The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  Rosine rang the bell again. Moments later, bolts unlatched and the gate swung open. My heart lodged in my throat.

  The figure before me was tall and plump, dressed entirely in black, a wimple framing her cherubic features. It took me by surprise, that childlike face with its keen brown eyes and warm smile, so at odds with her apparel, like an angel in a widow’s garb.

  “Welcome to Grandchamp. I am Mère Sophie, Reverend Mother of this blessed house of the Sisters of Zion.” She lowered her gaze. “You must be little Sarah Bernhardt.”

  It was too much for me. With a desperate sob, I threw myself into the Reverend Mother’s startled embrace, burying my face against her lilac-scented robes.

  Although I did not know it yet, I had found my refuge.

  III

  The convent had a lovely garden with white-pebble pathways, lime trees, and birdbaths—a paradise of tranquility in a serene, efficient place. I was prepared to hate it, thinking it could never be like Paris, which I had come to love, with its deafening clatter of landaus, hansoms, and rickety omnibuses running up to the hill of Montmartre, its winding alleyways and bold new boulevards, its raucous brasseries, smoky cafés, and sumptuous emporiums. Rosine had claimed Paris was the most exciting place in the world, and, to accustom me to the city, had taken me to all the wonderful sites and shops where everything anyone could possibly want was available. I’d grown to see the city as my home, and now it had all been taken from me, just like my home in Brittany.

  Nevertheless, after a few awkward months of adjustment, I began to realize that at Grandchamp, at last I could be myself. Or as much of myself as a convent would allow.

  The unvaried routine proved oddly comforting: prayers in the chapel four times daily (my declaration that I was Jewish, made to evade the prayers, did not impress the nuns); lessons in arithmetic, grammar, history, and geography, followed by diction and deportment; and in the afternoons, sedate exercise. I wasn’t an exemplary student, as I had no mind for facts or numbers. My sole interests were reading and the convent’s old hound, César, who followed me everywhere, and creatures I collected in the garden from under rocks—lizards, spiders, and frogs that I kept in a perforated tin box and fed with flies.

  And art. I soon proved to be the best artist in my class, perhaps in the entire school, able to assimilate the shape of almost anything I saw and reproduce it with charcoal on paper. I drew César many times, asleep at my feet. I drew lizards and flowers, the sparrows dipping in the birdbath. My drawings were so exceptional, the nuns pinned them on the board for others to emulate.

  Mère Sophie was aware that I’d never been baptized. While Nana had raised me Catholic, the sum total of my religious education had entailed mass on Sunday and saying my prayers before bedtime, so my declaration of my Jewish blood exerted the opposite effect of what I’d intended. Rather than avoid extra lessons, I was obliged to study catechism in the hope that one day I might be deemed ready to receive Holy Communion. I thought I’d be bored. Instead, I found myself fascinated by the evil pharaoh and burning bush sent by God, by the ark filled with pairs of animals and the terrifying flood. I learned that the Jewish people had once been enslaved, important participants in this ageless tale of miracles and martyrs. It didn’t feel like I was studying religion at all, but rather immersed in a fantastic, never-ending fable.

  I shared a large dormitory room with the other girls of my age. Grandchamp was indeed exclusive, where wealthy families boarded their daughters. Some of the girls gave themselves airs because of their titles. But others, like Marie Colombier, whom I befriended after my arrival, were like me—of uncertain provenance, with mothers who toiled as—

  “Demimondaines,” Marie whispered one day after we’d been sent to the garden to study our roles for the upcoming annual Nativity play, performed in honor of the archbishop of Paris, who was one of the convent’s benefactors. I had turned eleven; the last two years had passed swiftly, and I was now old enough to be assigned a supporting role in the play. I’d desperately wanted the lead as the archangel Raphael, memorizing every line, but the nuns allocated the part to Louise, an older girl with a family of status.

  Now I looked up from the three lines I had as a shepherd in the play to meet Marie’s mischievous gaze. She was dark-haired, with velvety brown eyes. I envied her beauty and her budding figure—I was still narrow as a twig—as well as her astonishing worldliness.

  “Demimondaine?” I said in bewilderment. “Whatever is that?”

  “Not what. Who.” Marie rolled her eyes. “A courtesan, silly. A cocotte. A grande horizontale. Remember? Like the Magdalene.” As I went still, she added, “Surely you must know. How else could our mothers afford this place? We’re not Rothschilds, Sarah.”

  “But that must mean our mothers are…whores?” I breathed out the unspeakable word in a hushed voice. I only knew it because of her. The story of Mary Magdalene had provoked many questions from me that the nuns refused to answer, so Marie had finally taken it upon herself to explain what Mary was. I thought it a very ugly word, but as she defined it for me, I realized it described my mother to perfection. Julie’s salon and her suitors, that ghoul Morny tiptoeing from her chamber in the early morning hours—this surely was how she must earn her living.

  Marie said, “It isn’t how they would describe themselves; they don’t sell themselves in the street. Demimondaines must be very sophisticated. They are…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Entertainers. Like actresses.”

  “Entertainers?” I felt a wave of revulsion, recalling my mother’s insistence that I must learn proper manners, her chiding of me to respect her suitors. “How could any woman ever do such a thing with smelly old men?”

  She giggled. “Well, if the smelly old man pays enough…”

  I resisted a shudder. But even as I did, I lost my fear of my mother. I even felt a slight stir of pity for her, with the confidence of the very young that no matter what travails life might have in store for me, I would never stoop so low.

  Marie told me that becoming a demimondaine was a coveted and difficult endeavor. Penniless girls from all over Europe flocked to Paris as my mother had, in the hope of transforming themselves into one of these scintillating creatures who never expressed in public what they were about. There was complex language involved, Marie said, made up of subtle gestures and expressions that conveyed what the lips could not. While every girl who entered the trade did so in the hope of success, only the most skilled ever achieved it.

  “My mother told me of one who snared a prince’s son,” Marie said. “He was so in love with her, he gambled away his inheritance to win her favors. She fleeced him of every sou, then threw him aside for another. He challenged her lover to a duel and got himself shot. His father was so enraged, he threatened to see her run out of Paris, but she seduced the man instead. He made her so rich, she eventually retired to a château.” Marie let out a sigh, as if she found this crude tale irresistible.

  “My mother is nothing like that,” I said, thinking of her crowded flat and overstuffed salon, of Julie’s glazed fixture of a smile, as if a single misstep might cast her into ruin. “I don’t think she’s very successful or rich at all.”

  “Well, she must have something to place you here. Imagine it. To live as you please and make your own fortune: it’s a freedom that of all women, only a courtesan enjoys.”

  I considered this. “Is it really freedom? Or another form of slavery, like the Hebrews in Egypt? Whatever these women possess can be taken away from them, can’t it?”

  “The Hebrews in Egypt?” Marie laughed. “Oh, Sarah, that was centuries ago! You don’t understand. Wait until you are older.”

  I gave her a narrow-eyed look. Marie was a year older than me—a fact she often cited to assert her advantage—but I didn’t think age was going to change my mind. Still, I also didn’t go so far as to confide my suspicion that it was Morny, no
t Julie, who was financing my education here. Now that I knew the truth, that bump I’d seen at my mother’s midriff must signal another child, perhaps one sired by the duc himself. Julie hadn’t sent me away to safeguard me. She was preparing to bear another bastard; as she had said, I was indeed an inconvenience.

  Believing I’d been sent away to make way for another child bolstered my determination that my time at Grandchamp mustn’t be wasted. I must prove myself, and so I plunged into preparations for the play with renewed fervor. All the parents and guardians of the school’s pupils would attend; Rosine’s promise to visit me regularly had gone unfulfilled, though at least she sent a packet of fresh linens every month. But the presence of the archbishop of Paris might spur even my neglectful aunt and mother to make their long-overdue appearance, if only to ensure that I wasn’t signaled out as the only girl at Grandchamp without any kin to support her performance.

  I must shine on the stage, even as a shepherd with a few measly lines.

  IV

  On the day of the play, I was the first to rise. It was an icy morning in late November, as the annual Nativity play took place before the actual holiday. In the dull light filtering through the high windows above the orderly rows of cots, I hurried to smooth my tangled hair into a braid and make up my cot with the tucked blanket corners that the nuns insisted upon, while the other girls grumbled about how cold the flagstone floor was.

  The nuns came to escort us to the chapel. During our prayers, I found myself begging God, not to make me more pious or virtuous or help me find a husband when the time came—as I suspected most of the girls did—but to make me extraordinary in my role. Then, lowering my eyes in a plea of forgiveness for my vanity, I asked that He, in His infinite wisdom, might strike Louise with a mild colic to impede her from performing that night.

  “Blessed Lord, I don’t ask this for myself,” I whispered, “but for Your greater glory. She cannot play the role as I can. She eats too many sweets. Whoever heard of a fat archangel?”

  When we went through the final rehearsal on the small stage with its hand-painted backdrop in the main hall, I noticed Louise was looking peaked. The thought that God had heeded me so promptly gave me a secret thrill, making me forgot my own entrance. Sœur Bernadette, who oversaw the production, chided, “Sarah Henriette, you are late on your mark. Get your head out of the clouds and step to your place.”

  I babbled out my lines—“Hark! A star rises!”—and stepped aside, unable to restrain the impulse to jab Louise with my elbow. She stumbled as she moved forward to deliver her speech. I froze, thinking she’d tell Sœur Ana, who would forbid me from taking part in the play. To my surprise, Louise didn’t say a word. She halted center stage with her mouth agape, as if she’d been struck dumb.

  I went taut. I was prepared. As soon as she collapsed and was sent to the infirmary for a draft of anise and bed rest, I’d offer to assume her role. I knew every line; I could recite them in my sleep. What else could the nuns do? They needed an archangel, and it was too late for another haughty girl with a titled family to learn the part.

  Then, to my horror, Louise croaked out her lines as if the archangel were asthmatic. As soon as she finished, she backed away in a rush, her entire face ashen.

  “Well. That was…” Sœur Ana was at a loss for words.

  From her seat in the empty rows of chairs set out for the audience, the Reverend Mother sighed. “You’ll need to speak louder tonight, Louise. I could barely hear you. Do you think you can do that, my child?”

  Louise gave a tremulous nod. Mère Sophie frowned. Though I didn’t dare press my advantage, I caught the Reverend Mother’s glance in my direction. Then she motioned to Sœur Bernadette; I couldn’t overhear what they said as we were led out for an early supper, but as I looked over my shoulder, I saw Sœur Bernadette shaking her head.

  I had no doubt the Reverend Mother had seen that Louise would be a disaster. If she could barely speak her lines now, how would she manage her entire speech before an audience? She’d shame us before everyone, including the Monseigneur of Paris.

  While we sipped our consommé—we were given only light fare so as not to burden our digestion during the performance—I kept watch on Louise as she stared blankly into the air, her soup bowl untouched. Marie kept asking me whatever was the matter, until I confided to her my pact with God.

  She regarded me skeptically. “You think God would smite her to suit you?”

  “Why not? She’s—”

  “You’re not baptized,” interrupted Marie, in that spiteful tone she could take when she felt the need to assert her superiority. “God would never heed you over a Catholic.”

  “Just because my mother is Jewish doesn’t mean God won’t—”

  “If your mother is Jewish, so are you,” cut in Marie again, making me want to dump my soup over her head. “You’re also the illegitimate child of a courtesan. That’s four sins, in case you’ve forgotten to count.”

  I scowled at her as we were hustled into the area behind the stage, cordoned off by sheets on ropes to create a makeshift dressing room. I was crushed to see that though she hadn’t eaten a bite, Louise didn’t appear to be in the throes of an incapacitating colic.

  As I dressed in my shepherd’s tunic and turban, I could hear the guests arriving in the hall. I imagined the chairs occupied by fashionable women and men, come to see their pampered offspring perform brilliantly—

  Without warning, a vise closed about my chest.

  I didn’t have a name for that paralyzing sensation, but it was powerful enough to make me think God was about to smite me, instead. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Icy sweat broke out under my costume and the chatter of the girls around me was a maelstrom, their shadows tossed upon the sheets in a nauseating mirage.

  “To your places,” called out Sœur Bernadette, as if from across a void. I stood rooted to my spot until Marie hissed, “Sarah, it’s time. Or do you plan to wait for God to call you to the stage, as well?”

  Turning in a daze, I tugged César by his leash and started up the steps to the back of the stage. The sound of last-minute whispers and muffled laughter as the audience settled into their seats washed over me like the roar of an ocean.

  I was going to faint. I was going to make a complete fool of myself.

  Sœurs Ana and Bernadette were at the curtain. All of a sudden, I felt someone grip my hand, and I looked around to find none other than Louise.

  “I…I can’t do it.” Her voice quavered in panic.

  Sœur Ana came to us. “What is the trouble? Louise, my child, are you ill?”

  “I can’t. I can’t do it.” Louise began yanking at the paper ruff of her angelic attire. “I’m suffocating.”

  “Nonsense,” declared Sœur Ana. Mère Sophie was out front, greeting the guests and conducting them to their seats. “It’s only nerves. A fear of performing. It’s quite common; you’ll be fine as soon as the play starts. There now. Breathe, my child.”

  Was this what I felt? Nerves? If so, mine were mild compared to Louise’s, who appeared about to rip off her tinsel wings and robe as if she were on fire.

  “No! I can’t. I won’t!” She burst into tears.

  “Blessed Virgin save us.” Sœur Ana enfolded Louise in her arms, exchanging a look with Sœur Bernadette, whose expression turned thunderous. “Whatever shall we do now?”

  “I…I can do it,” I whispered.

  Silence fell, broken by Louise’s sniffling. “I can do it,” I repeated, louder this time. “I know her lines. I can play the archangel.” As I spoke, that smothering sensation vanished, replaced by a sudden rush of vitality as Sœur Bernadette grumbled, “What choice do we have? Get Sarah into the costume. Quickly.”

  Removing my shepherd attire, I donned the robe and wings. The robe was fitted to Louise’s ample proportions and too loose on me; I had to be careful not t
o trip on its hem. The wings sagged almost to my waist, obliging me to square my narrow shoulders to lift them up. As I went to take my place, Sœur Bernadette fixed me with her stare. “See that you don’t bring us disgrace,” she said, and I heard in her warning an echo of my mother on the day she’d decided to send me away.

  Sœur Bernadette yanked the curtain aside, unveiling a vast darkness.

  It felt as if I stood on the edge of a precipice. As the play began, Marie, dressed now as the shepherd, hastily spoke my lines and dragged César toward the girl playing the blind man Tobias, whom the angel would miraculously cure. I tried to decipher something in that anonymous mass beyond the stage, a familiar face—anything to anchor me. The robe, made of linen, felt like stone, while the wings precariously listed at my back like the sails of a storm-tossed galleon.

  Then I caught sight of the archbishop in the front row, his signet ring gleaming on the hand curled at his chin. Beside him sat Mère Sophie, looking astonished.

  I began to speak. “I come to you with a message of our Almighty’s boundless love….”

  I did not hear myself. I didn’t know if I spoke loud enough; if I sounded powerful as a celestial being should or scratchy and hoarse like a girl in a robe that overwhelmed her, acting a part she’d not been assigned. None of it mattered. As I spread my arms in the flowing sleeves that hung over my bony wrists, I felt divine light emanate from me when I blessed Tobias, and the townspeople fell to their knees. I moved across the stage as though my wings were ablaze, a blinding halo of feathers drenched in holy flame.

  I was no longer little Sarah Bernhardt, illegitimate daughter and unbaptized Jew.

  I had become God’s divine messenger.