The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its intenseness; but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory. Three presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little Thiers, with his perverse, bourgeois soul, had worn his teeth out with nibbling at every kind of government: royalty under Louis Philippe, empire under Napoleon III, and the executive power of the French Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had succeeded the marshal, but he was miserly and considered all outlay unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the National Defense had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.
I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which surrounded me.
I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not want to see anyone. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theater, where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew already that I had been elected the favorite, and the idea of this chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a traqueuse. I am subject to the trac or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this trac. I used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I found no feeling of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of trac or stage fright, was in the month of January, 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the eighth performance of “Le Passant.” The success of this little masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house. I turned toward the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just entered. But no, the box was empty, and I realized then that all the bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I were called back five times and, on leaving the theater, the students ranged on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.
“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.
“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said, “they want to make a ‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”
My grandmother took my head in her hands and I met the vacant look in her large, light eyes fixed on me. “You told me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.”
I drove back my tears and declared that I would bear up courageously against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity, my heedlessness and my “don’t-careism.” But, from that time forth, fear took possession of me, and stage fright martyrized me.
It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of “Phèdre,” in which I was to appear for the first time before the English public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes, and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not as tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is le bal, which I pronounced low down with the open a, le bâââl, or that I take high by dwelling on the l—le balll. Ah! but there was no doubt about it, my le bal neither sounded high nor low, my voice was hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, and just then I was informed that the second act of “Phèdre” was about to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my cameo belt was not fastened.
I began to murmur:
“Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.