“Come and rehearse it. Would you like to?” and he took me to the stage.
I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the foyer of the artistes to the stage. He told me the names of the celebrities represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before that of Adrienne Lecouvreur.
“I love that artiste,” I said.
“Do you know her story?” he asked.
“Yes, I have read all that has been written about her.”
“That’s quite right, my child,” said the worthy man. “You ought to read all that concerns your art. I will lend you some very interesting books.”
He took me on toward the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of weights, ropes, trees, friezes, harrows overhead, the yawning house completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and the vaultlike chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not seem to me to be part of that brilliant frame for the living artistes who every night won the applause of the house by their merriment or their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead glories, and the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the illustrious ghosts of those whom the manager had just mentioned. With my highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking something, now saw them advance toward me, stretching out their hands. These specters wanted to take me away with them. I put my hands over my eyes and stood still.
“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.
“Oh, yes, thank you, it was just a little giddiness.”
His voice had chased away the specters, and I opened my eyes and paid attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in hand, he explained to me where I was to stand, and my changes of place. He was rather pleased with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At the line: