The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  * * *

  It was like floating on a cloud, after one suffered through the stomach-churning lurch as the enormous silk-and-canvas contraption ascended in tandem with the alarming hiss of hydrogen gas released from the central canister and the cracking of the untethered ground leads.

  In goggles and a leather overcoat slung with so many utensils that he resembled an insane scientist, Nadar worked the rudder and levers to regulate our ascent. I stood by the edge of the wicker gondola, gazing down in amazement as the Tuileries grew smaller, more and more distant, like a theatrical set reduced to infinite perfection.

  “It’s…” I had no words to describe the sensation. Raising my eyes to the vast blue skies expanding around us, feeling the wind tug at the gossamer scarf knotted about my throat and press like a lover against my jodhpurs (I thought male riding attire suitable for the occasion), I wanted to fling out my arms and shout from the sheer intoxication of it.

  “Spectacular, is it not?” said Nadar as the balloon made a graceful swerve past the serpentine coil of the Seine toward the countryside. “Just as you imagined it would be?”

  “I never imagined this,” I breathed, glancing at Louise. I’d badgered her to accompany me, seeing as it had been her idea to rename the balloon Phaedra. She was clutching the gondola’s side as if she might topple off at any moment.

  “Come, look at this.” I beckoned to her. “You must see it.”

  She grimaced. “I’d rather not.”

  “Don’t lean too much against the side,” Nadar warned her. “The extra weight could veer us off course.”

  She let go with a horrified gasp. “Could we crash?”

  He chuckled. “The first hot-air balloon was sent up at Louis XVI’s command from Versailles, and it relied on only a primitive straw fire. Its passengers were a duck, a cockerel, and a ewe. It landed within four minutes, without incident.”

  “Were the animals alive?” Louise was breathless.

  “Very much so,” said Nadar. “The following year, the Robert brothers flew a hydrogen-propelled dirigible much like this one for six hours from Paris to Beuvry. That’s over a hundred kilometers.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Again, without incident. I assure you, it’s perfectly safe. I’ve stationed watches below for our entire trajectory. I’ll just take some photographs and we’ll descend within an hour or so at most.”

  “So short a time?” I protested. Louise glared at me.

  “An hour is a lifetime,” she said, “without solid ground under your feet.”

  I laughed. “Well, between the two of us, I’m sure we weigh less than a ewe.”

  She shut her eyes, disregarding the chair bolted to the gondola floor to sink down into a huddle as we soared through low-lying mist. Rain spattered upon us. I couldn’t stop gazing at the sights below, everything so minute yet so detailed, every tree like a tiny umbrella, every hamlet a collection of pebbles. There was no sound save for the whisper of the wind and creaking of the ship, as if we soared through a fantastical weightless realm.

  Nadar employed a portable camera the size of a small box hoisted on a collapsible tripod, positioning it at various stations to take his pictures. Every time he changed its direction, Louise groaned, for the gondola swayed under his shifting weight.

  I implored him to let me look through the camera; to my disappointment, the lens’s magnification distorted the view.

  “The lithographs won’t be like this once I develop the plaques,” he explained. “But I can’t be sure of what I capture in the moment, which is why I must take as many as I can.”

  “Don’t forget you must take some of me,” I reminded him.

  As I assumed various poses for the camera, I thought of Maurice, who’d kicked up a fuss when I refused to let him join me. Despite my assurance to Madame G., who declared me insane to undertake this endeavor, I wasn’t so certain of its safety as to risk my son. When I tried to explain my reasons for leaving him behind, Maurice pouted. “How will I ever learn to live if you never let me do anything?”

  The unexpected maturity of his remark took me aback. “By doing what you love,” I said. “Read. That’s how you can learn everything you need to know about life right now.”

  Recalling this, I decided I should write a story for him about my adventure. I looked around. “I’ll tell the story of that empty chair, which no one will sit upon. A children’s tale about a talking chair on a balloon! Louise,” I called out, “wouldn’t that be splendid?”

  She groaned. “Yes. Splendid. Whatever you like.”

  * * *

  —

  By the time we landed, a steady rain was falling and a crowd huddled under umbrellas by the site, though the rising wind had pushed us past it, resulting in a jarring leap by the men waiting below to grasp the trailing ropes that Nadar released to anchor us.

  Louise emerged wobbling from the gondola, as if she’d survived a storm at sea. As Nadar packed up his gear, I hastily rearranged my disheveled scarf and sauntered toward the journalists and gaping onlookers who’d followed our less-than-graceful descent and now regarded the deflating balloon as though it might explode at any moment.

  I carried a basket of foodstuffs I’d packed for the voyage; with Louise on the verge of throwing up and Nadar enthralled by his task, neither had expressed the desire to eat. I was famished, however, my appetite stimulated by the exhilaration and the sight of astonished journalists scribbling in their notebooks as fast as they could. Locating a spot under a nearby oak, with raindrops dripping from the leaves, I set up an impromptu picnic.

  I could have hugged Nadar as he joined me with Louise; he’d orchestrated our flight to perfection, each milestone on the route witnessed from below. Heaping smoked cheese on bread and handing it to him (Louise grimaced in revulsion at my offer), I heard the journalists approaching, followed by their eruption of questions:

  “Mademoiselle Bernhardt, did you not fear for your life?”

  “Nonsense,” I declared. “How can we possibly exist if we’re always in fear of death?”

  “Yet you cannot deny that air flight is quite dangerous?”

  “So is living. What other remedy do we have, save to savor our pleasures?”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “Oh, yes.” I glanced at Nadar, who was eating contentedly. “I’d do this every day if I could. You cannot imagine the freedom of it. High above the clouds, unencumbered as a bird.”

  Louise made a disparaging sound under her breath. “Unencumbered indeed,” I heard her mutter. “If the bird could bring a stage up with her on the balloon, she would.”

  “Why now?” asked another journalist coyly, for while the balloon’s deflation may have rendered its painted name invisible, they must have seen it as we descended.

  “Why not?” I said. “Must one have a reason to experience modern life’s novelties?”

  “So this doesn’t have anything to do with your new play opening next week?” said the journalist, confirming my suspicion. “Isn’t the airship named Phaedra?”

  “Is it?” I regarded him as if I had no idea.

  He gave a knowing snort and began writing. I bit into my sandwich.

  Extraneous publicity; I now had a surfeit of it.

  XI

  Phaedra opened to a standing-room-only house. I’d badgered Perrin into employing a minimal décor, to allow the tragedy to unfold without excessive drapery and distracting backdrops. For my costume, I wore a simple white Grecian tunic with a shroud-like hood, my bared arms devoid of jewelry, lending Phaedra a famished desperation.

  The eight harrowing days of twelve-hour rehearsals had taken their toll: I looked and felt as ravenous as my character. But I’d seen in Perrin’s impassive expression that regardless of whatever intent he had, I’d thwarted his ploy. I embodied Phaedra in a manner that took even him by surprise, giving her a humanity
that defied her evil repute, a woman overwhelmed by illicit desire who must die to atone for it. My death scene brought the house to tears—and no audience before had ever wept for her.

  We were summoned for six consecutive curtain calls, the audience shouting out their ovations. Critics penned eulogistic notices, with Jean receiving the most laudatory praise of his career as Hippolyte. He had ascended with stunning alacrity to the pinnacle of success as the Française’s anointed lead tragedian, and was indeed now poised to play all the challenging roles that no actor since the late Talma had mastered.

  Although we didn’t exchange a word offstage, I was as delighted for him as I was for myself. No part had demanded so much of me, but with its accomplishment my future at the Comédie was secured. No longer did I have to toil under Rachel’s shadow, especially not after Sarcey declared in his column that upon seeing my portrayal of Phaedra, he’d never suffer another actress in the part and advised all others to retire it from their repertoire.

  Perrin extended the run for two months, an exhausting ordeal that left me in a state of near collapse. With the season’s end, it was announced that for the first time in more years than anyone could recall, the Comédie would shutter its doors for much-needed repairs in the summer. Even as we scrubbed the greasepaint from our pores, Perrin summoned us to the greenroom to announce that he’d accepted an offer to present the company at the Gaiety Theatre in London for six weeks—an unparalleled achievement for a man who in just five years as managing director had restored the house to its former glory.

  I regarded him in disbelief. “London? We don’t perform in English.”

  “English audiences can, and often do, attend plays in French,” he replied. “However, having anticipated your reaction, I was going to excuse you from our program, seeing as your fragile constitution can be so easily perturbed.”

  His allusion to my prior request for a reprieve, spoken with an impervious intonation that nevertheless conveyed biting sarcasm—much as he might revel in our record receipts, he’d not soon forgive me for forcing him into the very situation he’d created—made me rise in fury from my seat. “I’ve just performed four months of Phaedra without missing a single performance!”

  He ignored my rebuke. “However, I’ve been informed that the Gaiety has sold more than half the tickets in advance for our appearance, with His Royal Highness of Wales stating his intent to attend specifically to see you perform. So I fear you must accompany us.”

  Marie couldn’t contain her glower. After having lost the lead, she’d barely staggered through her secondary part as Aricia. Whatever security she still enjoyed in Perrin’s bed couldn’t alleviate the ugly truth that she’d never amount to more. And whatever friendship we’d once shared had been vanquished by her enmity; by her bitterness at making a bid for a role she could not fulfill, handing me the very success she’d sought for herself. Ironically, her disregard of her limitations had cleared the path for me to become the Comédie’s undisputed leading actress.

  “I see,” I said. For I did.

  “I’m relieved,” said Perrin. “You now have a respite of a month before we depart. I suggest you use it wisely.” He paused, in marked emphasis. “And with discretion. That escapade with the balloon was most ill-advised. I must insist you refrain from such—”

  “Intolerable,” cut in Madame Nathalie. “The height of vulgarity. This entire city on display for the Exposition, and all anyone could speak of was the Jewess in the balloon. And to put the cherry on the disgrace, she then sees fit to publish some ridiculous fable about a chair.”

  I turned to her. “The Jewess in the balloon filled this house for the season. And her ridiculous fable is selling by the thousands. Everyone loves it.”

  “Gustave Flaubert certainly does not,” she retorted. “He complained in an editorial in Le Figaro that publishers have neglected literature to indulge mere Bernhardt whimsy.”

  “Then perhaps Flaubert should change his style and write about a table,” I said, forcing myself to not give in to the scalding desire to remind her that had it not been for my so-called whimsy, this theater, her sole source of income, would be defunct.

  “Mademoiselle Bernhardt.” Perrin’s voice wrenched my attention back to him. “I’ve said this before, so I find it tiresome to repeat it: You are a junior sociétaire. We have standards to uphold, and such behavior is unacceptable. It will not be tolerated in London.”

  At the censure in his tone, which I’d suffered too many times already, I looked about the room at my fellow actors—all colleagues who’d benefited from my success and should have spoken up in my defense. No one said a word. When my gaze fell upon Jean, standing against a wall with his arms crossed at his chest, he averted his eyes.

  Something long-crumbling inside me broke apart. I had thought my future here secure, but I now understood what that security would demand of me: utter submission.

  “Then I regret that I cannot go to London unless I’m made senior sociétaire,” I said, coming to my feet. “His Highness of Wales will have to request a refund for his ticket.”

  As I marched toward the exit, Madame Nathalie cried out from behind me, “Over my dead body! Who does she think she is? Since when has this company ever seen such—”

  I didn’t pause for the rest of her tirade. As far as I was concerned, my time at the House of Molière had come to its inevitable finale.

  * * *

  —

  I sought refuge in my household, with my Maurice and Madame G., and in my painting and sculpture, and the support of my friends. Meyer laughed uproariously when I told him what had occurred. “Perrin might keep you waiting until the last minute, but he has a reputation to uphold. If London wants Sarah Bernhardt, he’ll ensure that London gets her.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said, as Louise motioned at me to tilt my head. We were in her studio, where she was finishing a new portrait of me. Her first one had been accepted by the Salon, and since its exhibition, she’d been inundated with requests from society ladies who suddenly had to be painted by her. “He was very censorious over the balloon and my book….” I let out an exasperated breath. “He’s not about to ever let me have my way.”

  Meyer waved his hand. “Don’t underestimate your considerable value, my dear. Balloons and books aside, Perrin knows the Comédie would never have survived without you. Trust me, he will comply.” He paused, watching Louise paint. “Though I must wonder if this unfortunate impasse has anything to do with the superb Mounet-Sully?”

  I pursed my lips. “No.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, I think it must be more than no. Much more, in fact.”

  Louise’s head reared up from her easel. “How is it any of your concern?”

  Meyer clucked. “Oh my. It seems I’m about to wear out my welcome. I shall depart before she flings her palette at me.” Tucking his fob chain into his vest, he kissed my cheeks. “I’ll call on you later, chère Sarah. You mustn’t fret. It’s bad for the complexion.”

  As he sauntered out, Louise spat, “How can you abide him? He’s so conniving and—”

  “The most important critic in Paris after Sarcey,” I reminded her. I let a moment of silence pass. “Jean and I are no longer together. You know that.”

  “It’s not my concern, either.” She didn’t look at me.

  I sighed. “Louise.”

  She went still.

  “What is it?” I knew she cared deeply for me, as I did for her, yet despite our friendship, the one afternoon we’d had together was always between us. I would have done it again, for the comfort of it, but had refrained from offering, as I sensed that what to me would merely be a pleasurable way to pass the time would mean more to her. Though she and Jean couldn’t have been more different, in this respect they were more alike than I could admit. Louise would have been appalled to hear herself compared to a jealous man. Still, I lamented my
lack of inclination; in many ways, she would have been my ideal lover.

  “It’s not him,” she finally said. Wiping her brush on the palette, she set it aside. She lit a cigarette, running her paint-smeared fingers through her cropped hair. “But…”

  “But?” I dreaded her next words. I didn’t want our intimacy to be marred by an inadvertent admission of neglected need. I didn’t think I could bear it; what we had was so perfect precisely because we didn’t make claims on each other.

  “A man came to see me.” From her cabinet, she removed a card. “Asking for you.”

  I stared at the card. “Edward Jarrett,” I read aloud. “I don’t know him.” I couldn’t curb my smile. “Did he actually make the effort to track me here?”

  “Evidently. He’s an American. An impresario, or so he said. He tried to contact you at the theater and claims he left his card with another actress there, but you never replied. Then he saw my portrait of you at the Salon and—rather apologetically, I must say, for a foreigner—inquired as to the location of my studio, hoping to find you here.”

  “I never received word from him at the theater….” My voice faded. “That witch.”

  Louise said dryly, “Marie?”

  “Who else? She must have intercepted his missive. Torn up his card.” I swallowed my fury. “What did he want? I hope you told him I’m not in the trade anymore.”

  “He’s an impresario, Sarah. Impresarios seek out talent to promote.”

  It still sounded disreputable to me. “Well, I’m in no need of such. I have a contract.” My voice faltered. “Or at least, I think I still do.”

  “I believe he wishes to offer you a new one—for an overseas tour.” She turned back to her easel. “He mentioned various interested parties in America.”