But by the time the curtain fell, there was no longer a choice. I knew it from the moment the applause ricocheted around the house that I must become a part of this world.
As the lights came up and the audience rose to its feet, Julie turned her stare to me. “Is there no place where you can refrain from making a spectacle of yourself?”
Dumas intervened again. “You can hardly blame her. It was indeed a tremendous performance of what’s always been an overwrought play.” He smiled at me with a kindness that nearly made me weep. “Did you enjoy it, petite étoile? Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“I have no words,” I whispered. To my dismay, a tear slipped down my cheek.
“Well.” He leaned close to me. “You’d best find the words. With that heightened sense of emotion and exquisite voice, I daresay you could be a sensation yourself one day.”
XI
It was decided. The following month, I would audition for the Conservatory of Dramatic Arts and Music, known popularly as the Conservatoire. Julie harrumphed, even as Morny declared, “A splendid decision!” and proceeded to grease the wheels of mutual interest.
I plunged into preparation. Julie rolled her eyes when she found me scavenging through books brought from Madame G.’s flat, works by Voltaire, Molière, and Racine. I memorized every line I could, walking up and down my bedroom declaiming and adding the flinging gestures I’d seen Madame Nathalie make, until my mother drawled, “You needn’t go to such trouble. You’ll be accepted. Morny has seen to it.”
“I still want to be perfect,” I retorted.
She laughed. “You believe it so simple? You recite a few lines and—voilà—here comes the applause. You have no idea. This life you think you want is no better than the one you disdain. How do you think all those actresses pay for their costumes and paint? How do you think they keep a roof over their heads? They, too, require protectors. The salary you may eventually earn as an ingénue will scarcely pay for your daily sustenance.”
“I don’t eat much,” I said, and her eyes narrowed. “And I already have a protector. Two, in fact. Monsieur de Morny and Monsieur Dumas.”
She might have slapped me again; I could see she wanted to. Dumas had indeed taken a special interest in me. He came panting up the stairs to our flat every Thursday afternoon, but not to be entertained by her. Instead, he called for me, and in front of my mother’s amused guests, he gave me instructions on my performance, calling out in his bass voice, “Not so fast. Slow down. Enunciate!” He wrote down exercises to perfect my rolling “r,” and I drove everyone insane with my incessant pacing and recitals of “Un très gros rat rongeait trois gros grains d’orge”—“A very large rat gnawing three large grains of barley.”
Dumas applauded me the next time he visited. “Yes, that’s it. Superbe. But be careful to not drop your voice at the end of the line. Maintain the tempo. Heighten the emotion and breathe. You have a voice like silver. Use it. Let your voice convey the pathos and the audience will follow you. Never imitate. Find the character in yourself, ma petite étoile.”
I loved that he called me his little star. To me, he was the father I’d always envisioned but never had. After he left, without partaking of her after-hours enticement, he always left a sum of cash— “for the girl’s apparel,” he said—and Julie would storm into her bedchamber with Rosine, where she shouted as my aunt begged her to calm herself.
“The ingrate!” Julie cried, so that my wide-eyed sisters and I heard her right through the door. “She says she’ll not work on her back, so she does it instead with her eyes. She has that reprobate Dumas doting on her like a lovesick bull. ‘For the girl,’ he says. ‘For my little star.’ I can’t abide it. Still a virgin and already she wreaks havoc on my affairs.”
The tension between us grew so strained, with her suspicion that I seduced her suitors with my “outrageous ambition,” that by the morning of my audition, I was a bundle of nerves, having surrendered every effort, and most of my meals, to my quest to succeed.
Being an actress meant far more to me than excelling onstage. Indeed, excelling wasn’t my priority, though I believed it was. The urgency to escape my mother’s grip, to get out from under her disapproval and caustic advice that I’d end up in the gutter like a thousand ingénues before me, coupled with her occasional plaintive appeals to heed reason, as Monsieur Berenz the merchant was still willing to marry me, had turned my life into a purgatory. Even the gutter seemed preferable to spending another hour in her presence.
She did, however, expend some of the money Dumas had left on a new audition dress for me. When Rosine unpacked it from its box, I moaned in despair.
“Black. I’ll look like a widow.”
“It’s pure Lyons silk. Monsieur Berenz sent the cloth. Look.” She held it to my chin as I stood before the tarnished mirror above my bureau. “It brings out the amber in your eyes.”
My eyes, I thought—and my lack of figure. After I tried it on, I took one look at myself and realized it was worse than widow’s weeds. I resembled an invalid. I’d developed a hint of bosom in my sixteenth year, but the dressmaker failed to take that into account, just as she’d apparently failed to confirm my other measurements, which I assumed my mother had provided—and no doubt, she’d sent outdated ones deliberately in order to embarrass me. The hem hung above my painfully thin ankles, exposing my white pantalettes. And the bodice constricted me like a corset (a contraption I never used, given my slenderness); its ruffled neckline smothered my throat and scratched like fingernails under my chin. Then I peered closer and noticed a burn mark on the bodice, made by the overzealous maid with the iron.
Rushing into the salon, where Madame G. waited to escort me, I cried, “It’s scorched. Look here, right through the silk!”
Reclined in her robe de chambre on the settee, her hair loose upon her shoulders, Julie sighed. “It’s barely noticeable. Fetch one of my fichus and a cameo to cover it.”
“A fichu?” I regarded her, aghast. “That will only make it less appealing.”
Rosine hastened to gather the items as Julie sipped her coffee. I passed my furious gaze over her. “Aren’t you going to get dressed? I’ll be late.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I will get dressed. Later. I have appointments this afternoon.”
“You’re not coming with me?” I didn’t know why I was surprised. She hadn’t once behaved as if my audition were anything more than a nonsensical act I would regret.
“I already told you, your acceptance is a given. I have it on the best authority. All this fuss over your dress and the rest of it is unnecessary.”
“That’s not true,” I retorted. “Dumas told me no one can purchase a place in the Conservatoire if they lack the talent.” I turned about as Rosine returned with the fichu. “Tell her. You were here the other night when he said as much.”
Rosine avoided looking at Julie, draping the fichu over my shoulders and pinning it, lopsided, over the scorch with the cameo. “There,” she murmured. “Much better.”
“Never mind that,” snapped Julie. “Did Dumas actually tell her such nonsense?”
Rosine kneaded her hands. “Yes. You were out with Morny, but Dumas came to help Sarah perfect her lines, and he did tell us that.”
“And he should know.” I returned my enraged stare to Julie. “He’s a playwright, too. If I don’t prove my talent, no matter what Morny says, the Conservatoire will not accept me.”
“Well, then.” Julie’s voice turned glacial. “It should come as an immense relief that you’re going there to be evaluated on your talent and not your attire, yes?”
Flinging another scowl at her, I grabbed my straw hat and hurried with Rosine and ma petite dame to the fiacre outside.
* * *
—
The Conservatoire’s greenroom on Faubourg Poissonière was crammed with aspirants—youths a
nd girls, even children, all clad in their Sunday best, fussed over by mothers and guardians as they frantically rehearsed their chosen selections, trying to refine their delivery even as the head usher called out their names from the roster in hand.
One by one, they exited through double doors into the hall beyond. From the bench nearby, where I sat with Madame G. and Rosine, I strained to hear what was occurring behind those doors, ignoring the usher’s disapproving stare. In time, the doors opened again and the aspirants emerged, white-faced and trembling, some in tears.
I began to think this was a big mistake.
“Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt,” said the usher.
Madame G. squeezed my arm. “That’s you, child. Merde,” she whispered, using the good luck charm for the theater. Standing on numb legs, I went to the usher.
“What shall you recite for us?” he asked in a bored tone.
“Second scene,” I quavered. “Act Two. Phèdra. The role of Aricia.”
“Ambitious. And who has been assigned to provide your cues?”
“Cues?” I echoed. Dumas hadn’t mentioned any need for such, or if he had, I’d neglected to recall it.
The usher made an impatient gesture. “Mademoiselle, we have a very busy schedule, as you can see. The lines of the character with whom Aricia converses: Who will recite them?”
I shot a desperate look over my shoulder. Neither Rosine nor Madame G. knew the lines. “I…I didn’t know,” I stammered, returning my bewildered gaze to the usher.
“Then fetch the book and find someone. I assume you have the book with you?”
God help me, I did not. Even if I had known to bring it, I would have forgotten it after the fiasco with my dress. Glancing again over my shoulder at all the waiting hopefuls, no doubt ready with their books and someone to deliver their cues, I made an impulsive decision. I knew the entire parts of several plays by now, but all required cues; I had to change course.
“I will recite La Fontaine’s ‘Les Deux Pigeons’ instead.”
It wasn’t the expected choice, judging by his bemused expression. La Fontaine’s poem in rhyme was about two pigeons who bond in friendship until one of them, yearning for adventure, flies away. Caught up in a storm, stalked by predators and injured, he returns to his companion to roam no more. First written as a children’s story, it had proven controversial because both the pigeons were male.
“This should be fascinating,” he said sourly, and he escorted me into a cavernous hall, where the stage loomed before a long table, presided over by four men and a woman.
I could barely focus on them. In addition to his warning that no one could bribe their way into the Conservatoire, Dumas had told me the most senior actors of the Comédie were appointed to oversee student auditions. It was part of their responsibilities as fully pensioned members with a share in the company profits, but while they should be dedicated to discovering new talent that would ensure the future of the house, they resented the obligation because they were, in fact, auditioning their potential future replacements.
As I stepped onto the stage and curtsied, the usher announced in unabashed glee, “Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt will recite ‘Les Deux Pigeons’ by La Fontaine.”
The woman snickered. “Does the girl think us still in the schoolroom, perhaps, to regale us with that tired fable?”
I looked up sharply, recognizing her voice. It was the actress Madame Nathalie, who’d enthralled me in her role as Agrippina. The woman was laughing with the man beside her. Without her lavish costume and makeup, she was just a fleshy matron. And her companion-in-jest with the broad shoulders was none other than the actor who’d played her son, Nero, though he, too, looked nothing like his stage persona—a heavyset, older man with a florid countenance. My sudden recognition that these actors who made their living pretending to be others were not benevolent magicians made me want to run out, fling myself at my aunt’s feet, and beg her to persuade my mother to let me use my dowry to take the veil. I’d imagined this moment innumerable times since I’d seen Britannicus, envisioning myself commanding the stage with the same effortless presence. What I’d failed to imagine was how an actual audition would go.
You believe it so simple. You recite a few lines and—voilà—here comes the applause. You have no idea what you seek.
With my mother’s reprimand in my ears, I opened my mouth.
“ ‘Two pigeons were deeply in love. But one of them left their home. The days of pining are long, and long are the nights without you—’ ”
I heard a yawn. Another of the committee members, a silver-haired man with piercing dark eyes, called out, “Louder, please. We can barely hear you, mademoiselle.”
“We hardly need to,” said Madame Nathalie from behind her lorgnette. “We already know the story. If you keep asking her to repeat it, I daresay we’ll be here all day waiting for that beleaguered pigeon to return to its mate.”
Nero guffawed.
Something molten flared inside me. Their mockery reminded me of Julie’s cruelty, her refusal to believe I could amount to anything but a woman like her. These people were professionals, supposedly here to evaluate my talent. How could they be so inconsiderate?
Stepping to the edge of the stage, I lifted my chin. “ ‘A pigeon longed for his mate as I long for my sweet love,’ ” I sang out loudly, undulating my hands to evoke the shape of flight. “ ‘I too await the flutter of wings, the sweet passage of love’s return. He is gone, and I cannot find the happiness that was ours on the paths of lost time. Lovers, joyous lovers, say it again and again: Any absence is too long. It does no good to wander. Love passes, and the leaves fall with the turning compass of the wind.’ ”
As my voice faded away, I discerned a faint sound. I thought one of the members had taken to reciting alongside me in mockery, until I realized the sound was my own stifled breath. All five members, including Madame Nathalie, were regarding me in absolute silence. I curtsied again. “Thank you,” I said, and saw them lean toward one another to murmur.
I started toward the exit, frantic to return to ma petite dame and Rosine, to bury my head in their skirts and lament my failure.
A voice detained me. “Mademoiselle Bernhardt, a moment if you please.”
Turning around warily, I found the silver-haired man at the foot of the stage. “I am Monsieur Provost, a tragedian with the company. You were impressive.” He looked over his shoulder to the others, asked, “Wasn’t she impressive?” and they nodded their agreement.
“We think you have promise,” Provost went on. “We will accept you as a student.”
“Accept?” I thought I must have heard wrong. Looking past him to the table, I saw Nero with his arms crossed at his chest and Madame Nathalie wiping her lorgnette on her sleeve, while the others consulted papers. They did not seem all that impressed.
“You wish to be an actress, I presume?” asked Provost, and when I nodded, he sighed. “We believe you have the makings of a singer. Would a musical career interest you?”
“No,” I managed to say. “I don’t think I sing very well.”
I had no idea if I did, even as he assented. “Then seeing as you’ll not be singing, you may choose your principal instructor: myself or Monsieur Beauvallet”—he gestured to the actor who’d played Nero. “In addition to our performances onstage, we both teach at the Conservatoire. I can assure you, either one of us would be pleased to have you under our charge.”
“You,” I said at once. I also had no idea if he was any better than Beauvallet, as I knew nothing of either man, but he’d addressed me with respectful consideration and Beauvallet appeared to be in league with Madame Nathalie, to whom I’d taken a firm dislike.
“She chooses me,” Provost announced to the committee.
Beauvallet scowled. “Naturally. You always did hold an attraction for les jeunes filles. Evidently, th
ey share the same affinity for you.”
Madame Nathalie snorted, tapping Beauvallet’s arm with her lorgnette—“For shame!”—and Provost turned his gaze back to me. “We shall advise you of your acceptance by courier. Congratulations, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Welcome to the Conservatoire.”
When I burst out into the greenroom, the joy on my face was enough to bring Madame G. and Rosine to their feet. I had to restrain my triumphant cry.
I had done this on my own, and was now on my way to becoming an actress.
I
“Mademoiselle Bernhardt, have you forgotten your lines again? Perhaps you can elucidate for us how this interminable delay makes you a better performer.”
Provost motioned curtly as I stood before him. I hadn’t forgotten my lines; I was searching for the right tone to convey them, yet as I struggled to satisfy his demand, he tapped his foot. “This century, if you please. By now, the audience has thrown their playbills at you and departed the theater in disgust. They come to see you act, not pantomime.”
Haltingly, I launched into the soliloquy assigned by him. The role was the same one I’d been unable to recite for my audition: Aricia in Phèdra, and I struggled to find the emotion in the difficult phrasing, not that he cared a centime for my efforts.
“ ‘Stunned at all I hear, my lord, I almost fear a dream deceives me. Am I indeed awake? Can I believe such generosity? What god has put it into your heart? Well is the fame deserved that you enjoy! That fame falls short of truth. Would you for me prove—’ ”
“No.” Provost banged his pole on the floor. “What is this?” He strode to the stage. “Where is the vérité, the sorrow and fear that exalts Aricia?”
The First Actress Page 8