fressard’s.”

My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him, and while ringing the bell, he took me by the hand. The door opened, and he led me gently in, followed by my mother and Aunt Rosine.

The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to be seen, and windows from which children’s faces were gazing curiously at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she took us into the parlor. This was large, with a polished floor, and was divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall and a few chairs and armchairs near the grating. On the walls were the portraits of Pius IX., a full-length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some book the description of a prison and that it was just like this. I looked at my father and at my mother and began to distrust them. I had so often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to rule me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My Aunt Faure had so often repeated: “That child will come to a bad end, she has such mad ideas, etc., etc.”

“Papa, papa,” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror, “I won’t go to prison. This is a prison I am sure. I am frightened; oh, I am so frightened!”

On the other side of the grating a door had just opened, and I stopped to see who was coming. A little round, short woman made her appearance and came up to the grating. Her black veil was lowered as far as her mouth, so that I could see scarcely anything of her face. She recognized my father, whom she had probably seen before when matters were being arranged. She opened the door in the grating and we all went through to the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified eyes full of tears, she gently took my hand in hers, and turning her back to my father raised her veil. I then saw the sweetest and merriest face imaginable, with large, childlike blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing mouth with full lips and beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so kind, so energetic, and so gay that I flung myself at once into her arms. It was Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior of the Grandchamps Convent.

“Ah, we are friends now, you see!” she said to my father, lowering her veil again. What secret instinct could have told this woman, who was not coquettish, who had no looking-glass and never troubled about beauty, that her face was fascinating and that her bright smile could enliven the gloom of the convent?

“We will now go and visit the house,” she said.

We at once started, she and my father each holding one of my hands. Two other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was the mother-prefect, a tall, cold woman with thin lips, and Sister Séraphine, who was as white and supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We started by entering the building and came first to the large class-room in which all the pupils met on Thursdays at the lectures, which were nearly always given by Mother Ste. Sophie. Most of them did needle-work all day long, tapestry, embroidery, etc., and others decalcomania.

The room was very large and on St. Catherine’s Day and other holidays we used to dance there. It was in this room, too, that once a year the Mother Superior gave to each of the Sisters the sou which represented her annual income. The walls were adorned with religious engravings and with a few oil paintings done by the pupils. The place of honor, though, belonged to St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving depicted the conversion of this saint, and, oh, how often I have looked at that engraving! St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much emotion and greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired the cleanliness of the refectory. She asked to see which would be my seat at table, and when this was shown to her she objected strongly to my having that place.

“No,” she said, “the child has not a strong chest and she would always be in a draught. I will not let her sit there.”

My father agreed with my mother and insisted on a change being made. It was therefore decided that I should sit at the end of the room, and the promise given was faithfully kept.

When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories she was aghast. It was very, very wide and the steps were low and easy to mount, but there were so many of them before one reached the first floor. For a few seconds mamma hesitated and stood there gazing at them, her arms hanging down in despair.

“Stay down here, Youle,” said my aunt, “and I will go up.”

“No, no,” replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. “I must see where the child is to sleep; she is so delicate.”

My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up, and we then went into one of the immense dormitories. It was very much like the dormitory at Mme. Fressard’s, but a great deal larger and there was a tiled floor without any carpet.

“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma, “the child cannot sleep here; it is too cold; it would kill her.”

The Mother Superior, Ste. Sophie, gave my mother a chair and tried to soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already very much affected.

“We will put your little girl in this dormitory, madame,” she said, opening a door that led into a room with eight beds. The floor was of polished wood and this room, adjoining the infirmary, was the one in which delicate or convalescent children slept. Mamma was reassured on seeing this, and we then went down and inspected the grounds. There were three woods, the Little Wood, the Middle Wood, and the Big Wood, and then there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye could see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children lived. They were taught gratis by the nuns, and every week they helped with the laundry for the convent.

The sight of these immense woods with swings, hammocks, and a gymnasium delighted me, for I thought I should be able to roam about at pleasure there. Mother Ste. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood was reserved for the older pupils and the Middle Wood for the little ones, while the Big Wood was for the whole convent on holidays. Then after telling us about the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering of the acacia, Mother Ste. Sophie informed us that every child could have a small garden and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger one between them.

REAR VIEW OF GRANDCHAMPS CONVENT, VERSAILLES.

“Oh, can I have a garden of my own!” I exclaimed, “a garden all to myself?”

“Yes,” replied my mother, “one of your own.”

The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man, with the exception of the almoner, who was on the convent staff.

“Père Larcher,” said the kind woman, “here is a little girl who wants a beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it.”

“Very good, Reverend Mother,” answered the honest fellow, and I saw my father slip a coin into his hand, for which the man thanked him in an embarrassed way.

It was getting late and we had to separate. I remember quite well that I did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of nothing but my garden. The convent no longer seemed to me like a prison but like Paradise. I kissed my mother and my aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment in a close embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full of tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a hearty kiss and whispered: “I am going to be very, very good and work well, so that I can go with you at the end of four years.” I then went toward my mother, who was giving Mother Ste. Sophie the same instructions she had given to Mme. Fressard about “cold cream, chocolate, jam, etc.” Mother Ste. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only fair to say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously.

When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the Mother Superior took me by the hand, and leading me to the Second Wood, showed me where my garden would be. That was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for we found Père Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner of the wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The corner was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which bounded the railway line of the left bank of the river which cuts the Sartory Woods in two. The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent were part of the beautiful Sartory Forest.

They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled and sent for the Mother Treasurer and Mother Ste. Appoline. I had to hand all my money over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me, saying: “When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from me.”

Mère Ste. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why I wanted every sort that grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson, by explaining that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher, telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was delighted, and I then went with Mother Ste. Sophie to the refectory to have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second, amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there, standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother Superior appeared, everyone bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were turned on me. Mother Ste. Sophie took me to the seat which had been chosen for me at the end of the room and then returned to the middle of the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room, everyone bowed again and I then found myself alone, quite alone in this cage of little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardanos. They had been in the convent only two months and appeared to be as timid as I was. The dinner was composed of soup, made of everything, and of veal with haricot beans. I detested soup and I have always had a horror of veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun who waited on us turned it up again and poured the hot soup in, regardless of scalding me.

“You must drink your soup,” whispered my right-hand neighbor, whose name was Pepa.

“I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud. The inspectress was passing by just at that moment.

“You must drink your soup, mademoiselle,” she said.

“No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered.

She smiled and said in a gentle voice:

“We must like everything. I shall be coming round again soon. Be a good girl and take your soup.”

I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and drank the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed her satisfaction. I was furious and put my tongue out, and this made all the table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end of the table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the eldest, said to her in a low voice:

“It’s the new girl making grimaces.”

The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my portion found its way to the plate of my neighbor, Dolores. I wanted to keep the haricot beans though, and we almost came to a quarrel over them. She gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few beans which I tried to keep on my plate.

An hour later we had evening prayers and afterwards all went up to bed. My bed was placed against the wall, in which there was a niche for the statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was always kept burning in this niche, and the oil for it was provided by the children who had been ill and were grateful for their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at the foot of the little statue. The pots were of terra cotta and the flowers of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell asleep to dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of distant countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an impression on my mind.

The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up so early. Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque windowpanes. I grumbled as I dressed, for we were allowed only a quarter of an hour and it always took me a good half hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing that I was not ready, came toward me, and before I knew what she was going to do, snatched the comb violently out of my hand.

“Come, come,” she said, “you must not dawdle like this.” She then planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a handful of it. Pain and anger at seeing myself treated in this way threw me immediately into one of my fits of rage which always terrified those who witnessed them. I flung myself upon the unfortunate Sister and with feet, teeth, hands, elbows, head and, indeed, all my poor little body I hit, thumped, and at the same time yelled. All the pupils, all the Sisters, and indeed everyone came running to see what was the matter. The Sisters made the sign of the cross but did not venture to approach me. The Mother Prefect threw some holy water over me to exorcise the evil spirit. Finally the Mother Superior arrived on the scene. My father had told her of my fits of wild fury, which were my only serious fault, and my state of health was quite as much responsible for them as the violence of my disposition. She approached me. I was still clutching Sister Marie, but was exhausted by this struggle with the poor woman, who although tall and strong, only tried to ward off my blows without retaliating, endeavoring to hold first my feet, and then my hands.

I looked up on hearing Mother Ste. Sophie’s voice. My eyes were bathed in tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet face that without altogether letting go I ceased fighting for a second, and trembling and ashamed, said very quickly:

“She commenced it, she snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked woman, and tore out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked, wicked woman.” I then burst into sobs and my hands loosed their hold. The next thing I knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed with Mother Ste. Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice lecturing me gently. All the others had gone and I was quite alone with her and the Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother Ste. Sophie had an immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her, and Sister Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the whole convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little stool I listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to the instructive story she told me.

Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and how I love to recall her to my memory! I adored her as a little child adores the being who has entirely won its heart, without knowing, without reasoning, without even being aware that it was so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since then, though, I have understood and admired her, realizing how unique and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set exterior and happy face of that holy woman, I have loved her for all that she awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the letters which she wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over again. I love her, also, because imperfect as I am, it seems to me that I should have been one hundred times more so, had I not known and loved that pure creature. Once only did I see her severe and feel that she was suddenly angry. In the little room used as a parlor, leading into her cell, there was a portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was stamped with a certain nobility.

“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her.

“No,” she answered, turning quickly toward me, “it is the King, it is Henri V.”

It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognized sovereign. They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of bonbons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded to all the colleges, boarding schools, and convents. Politics were a dead letter to me and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother Ste. Sophie.

Then, too, I was a favorite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did my compositions for me. I did not care for any studies except geography and drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and I thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid and quite lost my head when questioned unexpectedly.

I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me in small cardboard boxes, or cages that I manufactured myself, adders, with which the woods were full, crickets, that I found on the leaves of the tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails broken, as in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid of the box a little. On seeing this the lizards rushed to the opening. I would shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such assurance, when, crack! in a twinkling, either at the right or left, there was nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and while one of the Sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the blackboard, the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard’s tail in my hand, how I could fasten it on again. I had some death-watches in a little box, and five spiders in a cage that Père Larcher had made for me with some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give flies to my spiders and they, fat and well-fed, would spin their webs. Very often during recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little girls, would stand round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and watch the wonderful work of these little creatures. If one of my schoolfellows cut herself I used to go quickly to her, feeling very proud and important: “Come at once,” I would say, “I have some fresh spider-web and I will wrap your finger in it.” Provided with a little thin stick I would take the web and wrap it round the wounded finger. “And now, my lady spiders,” I would say, “you must begin your work again,” and, active and minute, mesdames, the spiders, began their spinning once more.

I was looked upon as a little authority and was made umpire in questions that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for fashionable trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy thing for me in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets and muff, and this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I charged for my trousseaux, according to their importance, two pencils, five tête-de-mort nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In short, I became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride. I did not learn anything and I received no distinctions. My name was only once on the honor list, and that was not as a studious pupil but for a courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool. She had fallen in while trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the large orchard on the poor children’s side of the grounds. As a punishment for some misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent away for two days among the poor children. This was supposed to be a punishment and I delighted in it. In the first place I was looked upon by them as a “young lady.” Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous to bring me, on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard some heartrending shrieks and, rushing to the pool from whence they came, I saw a little girl immersed in it. I jumped into the water without reflecting. There was so much mud that we both sank in it. The little girl was only four years old and so small that she kept disappearing. I was over ten at that time. I do not know how I managed to rescue her, but I dragged her out of the water with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes all filled with mud. I was told afterwards that it was a long time before she was restored to consciousness. As for me, I was carried away with my teeth chattering, nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish afterwards and Mother Ste. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard her words to the doctor:

“This child,” she said, “is one of the best we have here. She will be perfect when once she has received the Holy Chrism.”

This speech made such an impression on me that, from that day forth, mysticism had a great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me, heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the Mother of the Seven Sorrows, my ideal.

An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I wanted to remain forever.

The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of visits to some of the communities and ours was among the chosen ones. The news was told us by Mother Ste. Alexis, the senior, who was so tall, so thin, and so old that I never looked upon her as a human being, or as a living being. It always seemed to me as though she were stuffed and as though she moved by machinery. She frightened me and I never consented to go near to her until after her death.

We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays. Mother Ste. Alexis, supported by two lay Sisters, stood on the little platform and, in a voice that sounded far, far off, announced to us the approaching visit of monseigneur. He was to come on Ste. Catherine’s Day, just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother.

Our peaceful convent was thenceforth like a beehive in which a hornet had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might have time to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall armchair of carved wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and polished. We made lamp shades covered with crystalline. The grass was pulled up in the courtyard ... and I cannot tell what was not done in honor of this visitor.

Two days after the announcement made by Mother Ste. Alexis the programme of the fête was read to us by Mother Ste. Sophie. The youngest of the nuns was to read a few words of welcome to monseigneur. This was the delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given, entitled, “Toby Recovering His Eyesight.” It had been written by Mother Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with age and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of the phrases.

The little play was read to us by Mother Ste. Thérèse one Thursday, in the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother Ste. Thérèse was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid committing, if only for a second, the sin of pride.

Scene I. Toby’s farewell to his blind father. He vows to bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabelus, one of his relatives. Scene II. Toby, asleep on the banks of the Tiber, is being watched over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a monster fish which had attacked Toby while he slept. When the fish is killed the angel advises Toby to take its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to preserve these religiously. Scene III. Toby’s return to his blind father. The angel tells him to rub the old man’s eyes with the entrails of the fish. The father’s eyesight is restored, and when Toby begs the Angel Raphael to accept some reward the latter makes himself known, and in a song to the glory of God, vanishes to heaven.

I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy, for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no doubt but that some rôle would be distributed to me. The very thought of it made me tremble beforehand, and I kept saying to myself: “Oh, no, I could never say anything aloud!” I began to get quite nervous, my hands became quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I did not approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother Ste. Thérèse said in her calm voice:

“Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen for your names for the different parts:

I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied, amazed, and furious. Mother Ste. Thérèse then added: “Here are your manuscripts, young ladies,” and a manuscript of the little play was handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it.

Louise Buguet was my favorite playmate, and I went up to her and asked her to let me see her manuscript, which I read again enthusiastically.

“You’ll hear me rehearse, when I have learned it, won’t you?” she asked, and I answered:

“Yes, certainly.”

“Oh, how frightened I shall be!” she said.

She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow limpid and pearl-like from her gray, questioning eyes.

She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd’s dog going from one to another among the chosen ones. I had really nothing to do with it, but I wanted to be “in it.” The Mother Superior passed by, and as we all courtesied to her she patted my cheek.

“We thought of you, little girl,” she said, “but you are so timid when you are asked anything.”

“Oh, that’s when it is history or arithmetic!” I said. “This is not the same thing, and I should not have been afraid.”

She smiled distrustfully and moved on.

There were rehearsals during the next week. I asked to be allowed to take the part of the monster, as I wanted to have some rôle in the play, at any cost. It was decided, though, that César, the convent dog, should be the fish monster.

A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless amount of trouble, cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted, and sewing them together afterward. I made some enormous gills, which were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed over for that of a stupid, big girl, whose name I cannot remember. She had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but there were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat. I nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume, and worked at it with two of the lay Sisters, Sister Ste. Cécile and Sister Ste. Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.

At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael. She stood there stupefied, on the little platform, tears dimming her beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and getting up, rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was beginning to be “in it” myself, at last.

Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but immediately on entering, he sank down on a bench sobbing out in an imploring voice:

“Oh, no, I shall never be ab