The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Not as harsh as what Montigny just told me,” he retorted. I went still. “I saw him at the Gymnase tonight,” Dumas went on. “He was very unhappy. He says you are irresponsible and reckless.” He stared at me as he spoke, forcing me to avert my gaze. When I failed to reply, he said, “Sarah, it so happens I went to see him because I’ve written a new play that I wish to debut in his theater, to see how his audience responds. It’s not finished yet, but it’s a cut above his usual fare, and I want you for the lead role. Imagine my disappointment when I found you had resigned.” He took an envelope from his waistcoat and set it on the table. “Without your final pay.”

  Sinking into a chair, I told myself not to cry. No matter what, I must not cry in front of him.

  “Sarah, whatever is the matter?” He stood over me, looming and inescapable. I knew I couldn’t avoid his questions, just as I hadn’t been able to avoid his trust in me when he helped prepare me for my audition to the Conservatoire. “I know you can be temperamental, but to leave the Gymnase thus, after the Comédie—do you deliberately wish to never work in the theater again? Morny refuses to intercede on your behalf anymore.”

  “I don’t expect him to,” I whispered. I couldn’t look at him.

  He cupped my chin, forcibly lifting my face. When he saw my expression, he sighed. “As I suspected.” He lowered himself onto the footstool before me, overwhelming it; I expected to hear it crack and collapse under his weight. “Have you told him?”

  “I tried. Kératry claims I cannot possibly know he is the father and disavowed all complicity in the matter.”

  Dumas growled. “The scoundrel. I tried to warn them that night at the Opéra; I spoke to Morny at intermission. He knows very well that Émile de Kératry has too much money and too few scruples. But Morny told me it had been decided; you’d chosen him and your mother approved. I did not intervene further. I wish I had.”

  “Nothing would have deterred me,” I said, grateful for his kindness even as I struggled with mortification that this effusive man, who’d been the first to believe in my talent, could find me in such a desolate state. “I made a pact with Julie.”

  “For the dowry, I presume.” He chuckled at my startled look. “Don’t be surprised. Morny is not discreet. Your mother thinks he cares, but those like him can only care so much. He takes interest in your family because he believes your sister Jeanne is his and has decided to leave her a bequest in his will. He’s not honorable by any measure, but more honorable than most of his ilk, as you have learned.”

  The confirmation of my long-held suspicion about Jeanne’s paternity brought me no consolation. It only reaffirmed the likelihood that my mother would throw me out, now more than ever before. She would never risk Morny’s censure, and the duc would not approve of my bearing Kératry’s bastard if the comte had come down against it. Men like them shared a common ethos: to protect one another, above all else.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “I’ve learned that much, at least.”

  He considered me, his large hands twitching on his wet trouser legs as if he might touch me. I thought if he did, I would fall apart.

  “Do you have a plan?” he finally asked, and I found myself telling him everything, unable to stanch my outpour of anguish. “I should never have allowed him such liberties. I was warned, time and time again, of what might occur if I failed to take precautions.”

  “Yet you still want to bear his child?” he said, and when I nodded, swallowing, he sat in silence, one of his hands at his chin. “You know I have a wife and children I adore?” he said at length. “Yes? Well, let me also tell you, I have other children by other women. Too many, in fact.” He gave a startling laugh. “I never could say no to a pretty face. Why else do you think I must write constantly? To support my brood, of course. Precautions aren’t always effective; trust me when I say if they were, I’d be more solvent. But I love all of my children, and would never leave them on their own. What Kératry has done is not only ungallant, it’s inexcusable. You are not to blame for his lack of morals or sense of honor.”

  His affection as he spoke of his family pierced me like a knife. He seemed to sense it, for he leaned to me to say quietly, “You must forget Kératry. Those like him can indeed disavow themselves and do everything they threaten. They have a vengeful streak when crossed.”

  “I have no wish to ask more of him.” For the first time since my confrontation with Émile, fury ignited my voice. “I grew up without a father. My child will have me.”

  “You needn’t martyr yourself. I will help you, if you’ll let me.” He finally did what I had dreaded: he took my hands in his. “I know you are afraid. I know because I, too, have experienced hardship and rejection. Look at me: I’m descended from slaves. But I forced open doors that would never have opened otherwise, because of my persistence. I am proof that any one of us can rise above our obstacles. No one ever believed I would become a celebrated writer. I proved them wrong. One day, so will you.”

  His encouragement only made me feel worse; what I’d faced was nothing like what he had, and what had I done with my advantages, save careen from misadventure to catastrophe? Looking into his keen gray-blue eyes, so distinctive against the caramel hue of his skin, I whispered, “You also have tremendous talent. Persistence is nothing without it.”

  “Are you saying you do not? Bah!” He waved his hand in the air as if to dispel a noxious odor. “Didn’t you hear me say I wrote my new play with you in mind for the lead?”

  “Unless your lead is a disgraced pregnant courtesan, I fear you’ll have to find someone else,” I said, with a weak smile. “I don’t think I’ll ever perform again. I’ve discovered I’m not suited for a life in the theater.”

  He came to his feet, once more filling the room with his expansive presence. “I hear your mother, and I like it not. Why would you say such a thing when you’ve not yet found your place? Everyone has setbacks. Every player who finds success must first fight for it.”

  “But I…” I had to lower my gaze from him again. “I’m not like every player. I question too much. I can’t seem to bring myself to perform like everyone else. There is no place for someone like me on the stage.”

  He paused. His voice softened. “That is precisely why I know you can succeed. I’ve plenty of experience in the theater, and the best players always question. You will perform again, Sarah Bernhardt. I’m as certain of it as I am that I must die with a pen in my hand. Those of us who invite the muse cannot escape her.”

  “I thought Montigny informed you how well my muse did for him.”

  He glowered. “What does that charlatan know? He runs a gutter theater, where he expects pewter to shine like silver.” He leaned to me. “The play can wait. As I said, it’s not finished yet. I can wait. The world can wait. You cannot. This child must be born and cared for, but never let me hear you say again that you’ll not return to the stage. I refuse to accept it.” Cupping my chin, he looked intently into my eyes. “Never forget that I saw you experience your first play. The passion in your soul can’t be denied. You were born to be on the stage, and unless you do as fate ordains, you will lead a very miserable existence.”

  I could no longer contain my sorrow, my sense of utter loss and defeat. In a voice choked by tears, I said, “What shall I do?”

  He sank to his knees on the floor, once more clasping my hands in his.

  “What shall we do,” he said. “Leave it to me. I have the perfect solution.”

  VIII

  The perfect solution, it turned out, was Brussels. Dumas had good friends there, a married couple named Bruce. He wrote to them, explaining my situation, and they agreed to receive me. They were childless. Should I decide to relinquish the babe, they promised to raise it as their own.

  Still, my departure obliged me to submit to the inevitable family conference. By now, Julie had discovered that I’d left the Gymnase. Morn
y must have told her, but she’d kept it to herself, no doubt because she believed I’d finally decided to abandon my ill-chosen stage career to pursue my engagements. Dumas’s announcement that I was instead suffering from nervous exhaustion and needed time away didn’t please her in the slightest.

  “She has resigned from that dreadful establishment. Why should she go all the way to Brussels when she can rest here?” Selfish to her last breath, Julie stared at me in annoyance, not wanting the plans for her autumn soirée to go awry. She needed me at her pianoforte, singing my lungs out for her suitors.

  “She must get away from Paris,” Dumas said. “Your daughter is unwell. You need only look at her. She must recover her health without distractions.”

  “How much time?” Julie kept eyeing me. I had to resist draping my hands over my stomach, thinking my mother saw far more than she let on. But she’d never admit as much before Dumas; he might not be a regular suitor, but he was still someone she couldn’t offend. Many of his friends were regulars. One ill word from him, and they could stop calling. “She wasn’t working that much.”

  “You call three matinées a week and six nightly performances, in addition to her other activities, not much?” exclaimed Dumas. “At such a pace, she’ll perish before her twenty-first year. I should think you’d rather she seek respite now, before she ends up in her grave.”

  Julie assumed an appropriately chastened expression. “Well.” She gave a strained smile. “If you think it best, mon ami.”

  “I do. My friends will look after her. Brussels is perfect. No one knows her there, and her absence for a time will help repair this imbroglio with the Gymnase.”

  Julie gave a sigh. “She should never have worked in such a place. She’s not suited for the stage. But as you say, we cannot risk another scandal. I concur entirely on that account.”

  Scandal being her worst nightmare; she’d send me all the way to America to avoid it.

  Dumas booked me on the train, with Julie saying nothing more as I packed my trunks. I had the suspicion she knew exactly why I was leaving and believed I’d turned to Dumas to arrange for me to deliver and give away my child. If so, she saw no reason to interfere, providing I didn’t bring my shame to her threshold. She might have borne three daughters under similar circumstances, but she’d never condone it from me, not when the child I carried might threaten her arrangement with Morny and Jeanne’s inheritance.

  I didn’t care to contemplate what would happen when she discovered the truth.

  * * *

  I found Brussels quaint. Compared to Paris, with its ceaseless noise and endless variety of entertainments, the Belgian city felt provincial, and too well suited for my much-touted respite. With the exception of daily promenades about the square for shopping and afternoon tea, there wasn’t much to do, and by October and my twentieth birthday, my pregnancy could no longer be disguised, relegating me to the house.

  At Dumas’s suggestion, Madame Bruce and I devised an explanation for my extended visit. I was a recent widow, my husband the victim of an unspecified illness, leaving me enceinte and alone. Not that the neighbors questioned. The mere sight of me, looking so forlorn, was enough to assuage any doubt about my misfortune.

  My seclusion and Madame Bruce’s plentiful board did wonders. My face in the mirror was still angular, but the hollows in my cheeks filled out, and the dark circles under my eyes from my sleepless nights faded. I hadn’t realized how terrible I must have looked until I saw how much better I now appeared. Still, my body more or less resembled a taut string with a knot in the middle; the enlarging bump startled me at first, as it seemed to materialize overnight, though the persistent nausea subsided, a blessed relief.

  With little else to do, I spent my days on the settee, nibbling chocolates and reading every play I could find. Bookshops in the square sold imported publications from Paris as well as abroad. I immersed myself in the works of Shakespeare, thrilling to the macabre Lady Macbeth and maligned Desdemona. But it was Hamlet who most enthralled me. Although the French translation of the play was poor, I’d never read a more perfect character or more exquisite lines. Drifting to sleep as I recited, “Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt my love,” I dreamed of playing the tormented Danish prince, a skull in my palm as audiences swooned at my feet.

  And for the first time in my adult life, the seclusion allowed me to reflect. I came to recognize that in many respects, I’d been my own worst enemy. Every opportunity handed to me I’d set out to thwart. I did not regret striking Madame Nathalie or leaving the Gymnase—neither was worth regretting—but I did regret disappointing Provost. Like Dumas, he had believed I had something that set me apart, and what had I given him in return? Tepid performances and disdain, never taking myself as seriously as he did, performing the role of an actress rather than believing it in my heart. Provost’s methods may have curtailed my ability to personify my characters, but he’d given me the stepping stones to launch my career. He’d told me that with time and patience, I might deviate from the standard rules.

  I also regretted having succumbed to Julie, trusting so little in myself that at my first falter, I fell into her snare. Émile de Kératry had dishonored his responsibility, but I’d allowed him to do so by letting myself be blinded to who he was, by the power I thought my conquest of him gave me. Although I’d failed to realize it at the time, like so much else in my life, I’d done it out of spite, to bait Julie’s envy. Having the comte in my bed had been my ill-chosen weapon to counter her domination over me.

  I now understood how much my relationship with my mother had poisoned me. It had to end. I could no longer let myself be ruled by her or the past. Henceforth, I must make my own way, even if I perished in the attempt. Quand même would be my sole guiding star. I would return to the stage, accept any roles offered. I’d work as hard as I could until I proved to myself, and to the world, that acting was my destiny. Nothing would ever make me doubt myself again.

  But I forced open doors that would never have opened otherwise, because of my persistence. I am proof that any one of us can rise above our obstacles.

  Dumas’s words were emblazoned in my heart. If he could still believe in me, I must believe in myself. Everything I had done up till now might warrant my regret, except for this: I did not regret the new life growing inside me.

  To me, my child was the unexpected gift that would restore my freedom.

  * * *

  I was nearing my seventh month when Dumas sent urgent word from Paris. While entertaining in her salon, my mother had suffered an apoplexy.

  Bidding hasty farewell to Monsieur and Madame Bruce, I boarded the next train, arriving at the flat disheveled and with my belly jutting under my cloak. Rosine was on the stairs; when she caught sight of me, she gasped. I shoved past her, not caring to hear her bleated query as to why I’d kept it a secret; why had I left my family, who would have seen to my comfort? Ignoring her protest that Julie was abed, I barged into my mother’s room. The curtains were drawn, the odor of burnt herbs and medicine souring the air. Perching on the edge of the bed, I took my mother’s hand.

  Her papery eyelids fluttered at my touch. Her appearance shocked me. I’d left a plump, tidy woman not yet forty-five, only to return to a gaunt invalid I barely recognized. She did not seem to know me at first. Then her parched lips moved and I heard her whisper, “Sarah.”

  “I’m here, Maman.” My voice choked. She looked so frail, so unlike herself. All the hatred I’d nursed toward her drained from me. I should never have left. I should have stayed and done battle with her. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t have taken ill.

  Her gaze lowered to my belly. Her hand slipped from mine.

  “You should not have come,” she said. “You bring disgrace to my house.”

  * * *

  With Régine clawing at my skirts, barraging me w
ith questions interspersed with ferocious accusations that I’d gone and left her with the putaines, I installed myself in my apartment. Madame G. was overjoyed to have me home; as she helped me remove the dust sheets and replenish the larder, she fretted that I was doing too much, I would tire myself and harm the baby.

  “Nonsense.” I placed her hand on my stomach. “Feel her. She’s kicking up a storm. She’s a Bernhardt. She keeps me up half the night.”

  I was certain I would bear a girl. It ran in our family. We were all daughters.

  “Still, you mustn’t overexert yourself,” insisted Madame G. “Let Rosine care for your mother, while I see to you.”

  I submitted to her care. Rosine had assured me that my mother was improving. Morny had hired the best physician in Paris, and while frightening and debilitating, her apoplexy had been mild. With time and rest, she would recover.

  “But,” said my aunt sadly, “I fear she may never be the woman she was.”

  What she meant was that Julie might never be the courtesan she’d been. As for the woman herself, any transformation remained to be seen.

  I did not hold out hope, not as far as I was concerned. Instead, I dedicated myself to preparing for my child’s arrival.

  IX

  “Sarah, you must push,” said Madame G. “Push, for the love of this child.”

  Outside, December had cloistered Paris in a heavy snowfall, like a shroud. To me, the world beyond these four walls had become unreachable, as I lay trapped on my bed like a beast in the field, writhing to expel the mutinous burden inside me.

  The ordeal had taken me by surprise. My pregnancy had proceeded without mishap; indeed, I’d felt so fit that I swathed myself in a cloak every day to embark on brisk walks about the city despite the chill, the weight of my belly scarcely an inconvenience, though I took pains to disguise it. My appetite had been hardy, and my color good. I’d refused the services of a midwife, over Madame G.’s objections, stating I had no need for one. I had enough with her and Rosine, who’d moved back into Julie’s flat and went between my mother’s bedside and my apartment. I could deliver my babe without trouble, I declared; there was no reason to fear the birth would be any more arduous than my pregnancy.