Memories of My Life: Being My Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and ArtistBernhardt, Sarah
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Memories of My Life: Being My Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and Artist
Bernhardt, Sarah
Actors -- Biography; Bernhardt, Sarah, 1844-1923; Women -- Biography
The Tergnier Hotel could only give us one room between us. I let Soubise
go to bed, and I slept in an armchair, dressed as I was. The following
morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told that there was no
train. We had to work marvels to get a vehicle, but finally, Dr.
Meunier, or Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That
was something, but there was no horse. The poor doctor’s horse had been
requisitioned by the enemy. A wheelwright, for an exorbitant price, let
me hire a colt that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild
when the harness was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after
being well lashed, but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He
stood still on his four legs, which were trembling with fury, and
refused to move. With his neck stretched forward toward the ground, his
eye fixed, and his nostrils dilating, he would not budge any more than a
stake in the earth. Two men then held the light carriage back, the
halter was taken off the colt’s neck, he shook his head for an instant
and, thinking himself free and without any impediments, he began to step
out. The men were scarcely holding the vehicle. He gave two little kicks
and then began to trot. It was only a very short trot. A boy then
stopped him, some carrots were given to him, his mane was stroked, and
the halter was put on again. He stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping
into the gig and holding the reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged
him to move on. The colt tried timidly and, not feeling any resistance,
began to trot along for about a quarter of an hour, and then came back
to us at the door of the hotel. I had to leave a deposit of four hundred
francs with the notary of the place, in case the colt should die.
Ah, what a journey that was with the boy! Soubise and I sitting close
together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt!
The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is
raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop,
because of the poor beast who could not go any farther, it was five in
the afternoon and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was
certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away
from a sordid-looking house. I knocked and an enormous old woman opened
the door.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse.”
She looked out on the road and saw our turnout. “Hey, father,” she
called out in a husky voice, “come and look here!”
A fat man, quite as fat, but older than she was, came hobbling heavily
along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out
laughing and said to me in an insolent way:
“Well, what do you want?”
I repeated my phrase, “Hospitality for an hour, etc., etc.”
“P’raps we can do it, but it’ll want paying for.”
I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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