The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  But once the pangs overcame me, I found myself caught in its maw, the pain building until it was all I knew, my cries and howls of protest sundering my ears.

  I thought I would die. I heard Rosine whisper to Madame G, “Her hips are too narrow. We must fetch a midwife,” and I screamed, “No! No one else!” bringing them rushing to my side as I grasped at their hands. “No one else can know. Please.” In my delirium, I was terrified word would spread throughout Paris of my condition. Everyone would learn that Sarah Bernhardt, disgraced former pensionnaire of the Comédie and tawdry disappointment of the Gymnase, had left her employment to give birth to an illegitimate child, dooming my career before I had the chance to revive it. I had to support my child once it was born, and the only resource I had was the stage. I would never entertain suitors again, not after this.

  I focused on my waning strength as Rosine peered between my legs. “I can see it. Sarah, it’s here. Push!” and I bore down on the obstacle lodged in my womb.

  “Again,” cried Rosine.

  “I can’t,” I wailed. “I cannot do it, God save me.”

  Then, through my pain and despair, a weakened yet still-firm voice declared, “Let me see,” and I gazed through the haze of sweat on my face to Julie, leaning on a walking stick, her robe seeming to float upon her diminished frame. She motioned to Rosine. “Get up off your knees and spread her legs more. I’m not about to lean over.”

  To my mortification, she stared between my splayed thighs. A dreadful silence fell. Then she said, “The child is turned around. It will kill her. You must pull it out.”

  Rosine lifted a hand to her throat in dismay. My mother looked directly into my eyes. Her emotionless expression chilled me. If I died, then the problem I presented died with me. She would no longer have to contend with my character, my insistence on living outside the established norm; she wouldn’t have to explain my child or cajole me into submission. She would mourn, see us to our grave, and have two fewer worries. Jeanne would follow her example, while I’d proven an incorrigible disappointment.

  I shrieked in mindless rage, sundering the pain-thickened air.

  As Rosine recoiled, Madame G. abandoned her post by my bed to plunge between my legs. I felt her hands stab at my bruised opening. The pain was so immense, my senses darkened. Just as I thought death had come to claim me, relief surged through me in a shuddering rush and Madame G. cried, “The child is born!”

  I couldn’t lift my head as she and Rosine severed the cord, turning to the basin of rose water and stack of clean cloths. I waited, breathless, for the cry that would tell me my daughter was safe; when it did not come, I heard Julie snap, “Wipe that mess from its mouth,” followed by taut anticipation before the wail sounded—piercing, distraught as a mewling cat, and music to my ears.

  Grappling against my exhaustion, I righted myself on my elbows. Julie stood immobile, Jeanne and Régine staring wide-eyed from the doorway behind her. My aunt slumped against a chair as Madame G. turned with the swaddled bundle in her arms.

  “Perfect,” she breathed. “A perfect—”

  “Boy,” intoned Julie. I tore my gaze from Madame G. “A son,” my mother said to me. “Now you will know true suffering. One can hardly train a son to be of any use.” With these words, she limped out, shooing my sisters before her.

  Ma petite dame set my babe in my arms. “He’s so beautiful, Sarah.” Tears moistened her eyes. “A beautiful baby boy.”

  I looked down at his wizened face, his mouth puckering as he prepared to release another yowl. He was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, yet nothing had given me greater fulfillment. Love unlike any I’d felt overcame me, filling me to overflowing.

  He had grown inside me. He was mine. All mine.

  “What shall you name him?” asked Madame G.

  “Maurice,” I said without hesitation, for no reason I could think of. The name, like my son, had just come to me. “Maurice Bernhardt.”

  I

  “I need money.” I took a sip of my coffee, hoping my confession didn’t sound as peremptory as it felt. “Caring for a babe on a pittance…it’s impossible.”

  Paul gave a dejected assent. I’d asked him to meet with me, sending a note to the Odéon, where he toiled in minor roles, seeking to establish himself. Of the few friends I had left, he seemed the one most likely to be sympathetic, though I hadn’t counted on his immediate offer of marriage or his sullen pout when I refused.

  “I don’t want charity,” I hastened to add. “I’m prepared to work at whatever I can. Only”—I sighed, finally letting my fatigue reveal itself—“no one will hire me. It seems the scene with Madame Nathalie and my departure from the Gymnase are not so easily forgotten.”

  He stuck out his lower lip. He’d grown a beard for his latest role and I found its rough thickness disconcerting on his still-boyish face. It seemed inconceivable that only a few years ago, I’d lain with him and discovered the dubious pleasures of the flesh.

  “I could ask Provost,” he said at length. “I do still see him, on occasion.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that would be wise,” I replied, though in truth, if he’d said he would ask Madame Nathalie herself, I should have been hard-pressed to refuse. The past six months since Maurice’s birth had been so fraught with turmoil, I was now desperate. No sooner had I risen from bed to nurse my child than an explosion ensued with Julie, who, although not yet recovered from her apoplexy, proceeded to barge into my apartment because “that bastard’s infernal crying” was keeping everyone awake at night. “Muzzle him,” she demanded, banging her cane on the floor like Provost. “Or find yourself another abode. I’ll not abide my suitors being deafened by his caterwauling.”

  We embarked on an epic battle that brought half the building to my door. I called her every name I could think of, threatening to bear a hundred bastards to drown out her “ungodly fornication”—never mind that she wasn’t doing much of it these days. While Madame G. implored us to reason and Régine cried in despair to hear us shouting at each other, Julie threatened to evict me if I did not leave her premises within the week.

  “Clearly,” she said, “this roof is too small for both of us!” She limped into her apartment with me raging behind her. From her desk, she extracted an envelope and flung it at my feet. “There. I have done my part as promised. That is the settlement the solicitor negotiated on your behalf. Take it and go.”

  I opened the envelope to count the billet of francs. “This is only half of my dowry,” I said, raising my eyes to her. “Where is the rest of it?”

  “Retained by the estate in the unlikely event you should marry.” Julie sniffed. “Very unlikely now, after what you’ve done. No man wants to raise another’s mistake.”

  “Tell the solicitor I want the rest released immediately. I have no plans to marry, now or ever.” I pocketed the envelope. “I’ll be out by next week.”

  Packing up my belongings, I used my newfound money to rent an apartment on rue Duphot and hire a neighborhood girl, Caroline, to help me with Maurice. Régine plunged into despair at my departure, wailing in fury, but I couldn’t take her with me. I could barely afford to support my son, but I promised I would bring her to live with me as soon as I was able, and Madame G. assured me she would look after her.

  My new apartment consisted of a cramped living room and two bedrooms the size of closets. I installed myself and Maurice in one, leaving the other as a spare for when Madame G. came with my sister to visit and assist Caroline while I went out in search of employment. To no avail, as I soon discovered. My reputation preceded me and no theater manager was inclined to test it for himself. I scoured the newspapers for casting calls and haunted every audition, only to earn one offer to perform in a cabaret chorus. Although sorely tempted, I knew my limited dancing skills guaranteed another failure.

  Paul now lifted his mournful gaze to me. I
tried to smile. “Please, do not ask again. You are very dear to me, but neither of us would be happy with me as your wife.”

  He looked discomfited. “I do know of…”

  “Yes?” I said eagerly.

  “A daguerreotypist.” He paused. I tapped my foot. “He’s always looking for people to sit for him. He was a caricaturist before he became fascinated by the camera. He’s successful; he’s taken portraits of many important people in Paris, including Dumas. His name is Félix Nadar. He pays a sitting fee. I could mention you to him, if you like.”

  “Do so,” I said at once. “How difficult can it be? One just stands there and—”

  “He might want you to pose…” Paul’s voice faded into another awkward silence.

  “Oh.” I went quiet for a moment. Then I said, with somewhat less enthusiasm, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Very well. Give me his address and I’ll apply.”

  “It’s not so formal, Sarah. Let me arrange a meeting.”

  * * *

  I didn’t know what to expect, but I had vague imaginings of a dark attic in a disreputable district, reeking of varnish and chemicals. Instead, at the appointed hour, I arrived at a lofty attic on the brand-new boulevard des Capuchines, flooded by dust-mote sunlight streaming through overhead louvers and cluttered with objets d’art—busts, statues, paintings, coils of fabric—as well as the pervasive odor of albumen and the unmistakable stink of rotten egg.

  Monsieur Nadar was an unkempt giant who reminded me of Dumas, his red-gold hair springing in disarray about his balding pate and his fingers stained silver from his craft. But he was charming from the start, complimenting me on my ensemble—my much-worn green walking suit—as he showed me his gallery of daguerreotypes, which presented startling realism, capturing as no other medium I’d seen the mercurial faces of his subjects.

  “Here is Monsieur Dumas,” he said, motioning to the portrait of my benefactor, seated in all his majesty upon a massive chair, “and here’s Madame Sand,” featuring the infamous cross-dressing writer in a demure caplet and ruffled gown, looking nothing like her reputation. “As you can see, mademoiselle, I’m very dedicated to my endeavor.”

  He was, indeed. I stared in awe at a series of photographs of Paris, taken from an astonishing height and offering a bird’s-eye view of the city in breathtaking detail.

  “I was the first to employ a camera on a hot-air balloon,” he said. “They all thought me mad, claiming a spark would set the contraption aflame and send me crashing to my death, but they weren’t so critical afterwards once they saw the results. The emperor himself has commissioned me to do a series for him of the palace at Versailles.”

  “You’ve been up in the sky?” I turned to him in a daze. “What was it like? It must have felt as if you were flying. So free and unencumbered…how marvelous it must be to step into a basket and find oneself lifted far from earthly cares!”

  He smiled. “You sound like a dreamer, and one with the spirit of an adventurer.”

  “Hardly.” I returned to his photographs. “But I would very much like to see the world like this one day, so vast and neat, and—”

  “Laid out like a carpet at your feet?” His smile widened. “I wonder if my camera can capture the sheen on your skin?”

  I made a conscious effort to not avert my eyes. “Is it necessary?”

  “I’m not asking you to disrobe if you’re unwilling. My subjects pose on an entirely voluntary basis.” He paused. “Perhaps just your shoulders…”

  I would have sat for him without pay; I found his art magnificent. But the fee he cited was significant, sending me scurrying behind a Chinese screen in the corner to undress, about to step out in my petticoat when he said, “I’ve set up a pillar and length of velvet by the wall. Use the velvet to drape yourself. You must remove your chemise so the straps do not show. You can tell me when you are ready.”

  Moving to these objects, I grappled with the red velvet, which was heavier than it appeared. I nearly toppled the pillar, too, which was hollow plaster. As I yanked the velvet about me and slipped my chemise to my waist, I wondered if the other things scattered about the attic were also fake, illusions that only became real through his lenses.

  “Ready,” I said, with a catch in my voice.

  He turned from the camera mounted on a brass-tipped tripod to survey me where I leaned with an elbow on the pillar, clutching the velvet to my throat. “Might you loosen your hair? And perhaps employ the mantle with less modesty?” He gave me a nod as I complied. “Much better. Now, please be still, mademoiselle. Monsieur Porel tells me you’re a gifted performer. Emulate for me. Only do so with your expression, not your body.”

  He wanted me to act? I hesitated. I felt ludicrous, the velvet scratching my bare skin (it was cheap, its underside a rough grosgrain), my position stiff and unnatural. Easing my elbow on the pillar, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, thinking of Maurice, the way he woke every morning, chortling, kicking his little legs and making fists in the air as he grabbed for my teat. My small breasts couldn’t produce enough milk for him, the greedy mite; I had to hire a nursemaid, whom I could ill afford, but Maurice liked to suckle me nevertheless, despite barely squeezing out a few mouthfuls and leaving my nipples chafed.

  Nadar raced behind his camera, throwing the short black curtain over himself. “Now stand very still. Don’t move. Yes, like that. Perfect, mademoiselle.”

  I was surprised it took so long. After he emerged from the camera, replacing the glass plate at the back and taking the used one to a table, I realized I wasn’t going to see the results immediately when he explained, “Processing takes time. I’d like to shoot a few more, if you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t.” He was paying me, after all. “Do you want me to try another pose?”

  “Yes, please. In profile this time.” He watched me adjust myself. “Oh, that’s marvelous. You have such arresting features. Perfect for the camera.”

  “And quite the nose,” I quipped. “A critic once said I might one day be deemed a beauty.” I stifled my laughter as he adjusted his apparatus.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  I spent the better part of that afternoon with him. He took several portraits, which I was eager to see. He asked me to return in a week, handing me an envelope with my fee. “You’re a pleasure to work with. Any theater company would be fortunate to hire you. Do come back. And if you have friends who might be interested, please refer them to me.”

  I floated from his studio as if I were in his hot-air balloon, the money tucked inside my bag and my heart warmed by his praise.

  It wasn’t the stage. But it was a start.

  II

  I returned to Nadar’s studio several more times, first to see my pictures, which were so arresting and unlike how I saw myself that I felt as if I were looking at a stranger, my face seductive and pensive, my hair a thicket of curls, darker in photographic hue than reality. I thought I looked much older, sophisticated and mysterious.

  “A Parisian sphinx,” declared Nadar.

  One afternoon, as I toyed with a fan and allowed him to photograph a tantalizing glimpse of my breasts, two young men and a woman arrived—sending me plunging behind the screen to cover my indecency. When I emerged, flustered, I found they, too, were there to sit. While Nadar prepared, I conversed with them and discovered they were actors from the Odéon, friends of Paul’s, who, like me, sought to supplement their limited income.

  I’d not been in the company of actors in so long that I found myself tongue-tied, wondering if they’d heard of my aborted spell at the Comédie. They had. The woman exclaimed, “You’re the Slap!” laughingly telling me that many actors in Paris deemed me a heroine for it.

  “Such an insufferable battle-ax,” said the pretty blond woman, her blue eyes shining mischievously. “She no doubt deserved it.” She paused, regarding me. “And I cannot
help but wonder how you, Sarah Bernhardt, can fail to recognize me.”

  “Have we met?” I searched my memory, not recalling her at all until her smile widened, exalting her dimples. “We were friends at Grandchamp. I’m Sophie Crossier, though I now go by Croizette. You came to my house on Sundays with Marie Colombier.”

  “Sophie!” I couldn’t believe it. I embraced her in joy and soon we were nestled together on the sagging couch, sharing reminiscences of our time at the convent and of our mutual friend Marie, while Nadar posed the men.

  “Don’t you find it unusual that the three of us became actresses?” said Sophie, eying the men, who were engaged in a seductive embrace for the camera. “Not like Grandchamp at all, is it? Imagine the good sisters’ horror if they knew what goes on in Paris these days.”

  Having already seen Nadar’s collection of illicit erotica, which was sold under the counter in kiosks around the city and earned him a tidy profit, I wasn’t shocked, though I had to agree the nuns would certainly be. Instead, I asked, “Is Marie still performing? She didn’t seem so enthused by it the last time I saw her.” I made sure not to mention that the last time I’d seen her was when I’d discovered my pregnancy.

  “If you can call it performing.” Sophie gave a sigh. “I think she only went into the theater because she thought it would be easy. As a result, she’s not made a name for herself at the Châtelet. The notices for her debut in La Jeunesse du roi Henri were not kind.”