Thus, this little comedy turned to my profit. Not being able to die at will, I faced about and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had put up with me only because they thought I would soon die, but who began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction that I should perhaps live for a long time. I will give only one example, related by Alexandre Dumas, fils, who was present at the death of his intimate friend, Charles Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die because I shall hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the great Français” (Ferdinand de Lesseps).
CHAPTER XVIII
A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES
But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort of idleness to which Perrin condemned me. In fact, after Zaïre, I remained months without anything of importance—playing here and there. Then, discouraged and disgusted with the theater, I renewed my passion for sculpture. After my ride I took a light repast and then fled to my studio where I remained till the evening.
Friends came to see me, sat around me, played the piano, sang, warmly discussed politics—for in this modest studio I received the most illustrious men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which was abominable and badly served; but I did not care about that. I was absorbed by that admirable art. I saw nothing, or to speak more truly. I would not see anything.
At this time I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy de X——. Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She was a foreigner but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She smoked a cigarette all the time and had a profound disdain for those who did not understand her.
I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this delicate spirit was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the beyond, and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself: “What would Emmy have done?... What would she have thought?...”
I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild, who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried, nevertheless, and I brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order of which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave it up, stammering idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model, for he never returned to me. When we met, in our morning rides, he saluted me with a cold and rather severe bow.
After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Mlle. Multon, a delicious little American whom later on I came across in Denmark, married and the mother of a family—but still as pretty as ever. Then I made a bust of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was keeper of the linen in the hospital cars during the war and who had so efficiently helped me and my wounded at that time.
Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas, a weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two leonine eyes, shaded by long brown lashes—so long that they made a shadow on her cheeks when she lowered them—a slender nose with delicate nostrils, a tiny mouth, a willful chin and a pearly skin, crowned by meshes of sun rays, for I have never seen hair so blond and so pale, so bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without charm: the expression was hard and the mouth without smile. I tried my best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great artist and I was only a humble amateur.