The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Critics can be savages,” I said, recalling my own unremarkable debut and feeling a pang of guilt that I had not sought out Marie since delivering Maurice. “Look at me.”

  “But I thought…” She frowned. “Marie told me you had left the stage to pursue other engagements. She mentioned a certain comte.”

  A burst of incredulous laughter escaped me. “She actually told you that?”

  “She did. As reluctant as she is to learn our craft, Marie is an expert when it comes to gossip. I did find it strange at the time; everyone seemed to think you had such promise at the Conservatoire, according to Marie. She sounded rather jealous, if I can be candid.”

  I almost laughed again, thinking no one should ever envy me. “Well, she was wrong,” I said, averting my eyes in sudden embarrassment at my predicament. “I was obliged to take some time away from the stage and I’m not having any luck returning to it. I may be heralded for the Slap, but not so much that a theater cares to hire me.”

  Sophie made a commiserative sound. We sat in silence for a long moment before she said, “I could put in a word for you at the Odéon, if you like. It’s sponsored by the government, like the Comédie, as you know, but we’re not so beholden to tradition. Our associate director, Duquesnel, might be very interested to hear you’re available.”

  I was startled by her offer. “You would do that for me?”

  She laughed. “I realize it’s not something any actress should do for another, but we are friends, are we not? More importantly, I’m under contract at the Odéon, and our ticket sales are…Suffice to say we could use a promising new talent.” She paused. “Providing you can deliver a suitable reference.”

  I thought of Paul’s offer to contact Provost. “I could ask,” I said.

  “Then allow me to talk to Duquesnel.” She pressed her calling card into my hand, leaning close to me to whisper, “We must prove this fable of your retirement is entirely unfounded.” As I started to thank her, touched by her generosity, she added, “And allow me a word of caution, Sarah: be careful of Marie.”

  * * *

  Paul agreed to approach Provost. As months went by without word from him and my money started to dwindle, I forced myself to pay a visit to Julie to demand the remainder of my dowry. She cited vague legal entanglements, and I did not have the strength to argue. She was entertaining again on a limited basis, but I could see how fatigued she was. She was no longer the courtesan she had been, relying on a few steadfast regulars and old Morny, whose devotion remained constant even as his health declined. I thought the inescapable eventuality of his demise must torment her, and I would have pitied her had I not resented her lack of any inquiry about Maurice. She remained impervious, as if the birth of my son had never occurred. Rosine, on the other hand, slipped me extra money as I left. “For the baby’s clothes,” she whispered.

  Nadar’s studio offered my sole artistic outlet, both in the novelty of his company and that of his revolving coterie. He often had gatherings of threadbare sculptors, writers, composers, and painters, drinking absinthe and debating the merits of art while waiting to be photographed. I rediscovered my passion for painting, setting up an easel in my living quarters, and began experimenting with sculpture, as well—all of which laid further waste to my income. Bills piled up for my paint tubes, clay, gesso, and other necessities of my moi, as I dubbed my quest for artistic fulfillment.

  I ignored the debts, until the proprietor of my apartment came banging at my door. Hiding in my room with Régine and Maurice while Caroline haltingly explained that Mademoiselle Bernhardt was not at home, I heard the proprietor retort that he would ensure Mademoiselle Bernhardt would never be at home again, at least not in this particular home, unless she paid her overdue rent by the end of the week.

  I no longer had a choice. If I was going to survive, something had to be done.

  Nadar informed me that an aristocrat had seen my pictures and inquired. Although I had sworn to never again risk the vagaries of the trade, I accepted the aristocrat’s invitation to tea and soon found myself accepting a great deal more.

  It paid the rent.

  Then Madame G. suggested a move. “There’s a cottage in the borough of Auteuil. Monsieur Dumas was at Julie’s salon the other evening and he asked about you. When he heard you were living here, he was outraged. He says it’s no place for a new mother. He’s offered to pay your entire rent for the first year. There’s more room,” she went on hastily, as I began to shake my head. “He was most insistent. He says you cannot possibly raise a babe here. The rats alone—” She shuddered. “They swarm the gutters at night.”

  “I’m more concerned about the rat badgering me for rent every week,” I said, but she had a point. My apartment was run-down, infested with vermin. I had spread lye in the corners to smother the fleas and raised Maurice’s bassinet on bricks, maintaining watch over him at night, armed with a broom to keep the rodents at bay. I was sacrificing my own sleep to protect him. He hadn’t suffered so much as a sniffle, but the thought that he might fall ill terrified me. I would never forgive myself if my son suffered because of my pride.

  I gave a nod. “Tell Dumas I will accept his offer, but only on the condition that he lets me repay him as soon as I can.”

  The cottage was charming, with a rose trellis over the doorway, squeezed between new apartment buildings and a boulevard carved out of the rubble of a demolished hamlet, renovations instituted by our emperor that were converting this western district into one of Paris’s latest residential areas. I suspected the rent was far higher than I could ever afford, but Dumas was present to welcome me, looking diminished, thinner than I recalled, yet waving aside my concern as his hired men moved in my furnishings.

  “If you’re going to hold court,” he said, when I stepped into the living area and gasped, finding it wallpapered in pristine white silk, with vases of fresh lilies and lilacs on every new marcasite-topped table, “you must hold it in style.”

  I hadn’t planned on it, but I understood his intent. I could no longer evade my penury. I had Maurice to maintain, as well as Caroline and Madame G., for she had expended all her savings on me, along with most of her monthly pension.

  Turning to Dumas, I embraced him. As he caressed my nape, I heard him murmur, “Ah, my little star. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger and ten kilos lighter.”

  I would have gladly taken him to bed as he was, out of gratitude and affection, for he was my one constant in a world that seemed to shift daily under my feet, but he laughed and told me he had others to satisfy his needs.

  “I want more from you,” he said, kissing my cheek. “You must become my Rachel.”

  Thus did I inaugurate my salon. Through Dumas and Nadar, I gathered a select roster—young aristocrats with a bohemian flair; foreign banking managers; artists without much money to spare but more than enough ambition to compensate; and the occasional theater critic, who wasted no time in promulgating the delights of my company to others in his circle. I accepted donations, of course, but my main focus was to cultivate a unique style, as Dumas had suggested. Because I couldn’t afford a dressmaker, I began wearing eccentric ensembles cobbled from secondhand bazaars, combining male waistcoats with walking skirts and inventive hats I decorated with knickknacks, along with flamboyant scarfs. I adopted several street dogs I’d found scavenging in the neighborhood; I washed and brushed out their coats, then let them loose among my guests. Coming upon an old coffin at a rummage sale, I bought it on impulse—a narrow sarcophagus lined in tarnished satin, which I propped on a bunted dais and reclined in to greet my visitors, reciting the Fleurs du mal by Baudelaire. Nadar photographed me in it, and reproductions of the picture made their way into various shops, where women gasped in horror and purchased them by the dozens like an occult souvenir. Nadar gave me half the profits.

  Encouraged by the attention and influx of money, I decided to h
old private exhibitions of my paintings and sculpture, inviting other artists to exhibit with me, and also began organizing readings from unpublished plays. A few minor critics attended these readings and wrote about them, which put my name, albeit in tiny print, in the newspapers.

  It was during one of these impromptu readings that I finally allowed myself to indulge that instinct, which had hampered me during my time at the Comédie. As I had no need to impress anyone save my callers, all of whom were delighted to grant me license, I invested my readings with my spontaneous interpretation of the character, avoiding unnatural declamation at the attendees and emoting instead to those reciting opposite me—all impoverished actors like me, in dire need of a contract—gazing upon the object of my despair or desire, and allowing the character to reveal herself.

  Reveling in a confidence I’d never experienced onstage, I began to think that regardless of my reputation, perhaps the very asset which Provost believed set me apart also posed an insurmountable obstacle to my future employment. For me, acting wasn’t a task steeped in mind-numbing denial of one’s self; it was a willingness to plunge into my depths and allow myself to be vulnerable, to excavate my heart for my character’s truth—even if it wasn’t how things were done and most certainly not what Provost had taught me. It went against everything the House of Molière stood for, in fact, where the systemic application of tradition provided the sole path to recognition.

  Dumas attended my readings, lending the occasions gravitas, and beamed in paternal satisfaction as the playwrights whose works I performed wept once I finished, telling me they were overcome to see their words brought to life in a manner they’d never expected.

  “Did I not tell you as much?” he said to me. “You were born for the stage. It’s in your blood.”

  “Unfortunately, no stage at the moment wants my blood,” I replied. “Or rather, my blood is apparently all that will suffice to atone for my sins.”

  “It will happen.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ve never doubted that one day you would become a great actress. Perhaps now, for the first time, you can believe it, too.”

  I wasn’t certain of any greatness on the stage, but I was secure in devising an ambiance of sophistication unlike that of other courtesans. I refused to call myself one, in fact. I wasn’t a woman for hire. I was an arbiter of art and its stimulating effect on our primal nature. In my salon, the sole rule was modernité—to delight in the way of life of our modern age and fulfill our artistic responsibility to it.

  Word soon spread, with invitations to my salon sought after by those seeking to forgo the habits of their fathers. Younger aristocratic men, as well as the sons of bankers and industrial magnates, flocked to my evenings of poetry, play readings, and art, to my informal seating on Turkish cushions spread on the floor, to my spirited debates on politics or the latest novel—everything that eschewed the pedestrian rigidity of the established demimondaine, who never offered an opinion worth heeding.

  By 1866, word reached as far as the Comédie.

  Paul sent a message. Provost had agreed to see me.

  III

  “You understand it’s quite impossible,” Provost informed me from across his desk. I had arrived punctually, knowing how he detested tardiness, but perversely also dressed in an iridescent crêpe-de-chine tunic with appliqué sleeves and an oversized coolie hat rimmed with tiny bells—a creation of mine, causing him to eye my ensemble with the same contempt he’d displayed during my instruction at the Conservatoire. “Leaving aside that disaster at the Comédie, you disregarded the terms of your employment at the Gymnase to flitter off to who knows where. And,” he added, with a sniff, “these tales I hear of a salon, of poetry recitals from a coffin, and all sorts of déclassé people doing garish things. Do you think these gyrations can gain you a respectable position in the theater?”

  I almost reminded him that my gyrations had certainly gained his attention, but lowered my head instead and set my hat to tinkling as I murmured, “I needed time to find myself, but I am here now. I intend to do whatever is required to prove my talent.”

  He harrumphed. “Can you turn back time?” But his sarcasm belied the faint hope I saw in his eyes. It sent a thrill through me. He had not forsaken me. Otherwise, he would never have bothered to reprimand me with such fervor. “You are irresponsible, careless, and too temperamental. You lead an impolitic life yet think no one notices—”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I do not think it goes unnoticed, judging by the full-capacity attendance at my salon every evening.” I spoke deliberately. As much as I needed his recommendation, I would no longer be bullied into marching to the Comédie’s baton. I wasn’t here to be reinstated by the Comédie; I was here to gain a reference to a more modern, if less acclaimed, playhouse.

  His gaze narrowed. “This is what I mean, this utter disregard for the way things are done. You are not above the rules. Yet you behave as if you are, and thus I’m at a loss as to how I can recommend you to the Odéon, despite Monsieur Duquesnel’s inquiry of you.”

  “He has inquired?” I bolted upright in my chair, making my hat chime like Notre Dame.

  “Mademoiselle.” He sighed. “Must everything be punctuated by those ghastly bells?”

  Removing my hat, I ran my hands over my hair, which in the summer humidity sprang around my face in what I was certain was yet another display of my rebelliousness.

  “He has,” said Provost. “I would never have agreed to see you otherwise. Apparently, he is willing to offer you a contract.” Again he sniffed. “It doesn’t come as a surprise. Duquesnel is a known libertine who revels in the unconventional. He has turned the playbill of the Odéon into a rather unorthodox affair. However, his senior partner, Monsieur de Chilly, is not of the same caliber. And I understand you’ve encountered de Chilly before.”

  “I have?” The name eluded me.

  “How quickly we forget. According to Duquesnel, you auditioned last year at the Ambigu for the role of a shepherdess in La Bergère d’Ivry. De Chilly was present.”

  “Oh.” I slumped. One of the innumerable auditions I’d endeavored to forget, for I had arrived late, as usual, with breast milk stains on my bodice. De Chilly had cut me short, declaring me unsuitable for the part with the remark “Whoever heard of a shepherdess who never eats?” alluding to my slenderness, rather than my unmentionable past.

  “I wasn’t at my best. I was so tired from—” I cut myself short, not wanting to admit the truth. “There were kerosene lamps onstage. It was so smoky I could barely see.”

  “One need not see in order to perform. Sight is the least of the senses one should employ—which you would know were your dedication as noteworthy as you claim.”

  I gave a deflated nod. Perhaps he had given up on me. Perhaps he’d only agreed to see me to unleash his vitriol for my past behavior, which had no doubt cost him his own share of grief at the Comédie, considering he’d championed me.

  Then he said, “I must be assured that this time you truly intend to do as you say. I’ll not be made a laughingstock again. If you wish to return to the stage, you must devote your entire being to it. Nothing less will suffice.”

  “I will. I want this more than anything.”

  “Wanting is not enough. In order for me to recommend you, I require more than the mere desire to succeed; every ingénue in Paris has that. What I require—no, I demand—is a dedication that precludes everything else: your salon and admirers; your painting or sculpture or whatever else happens to catch your fancy. Acting—and acting alone—must be your sole pursuit.”

  “Yes. I promise.” Even as I spoke, my gut twisted at the thought of Maurice. I could relinquish my salon and its amusements, the lovers and money that came with them, or at least set them aside for as long as required. But my son—I couldn’t just abandon being a mother to him. Yet if I accepted an offer from the Odéon, acting must come first, even before m
otherhood. Otherwise, I should leave now. I could not humiliate Provost with another failure.

  Yet I did not rise. I did not thank him and make my exit. Although it sliced off a jagged piece of my heart, if this was the sacrifice I must make, I was prepared to do so.

  He sat quiet for what seemed like an eternity before he said, “Before I will consider offering a reference, I must know why you left the Gymnase in the manner that you did.”

  I went still. If I lied and he later discovered the truth, he would repeal his support of me. Although he was no longer my instructor in practice, part of me felt he always would be, even if I’d learned that most of what he’d imparted wasn’t how I wished to proceed.

  “I was with child,” I finally said.

  He went quiet again. “I see,” he said at length. “And this child is now…?”

  “With me. I am raising him on my own.”

  His expression underwent a curious softening. “You are very brave to admit this.”

  “Am I? It can’t be so unusual. I should think other actresses you’ve known have found themselves in a similar predicament.”

  “Indeed. Yet not many would willingly reveal it to someone who can provide a reference for gainful employment.” He pushed a sealed envelope across the desk to me. “My letter of recommendation. See that I do not regret it.”

  As I put the envelope in my fringed bag, he said, “A word of advice, mademoiselle. You mustn’t allow the reason for your departure from the Gymnase to become common knowledge. Paris may be a large city, with others who share your predicament, but the world of the theater is very small.”

  Nodding at his advice, I replied, “I promise to make you proud. One day, you will tell everyone that you launched the career of Sarah Bernhardt.”

  His mouth twitched. “I sincerely hope so. Otherwise, Sarah Bernhardt shall be the one who regrets ever having crossed my path.”