The next performance was the “orange-tree,” and I had every reason to calculate on this trick, for, in my private rehearsals, it was the one I always did best. I began with a few juggling tricks as introduction, which were perfectly successful, and I had every reason to believe I was getting through it capitally, when a sudden thought crossed my mind and paralyzed me. I was assailed by a panic which must have been felt to be understood, and I will try to explain it by an illustration.
When you are learning to swim, the teacher begins by giving you this important piece of advice; “Have confidence, and all will be well.” If you follow his advice, you can easily keep yourself up on the water, and it seems perfectly natural; thus you learn to swim. But it often happens that a sudden thought crosses your mind like lightning: “Suppose my strength failed me!” From that time you hurry your movements, you redouble your speed, the water no longer sustains you, you flounder about, and, if a helping hand were not by, you would be lost.
Such was my situation on the stage; the thought had suddenly struck me: “Suppose I were to fail!” And immediately I began to talk quick, hurried on in my anxiety to finish, felt confused, and, like the tired swimmer, I floundered about without being able to emerge from the chaos of my ideas.
Oh! then I experienced a torture, an agony which I could not describe, but which might easily become mortal were it prolonged.
The real public were cold and silent, my friends were foolish enough to applaud, but the rest remained quiet. I scarcely dared to look round the room, and my experiment ended I know not how.
I proceeded to the next, but my nervous system had reached such a degree of irritation that I no longer knew what I said or did. I only felt that I was speaking with extraordinary volubility, so that the four last tricks of my performance were done in a few minutes.
The curtain fell very opportunely; my strength was exhausted; but a little longer and I should have had to crave the indulgence of my audience.
In my life I never passed so frightful a night as the one following my first performance. I had a fever, I am quite certain, but that was as nothing in comparison with my moral sufferings. I had no desire left or courage to appear on the stage. I wished to sell, give up, or give away, if necessary, an establishment which taxed my strength too severely.
“No,” I said to myself, “I am not born for this life of emotion. I will quit the parching atmosphere of a theatre. I will, even at the expense of a brilliant fortune, return to my gentle and calm employment.”
The next morning, incapable of rising, and, indeed, firmly resolved to give up my representations, I had the bill taken down that announced my performance for that evening. I had made up my mind as to all the consequences of this resolution. Thus, the sacrifice accomplished, I found myself far more calm, and even yielded to the imperious claims of a sleep I had for a long time denied myself.