I was beginning to think, though, of my new career. Books were sent to me from all quarters: Racine, Corneille, MoliÈre, Casimir Delavigne, &c. I opened them, but, as I did not understand them at all, I quickly closed them again, and read my little Lafontaine, 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 recognise all the fables if I began with the last verse and went backwards 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 Madame 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 Madame 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 get on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her to have some profession, for Madame Bernhardt has only 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. She would like to enter a convent.”

“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said Auber slowly. “How old is she?” he asked.

“Fourteen and a half,” replied Madame GuÉrard.

“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.”

The kind old man smiled.

“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less upon the exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had lasted long enough, he rose.

“It appears,” he said to Madame 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 her having been so charmingly replaced.” He thereupon kissed Madame GuÉrard’s hand, and she coloured 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 gaily.”

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 towards 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 artist.”

The man-servant 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. Madame GuÉrard told my mother about our interview, but she did not even let her finish, and only said, “Good, good; thank you.”

As the examination was to take place a month after this visit, it became necessary to prepare for it. 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 note-book for me, which I am copying textually, as my poor dear GuÉrard religiously kept everything concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a quantity of papers which are useful now.

The following is our odious friend’s work:

“Every morning instead of do .. re .. mi ... practise 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-lÀ; six sous ces six saucissons-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 practise it. My governess was charming, and I was very fond of her, but I could not help yelling with laughter when, after making me go through the te de de exercise, which went fairly well, and then the trÈs gros rat, &c., she started on the saucisson (sausages)! Ah, no. There was a cacophony of hisses in her toothless mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl. And when she began with the Didon, accompanied by the plus petit papa, I thought my dear governess was losing her reason. She half closed her eyes, her face was red, her moustache bristled up, she put on a sententious, hurried manner; her mouth widened out and looked like the slit in a money-box, or else it was creased up into a little ring, and she purred and hissed and chirped and fooled without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my wicker chair, choking with laughter, and great tears poured from my eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out right and left until they were tired, and rocked myself backwards and forwards, pealing with laughter.

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

Ten days passed by, and I did none of M. Meydieu’s exercises, except the te de de at the piano. My mother came and woke me every morning for this, and it drove me wild. My godfather made me learn Aricie, but I understood nothing of what he told me about the verses. He considered, and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an intonation, and that all the value of it resided in the rhyme. His theories were boring to listen to and impossible to execute. Then I could not understand Aricie’s character, for it did not seem to me that she loved Hippolyte at all, and she appeared to me to be a scheming flirt. My godfather explained to me that in olden times this was the way people loved each other, and when I remarked that 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 explain to her....”

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

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

I then learnt L’Ecole des Femmes, and Mlle. de Brabender explained AgnÈs 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.