It was over in a minute. Or so it seemed to me. When the applause came crashing over us as we took our bows, I realized I was soaked in perspiration, pushing back my hair to find a damp, disheveled mass. I thought I must look anything but angelic.
Monseigneur was on his feet, clapping. So was Reverend Mother Sophie, her smile beaming approval, obliging everyone else in the audience to follow suit.
Elation filled me. That applause…it was like music to me.
Until I gazed out over the sea of faces and upraised hands and caught sight, with a leaden blow to my stomach, of my mother and Rosine. My aunt was clapping with pride.
Julie was immobile, her gloved hands stiff at her sides.
V
“My dear child, you were marvelous!” exclaimed Mère Sophie. As the other girls shed their costumes for their uniforms, eager to go into the hall to greet their parents, I stood as if immured by invisible walls. I scarcely heard the Reverend Mother until she touched my shoulder.
“My mother and aunt…they are here,” I said. I had wanted them to see me, to prove how accomplished I was, but in truth, I hadn’t believed they would actually arrive.
“Naturally, they are,” said Mère Sophie. “They’re waiting for you.” She set her palm on my forehead. “Oh, but you’re sopping wet. Come, you must remove this robe and—”
I stepped back, not sharply, but enough to detain her. “Mère Sophie, if you please, I would like to kiss Monseigneur’s ring.”
Her face lightened. “And so you shall. As soon as you’ve dressed, I’ll take you to him myself. But you must make haste. He prepares to depart as we speak.”
“We must go at once.” Without waiting for her response, I moved toward the hall. Behind me, she protested, “Sarah, you’re still in your costume,” but I wouldn’t wait, so she had to hasten after me, catching me by the elbow as I entered the hall and saw the archbishop in his cloak, smiling benevolently at the people surrounding him.
“What is this?” asked Mère Sophie. “Why such urgent need to greet Monseigneur?”
“I must have his blessing,” I replied, and the plea in my voice made her hesitate before she nodded.
“Very well. But just his blessing. We mustn’t delay him.”
As I walked to him, I was keenly aware of Julie and Rosine watching me from the edge of the crowd. I could feel my mother’s eyes boring into my back when I stepped before the archbishop. He shifted his regard to me. I sank to my knees.
He chuckled. “Whom do we have here? Is this our fierce archangel?”
“Monseigneur,” I said, with what I hoped was humble reverence. “I ask for your blessing. I was born a Jew, but I wish to be baptized and request that you be present to welcome me into our Holy Church.”
The archbishop looked taken aback. He turned to the Reverend Mother. “Is the child sincere in her devotion?”
Somewhat flustered, Mère Sophie replied, “She studies her catechism daily and is very devout. Perhaps next year, upon her twelfth birthday, she will be ready.”
Peeking up at him through my tangled hair, I found Monseigneur contemplating me. “Well, then. If she is ready, I shall give her my blessing and see her baptized.”
I grasped his hand, kissing his ring. “God save you, Monseigneur,” I whispered, and he smiled again, turning away. With a disconcerted glance at me, the Reverend Mother accompanied him out.
As I came to my feet, Julie and Tante Rosine walked up to me. My mother’s indignation fell upon me like an ax. “Have you gone mad, to make such a spectacle?”
Her mouth was pinched. She looked paler than usual, but she was magnificently dressed in blue taffeta, a cameo affixing her fichu over her high-necked bodice. She was also svelte, the corset outlining her waist disguising any sign of her suspected pregnancy. It surprised me, until I remembered that over two years had passed and, of course, she would have given birth by now, if she’d been with child.
Rosine anxiously kissed my cheek. She, too, appeared well groomed in a mauve gown with canary satin trim, her dark blond hair upswept in contrived ringlets. My heart missed a beat. Had Rosine joined the family profession? In my naïveté, I’d failed to realize that my aunt was twenty-two, several years younger than my mother, and she must have been expected to earn her keep after I’d been removed from her charge.
Posed behind them, each with a sardonic smile, were two gentlemen in frock coats, with gloves and top hats in hand.
I ignored them as I returned my mother’s stare. “Spectacle?” I said, pretending to misunderstand. “Monseigneur is our honored guest.”
“Never mind that,” snapped Julie. “Baptism is out of the question. I forbid it.”
“But you sent me here, to a convent. Isn’t this what you wanted?” I asked, taking satisfaction in the heated flush that spread across her face.
She looked about to explode in rage—a circumstance I found both frightening and curious—when footsteps hurrying toward us announced the return of Mère Sophie.
“You must forgive me,” the Reverend Mother said. “I had to see Monseigneur to his coach, but I am so pleased you could come. As you can see, madame, Sarah is excelling in her time with us here.”
“Yes,” said Julie dryly. “I do see. Too much so, it would seem.”
Mère Sophie patted my shoulder. “She can be overly enthusiastic, but she has such a generous heart. And significant artistic promise. You’ll find she is—”
“Reverend Mother,” cut in Julie, making me cringe. “Is there some place where we may speak in private?”
“Why, yes. My study. Only…” Mère Sophie glanced at the milling girls waiting to speak to her, most of whom, including Marie, were surrounded by their families.
“It is important,” added Julie. “I’m due for an engagement.”
Mère Sophie gave reluctant assent, leading Julie from the hall and leaving me with Rosine and the gentlemen. As the men leaned to each other to murmur, my aunt embraced me with such affection that I forgave her for breaking her promise to visit me.
“Oh, Sarah! You were splendid. Such presence. Not even Rachel herself could have done better. Who would have thought it? Have you ever considered that a career on the stage might be your calling in life?”
I regarded her in astonishment. Rachel Félix was the premier tragedienne of the Comédie-Française, a Jewish-born actress renowned for her virtuosity. Rosine had mentioned her to me before, once attempting to secure tickets for us to one of her performances only to find it had sold out weeks in advance. I knew I should bask in the comparison, even if it was ludicrous, my aunt’s attempt to ease the sting of my encounter with my mother. Then I recalled Marie’s words about courtesans—They are entertainers, like actresses—and I said sharply, “I’ve no wish to sell myself on the stage. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I think I want to be a nun.”
My declaration was spontaneous, without any consideration of its implications, yet it exerted an immediate effect. My aunt trilled nervous laughter. “A nun? How like you to be so absurd!” She paused, her mirth fading as she took in my expression. “It is impossible. You do realize that? To enter a convent, a girl must have a dowry. Not even God’s love is free. Moreover, you just heard Julie. She would never allow it.”
“Why not? If I wish to serve God, why should she care? I’ll be out of her way forever.”
Rosine sighed. “You’re speaking nonsense.” She glanced at the gentlemen, who did not appear, as far as I could tell, to be paying us any mind. “You’ll be twelve next year. Almost a woman. I told you why Julie sent you here, but I think you should also know…” She paused, an uneasy frown knitting her brow.
“Know what?” All of a sudden, I sensed something long withheld surface between us.
She looked down, twisting her soft leather gloves in her hands. “Sending you here was not entirely Julie’s doing,”
she said at length. “Oh, she wanted you out of the house, that much is true. She had her reasons, but she’d never have chosen this particular place, had—” She reached up abruptly to caress my cheek. “What does it matter now?”
“Please.” My voice quivered. “It matters to me.” Although I wasn’t certain I should hear anything else, I was growing increasingly worried over what Julie might be saying to Mère Sophie. I imagined my mother removing me from the convent for another, less hospitable, place, where I’d not find myself nearly as welcome. “I wasn’t serious about the baptism,” I added, as Rosine continued to hesitate. “I only asked for Monseigneur’s blessing to annoy her.”
She gave me a sad smile. “Yes, I thought as much. I do not blame you. But Julie takes our faith seriously. She dares not show it, but she is proud of our heritage and would not have any daughter of hers convert. And she did not choose this place for you.”
I avoided the immediate question her words roused in me. Were there other daughters? Had my mother given birth as I suspected? Did I have a new sister, tucked away somewhere with a nursemaid, as I had been? Instead, I focused on the last part, asking warily, “If she didn’t choose this place, who did?”
“Your father,” said Rosine, with a pained look. “He insisted on it, in fact.”
The revelation felt like a stab to my heart. I could scarcely believe it. No one had ever mentioned my father to me before now; as a child, I’d come to accept that whoever he might be, he must want nothing to do with me. I’d fantasized about him, making up stories in my head that he was a prince in a distant land or a merchant sailing the high seas. Handsome as a pirate, bold and brave. I tried to convince myself he didn’t know about me, just as I forgot at times when I’d lived in Brittany that I had a mother. Yet as the years went on, the idea of him grew so remote that he eventually was banished from my thoughts.
Now my aunt was telling me he actually existed.
“My father?” I whispered.
Rosine nodded. “Did you think you didn’t have one? He’s a notary in Le Havre. He sent sums for your maintenance after your birth. The situation with Julie…it was complicated. But he knows about you. He specifically requested that you be raised as a Catholic. He secured your place here. He paid for it in advance.”
My throat closed in on itself. I could only stare at her in disbelief, not knowing if I should feel grateful or shriek at her for having kept such a momentous truth from me. Before I could find a way to express the emotions rioting inside me, Rosine turned around.
Mère Sophie and my mother had returned to the hall.
With a silken smile that implored a moment’s patience from her companions, Julie stepped before me. “Mère Sophie assures me you are faring well here, so for the moment I will submit to her wisdom. But there’s to be no more talk of baptism. Am I understood?”
Had I not been so aghast by what I’d just learned, I might have protested. Instead, I accepted my mother’s tepid kiss and stern warning—“Do not disappoint me”—and I watched her walk away. Rosine hugged me and hastened to join her; Julie was laughing, a hand on her companion’s arm as he escorted her to their carriage.
The hall had cleared of its occupants without my realizing it, the girls having said farewell to their parents and been hustled by the nuns back to the dormitory.
Reverend Mother Sophie regarded me in pained understanding.
“Come, child.” She held out her hand. “You mustn’t despair. God will see us through our trials if we have enough faith to surmount them.”
VI
Marie wanted to know what was wrong with me. She declared I’d turned sullen and was no fun, trudging about as if I’d fallen off the stage instead of enchanting the audience.
“You were astonishing,” she said, trying to entice me to smile. “Even Louise says you should have had the role from the start. She wants to be your friend now. All the girls do. It’s all Sarah-this-or-Sarah-that. If I weren’t so fond of you, I’d be jealous.”
Not even her flattery could brighten my mood. In a fit of pique, I released my captive insects and lone reptile into the garden, my lizard wobbling forlornly under a bush, its tail mutilated after I inadvertently sliced it off when I snapped the lid on the can where I’d kept it. I refused to draw anything but mournful saints, copying works of art by old masters from books, and allowed only César to follow me about because he was so devoted I could have kicked him and he wouldn’t have strayed.
At night, I lay awake, ruminating on this father I’d never met who lived in Le Havre with another family. I tried to picture him, wondering if I’d inherited his arched long nose—which seemed unlikely, since it resembled my mother’s and was, according to Marie, undeniably Hebraic. Perhaps his eyes then, with their chameleon bluish-green hue that reflected my moods, though, again, Julie’s were nearly the same color. Or his hair, my sole unique asset, so thick and frizzy and gold-red, even if it was only slightly redder than Rosine’s. Nothing of me seemed a part of him. I closed my eyes to conjure his face, but all I saw was Julie, furious that I was a bony replica of her creamy perfection.
The only way I could grow closer to him, have a sliver of him to make him mine, was to embrace his faith. But how could I, when my mother forbade it? In my turmoil, I grew even thinner, barely eating and prompting the nuns to remonstrate that I’d fall ill if I insisted on subsisting on a sip of consommé and crust of bread. I pored over my catechism, despite the fact that Julie had refused my baptism, so there was no further need to study, hiding the primers in my satchel until the Reverend Mother asked me directly if I was disobeying my mother.
“I must become one with God,” I told her, clasping my hands to my chest in imitation of the saints I painstakingly drew in my sketchpads. “Lest I risk my immortal soul. My people crucified our Savior. I will be damned for eternity if I do not receive the chrism.”
Oh, I knew exactly where to strike, how profound an impact my words would have on Mère Sophie. “Not all your people are to blame for our Savior’s passion,” she replied carefully, but I could see she was troubled, caught between my mother’s demands and her own unshakable faith.
I dropped to my knees before her, as I had before Monseigneur. “I must be baptized, Reverend Mother. What if I die and my soul is condemned forever to purgatory?”
“My child, you are too fervent. How can you say such a thing?” Yet she eyed me as she spoke, marking my pallor and gaunt cheeks, my slip of a body under the convent uniform. Just in case, I unsheathed my last weapon, held at bay for just such a moment.
“My father wants it,” I said, and her eyes widened. “My aunt told me. She said he paid to have me educated here. He is a Catholic. He wants me to be baptized. He must.”
“Your aunt told you this?” she said in dismay.
“Is it true?” I replied.
Mère Sophie couldn’t lie. But she didn’t answer at once, fidgeting with the rosary at her belt before she said, “I only know what your mother told me. Your father did ask for you to be sent here. As to who pays for it, I did not ask. And no,” she added, holding up her hand, “I don’t know anything about him. We’ve never so much as corresponded.”
“But he is my father,” I said. “We cannot disregard his wishes.”
She let out a troubled sigh. “I dare not countermand your mother’s, either. Sarah, you put me in an impossible position!” she exclaimed, and when I wilted, the tears that were so ready these days dampening my eyes, she said, “Unless you hear God’s calling for yourself. If you possess a true vocation, no one can stand between you and the veil. You must be baptized and receive Holy Communion. It would be our Almighty’s will.”
“I do hear Him,” I said eagerly. “God calls to me. I know He does.”
She sighed. “A vocation isn’t something one can decide upon in a minute. It requires much time and contemplation. Many girls who come to us think the
y want to stay, but as they grow older, the world beckons them. And the world, my child, can be irresistible.”
“Not to me.” I leapt to my feet. “I want to stay here forever.”
“We shall see,” she said, and I left her, determined to prove it. No girl at Grandchamp was more diligent. I didn’t miss a single mass. I scrubbed the chapel floors and mended Our Lady’s mantle, though I was hopeless with a needle. I arranged flowers in the urns before the altar and would have cut off my own hair to adorn the statues had Mère Sophie not prohibited it.
As spring softened the frost on the convent windows and marigolds peeped up in the garden, I watched as the Reverend Mother weakened, her joy at my sincere demonstrations of devotion wrestling with her reluctance to challenge my mother. Finally, shortly before October and my twelfth birthday, Mère Sophie informed me that Julie had granted permission for my baptism. She didn’t explain why my mother had changed her mind, but I suspected Mère Sophie had worked her magic, her monthly progress reports so exulting of my virtues that she’d proven impossible to resist.
By then I was a wraith, floating about, as Sister Bernadette snorted, with my head in the heavens, having forsaken all but César. Marie abandoned me for Louise and her group of friends because, she declared, I spent every spare moment either on my knees in the chapel like a novitiate or with my nose buried in my Bible.
The night before my baptism, I couldn’t eat. With my stomach gnawing at itself and my nerves strung taut, anticipation having built to a crescendo inside me, I found myself plagued by terrifying doubt. Was I doing the right thing, abandoning the faith of my mother and her parents? Was there only one God, who sent His Son to perish for our sins, or was there another, the God of Abraham, who promised my soon-to-be-forsaken people a promised land of refuge? Must I choose one over the other, if both existed? And if I did, would I risk the wrath of the one I betrayed?
I tossed and turned, hearing Julie’s reproaches in my head and Mère Sophie advising me that faith could surmount every obstacle. Unable to sleep, I rose from my cot and tiptoed outside in my shift and bare feet, César snuffling behind me as I made my way through the dew-drenched gardens into the chapel. Collapsing to my knees on the flagstones, I implored God for guidance.
The First Actress Page 4