The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  “America? I haven’t been to England yet!” I laughed. Yes, disreputable, indeed. “I doubt anyone in America even knows who I am.”

  “He certainly seemed to know.” She squeezed out a measure of azure paint from a tube. “Now, shall we proceed? I’m going to paint you wearing a riding habit this time, against a hunting scene. Sarah Bernhardt à la chasse. Appropriate for England, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I had to laugh as I took my pose.

  * * *

  —

  Upon saying goodbye to Louise, I elected to walk home rather than endure the frustration of finding a public cab. It was a lovely spring evening, the trees in bloom perfuming the twilight. As I passed bustling cafés where shabby writers argued over coffee-stained sleeve cuffs and heard the rusty clank of grates being yanked down over shop fronts, I pondered my future.

  I hadn’t expected to ever find myself in this situation. I’d spent so much time and effort trying to achieve recognition as an actress, to overcome the foibles of my past and make my mark, that somehow along the way I’d ceased to enjoy it. I still loved performing more than anything else, but what I’d hoped to accomplish by returning to the Comédie had not turned out as I imagined it.

  Success can bring its own kind of loss.

  Even more so, it brought tiresome responsibilities, anchoring me like a stone tablet of submission. I didn’t doubt Meyer’s assertion that Perrin would eventually comply, if only because he couldn’t afford to renege on the commitment. Our theater was in dire need of upkeep; we’d been performing with buckets backstage to catch leaks from the moldering roof. In the dead of winter, pipes burst without warning, inundating our dressing rooms. The upholstery on the seating was threadbare and the curtains had faded to a murky hue. London would pay for all of it—if London got what it paid for, which was me.

  I’d not paused to consider whether my fame might have extended beyond my native land; the cloistered arena of the theater always made it seem like a world apart, where only the current play, the most recent notice, the latest affair gone awry, or an unwelcome change in the repertoire held any importance. Much as I resented Perrin’s stranglehold and dreaded what he’d prepare for me in London, I couldn’t deny that I was curious to experience how a foreign audience would receive me. A new venue, with a new public; a new summit to conquer: it was something I craved, without having recognized it.

  Descending the slope from Montmartre, the silver twist of the Seine coming into view under the violet-tinged sky, I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t realize I was being followed until all of a sudden I heard the footsteps behind me. Quickening my pace, I didn’t look around until he said, somewhat out of breath, “Mademoiselle Bernhardt, if I may?”

  I came to a halt. He stood a few steps from me, a spare, tall figure in a charcoal-gray overcoat, a silken top hat in his gloved hands. Not a young man; his hair was streaked with silver and his features were delineated by middle age, with crevices about his mouth and his piercing light blue eyes nested in shadow. It only heightened my mistrust of him, especially as I also noted he must be a man of means, judging by his tailored attire. I’d seen plenty of men like him in my mother’s salon; they were always married, with families.

  With a hint of reproof, I said, “Is it customary in your country to accost women in the street, Monsieur Jarrett?”

  He didn’t look abashed that I’d surmised who he was. In heavily accented French, he said, “Certainly not, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Yet under the circumstances, I had no alternative.”

  “Oh?” I regarded him with what I hoped was a detached expression.

  He moved toward me. “I’ve been attempting to speak with you for several weeks.”

  I allowed myself a slight smile. “You might have called on me at my home.”

  “You’re never there.” He didn’t return my smile. “I did leave my card at the theater for you with a certain Mademoiselle Colombier—”

  “Yes, I am aware. I shall have a talk with her.”

  “She doesn’t interest me. You are the one I wished to see. I have a proposition.”

  It was precisely the statement I’d expected, though the setting—a street meandering from Montmartre with omnibus carriages rattling behind us, crammed with people returning home from work—was not. A gentleman of breeding would have known that.

  “So soon?” I had the sudden urge to ruffle his impeccable façade, which I suspected was cultivated to impress, the trappings of a self-made man seeking a liaison to add the finishing touch to his hard-earned status. “In France, we prefer our aperitifs before the main course.”

  He went still, as if he didn’t understand. I nearly laughed aloud. Mon Dieu, was such a lack of wit awaiting me abroad?

  “An overseas tour,” he finally said, and I was impressed that despite his eventual comprehension of my innuendo, he elected to ignore it. “I have contacts in many theatrical venues abroad, who I believe would pay top dollar for—”

  “Top dollar? Is that an actual expression?”

  “An American one, yes.” He turned his hat in his hands. “Mademoiselle, would you be interested?”

  “Perhaps.” I looked about us. “There’s a charming bistro just down this hill. If you care to dine with me, I might ask to hear more about this…proposition of yours.” He wasn’t unattractive, I decided. Since I had no idea whether I still had a place of employment, regardless of Meyer’s assertion that Perrin would eventually comply, I might require a patron to tide me over while I sought a new theatrical contract. Nothing permanent, of course; and this American, which he apparently was, would suffice for the short term.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” He bowed his head. “I am honored, but…”

  “Yes?” His reluctance amused me. Must I woo him? “Monsieur, you did seek me out.”

  “I did, but I simply cannot—” He raised his eyes to me. I was startled to see that he appeared sincere; he conveyed none of the feigned reluctance of an inexperienced man on the prowl, who felt he must put up an initial show of propriety. “If I may, however, call upon you at a later time, we can discuss my proposition at leisure.”

  Sudden doubt curdled in me. I’d grown accustomed to homage from my set: the struggling painters, sculptors, and writers, all of whom moved in the same circle as me and sought to bask in my achievements. But I could never allow myself to forget that those of us who made our living onstage weren’t deemed worthy of respectable society; that whenever someone outside our circle offered assistance, it was usually an invitation to a carnal interlude. I may have overcome my tainted past, but it couldn’t be erased; I’d grown accustomed to my notoriety. That this dapper man would refuse to dine with me after chasing me down, without seeing fit to offer an explanation, seemed to carry a hypocritical aversion to being seen in public with a former courtesan.

  “I’m leaving soon for London, as you surely know,” I said tersely. “I’m also under contract at the Comédie-Française.”

  I started to walk away when he replied, “Yes, but for how long?”

  “Pardon me?” I stopped, looking back at him. He stood there, his hat in his hands.

  “It is my understanding you’re not happy there,” he went on, “and Monsieur Perrin, the managing director, is even less happy with you, despite your considerable successes.”

  “Monsieur Jarrett, it’s in very poor taste to inquire into another person’s affairs.”

  “Again, I had no alternative.” His lack of apology took me aback. He refused to dine with me yet still didn’t disguise his interest. And he’d undertaken the effort to investigate me, which no doubt had proven fortuitous, as Marie Colombier surely hadn’t hesitated to regale him with my predicament. It would be in her best interests if I absconded from the Comédie as I had from the Odéon, preferably before London.

  As if he sensed my doubt, he said, “I do not fault you for
being unhappy. A player like you will never be content under the constraints of a state-sponsored institution. The Comédie is very respectable, but your talents demand more than it can provide.”

  “You seem to know much about my talents,” I said. “While I know nothing of yours.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. As velvety night fell around us, the street lamps shimmered to light. Pedestrians getting off the omnibus trudged around us, casting ill-tempered glances because we were standing there, impeding their passage, but he didn’t move, regarding me as if we were the only two people on the hill. “You do know who I am.”

  “Monsieur, I know your name. I’m not in the habit of accepting business propositions from strangers. It is a business proposition you wish to offer me, I presume?”

  A hint of mirth flickered in his eyes, lightening their steely hue. “I fear you may have misunderstood my intentions. Business is indeed all I wish to propose.”

  As he spoke, I realized with a start that I’d erred in my assessment of him. He was like…like Perrin, I thought. Entirely self-assured, only without my director’s pompous conceit. “Should you care to make inquiries of me,” he added, “you’ll find that I maintain offices in London and New York. I’m well regarded in my field and I believe you could be a sensation abroad. We can both reap significant rewards from it.”

  I took a moment to absorb his remarkable declaration. As I did, I recalled my motto: Quand même. Just when I’d decided to step out on my own, despite all odds, fortune had again found me.

  “I suppose you have more than your belief to support such an assertion,” I said at length. “Since you’ve clearly made inquiries of me, you must understand that my obligations are such that any overseas tour would pose significant sacrifice.”

  His mouth twitched; to my delight, he appeared to be restraining a smile. “Would my assurance of a small fortune in compensation for a series of arranged private recitals in London’s select drawing rooms suffice as evidence of my support?”

  “Private recitals?” I echoed, as if I’d never heard of the concept.

  “Yes. There are interested parties who wish to pay to hear you recite outside of the theater. It’s often done by players, a time-honored means to supplement their income.”

  He wasn’t speaking of my mother’s trade, but he was also suggesting an approach that was equally likely to incite Perrin’s wrath.

  “It is not done at the Comédie,” I said, even as I recalled my mounting household debts, my frustration with the lack of choice in my roles, with the staid air of the Française, where even if I was kept on, I already knew I’d be curtailed, as he put it, at every turn. Earning the retirement pension due as a senior sociétaire after twenty years with the company would extract every last drop of creativity in my veins, if I managed to survive that long. I couldn’t conceive of it, being relegated to playing overdone classical heroines until I graduated to Agrippina, resisting in vain my inevitable disillusionment and the encroachment of my decrepitude.

  “Nothing in their contract states as much,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of consulting their boilerplate. They may not approve of the practice in theory, but how their players elect to spend their time outside the theater is their own affair. Should Monsieur Perrin declare otherwise, he is in the wrong.” He clicked open an expensive gold-plated case, extracting one of his cards. “I only ask that you consider it. I can ensure that your appearances do not interfere with the scheduled program at the Gaiety. If there are any concerns, you may direct them to my office in London. The address is there on my card.”

  I pocketed it. “Then I shall consider it.”

  As he bowed his head again and began to turn away, evidently unperturbed that we’d just conducted our business in the middle of a street on the descent from Montmartre, much as any client might do with a common prostitute, I called out after him, “How much is a small fortune, exactly?”

  He paused, placing his top hat on his head. “Exactly what it sounds like. Don’t lose my card, mademoiselle. I will call upon you in London. With a contract.”

  XII

  Louise and I sat on the floor of my foyer, surrounded by heaps of my luggage. When Perrin’s note had finally arrived, informing me that I’d been elected to senior status, along with the terse reminder that I was due in Calais in a week (he had, of course, delayed contacting me until the last minute), I’d overturned my household in a panic.

  I had never performed abroad. I had no idea what to bring, what kind of impression I should strive to make. Should I be sedate and discreet? Or outrageously bohemian? Or both? Madame G. tried to assist me until she wilted in fatigue, ankle-deep among strewn clothing, every bureau and wardrobe ransacked as I picked through articles, holding each up for inspection. “This?” I’d ask, and when she’d nod and say, “Yes, that would be—” I’d fling it aside, saying, “Too banal” or “Too outrageous,” and grab up another article. “How about this?”

  Eventually, I summoned Louise; I’d insisted she accompany me to England and she had agreed, so she rolled up her sleeves and went to work. “Be yourself. London hired Sarah Bernhardt. You must give them what they paid for.”

  We chose my extravagant velvet walking coats and skirts, patterned damask shawls and silk shirtwaists, a variety of Doucet evening gowns, my signature scarves, and a plethora of eccentric hats. She then went through and discarded several of my choices: “Not the bat,” she said, plucking the hat from my hands. “No one in London wants to see Sarah Bernhardt with a dead creature on her head.”

  “But everyone in Paris loves my bat,” I said. “My photograph in it has sold nearly as well as my children’s book.”

  “In England, they have an old bat on the throne. I should think that is enough.”

  Once we were done, nourished on pâté sandwiches Caroline delivered at regular intervals, along with pots of hot tea, Louise slumped onto the floor, disheveled from our day-long effort. She lit a cigarette, her back against a trunk and legs splayed out before in her striped stovepipe trousers.

  I eyed her. “I hope you’re planning on packing a dress for yourself.”

  “Why?” She blew out smoke. “London isn’t paying to see me.” Taking up the last of the sandwiches, she said, “Is Maurice still upset he’s not going?”

  I sighed. “Madame Guérard will look after him. He failed most of his courses this year, so he must take a remedial summer term. Naturally, he’s not speaking to me at the moment.”

  “Sarah, must he?” Louise bit into the bread, with her cigarette still hanging from her lip. “You do realize no matter how well he does in school he’ll never be accepted into one of our grandes écoles. He lacks the pedigree.”

  “Pedigree doesn’t pay for tuition. Money is still money, even to a grande école. I stand to earn plenty of it in England.”

  Louise gave me an amused look. “You’ve clearly never been to a grande école.” She paused. “I assume this means you agreed to Monsieur Jarrett’s proposition. I did wonder at the heightened concern over your apparel, as you’ll presumably be in costume at the Gaiety.”

  “I haven’t agreed yet,” I retorted, my very defensiveness betraying my interest. “He said he would call on me in London. I did, however, consult with Duquesnel about him,” I admitted, as her eyes widened in surprise. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t amused to hear from me after my defection, but he assured me that Monsieur Jarrett is exactly what he claims—a well-regarded and successful impresario.”

  She chuckled. “That sounds like acceptance to me. Perrin will have an apoplexy. Strong-armed into naming you a senior sociétaire and now you’re off to entertain British aristocrats in their drawing rooms. Not his idea of a foreign engagement by the Comédie.”

  I shrugged, though I didn’t feel as nonchalant as I feigned. “Jarrett assured me it’s not forbidden by my contract. He claims if Perrin
says otherwise, he’s in the wrong, as other notable players have done it—which I suppose is true enough.”

  “Has anyone paid to hear Madame Nathalie declaim over the soufflé, I wonder?” mused Louise, making me laugh aloud.

  “Perhaps not,” I said, “but she doesn’t have this menagerie to support.”

  Louise drew on her cigarette. “Well. London should be very interesting.”

  I gave her a grateful smile. “I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to come with me.”

  “Agreed?” She scoffed. “You gave me no choice. But as you say, money is money. And I intend to profit, too. All those proper English ladies with nothing to do can commission me to paint their portraits while you recite and eat their beefsteaks.”

  * * *

  The Channel crossing wasn’t arduous, despite the dire warnings of unpredictable tempests and savage currents. It was almost pleasant, this short passage over water, though predictably Louise was confined to our cabin with seasickness, and had to be tended by Caroline, as my friend moaned that she was in imminent peril of being buried alive by my luggage as the ferry dipped and rolled.

  The rest of the company fared no better; all save Jean were sickly pale and unsteady on their feet by the time we reached Folkestone. To my surprise, a crowd of photographers, journalists, and admirers had assembled to welcome us.

  Hurrying onto the deck in my ankle-length brown velvet overcoat with its oversized ivory buttons and leopard-fur collar, my enormous hat festooned with rosettes and swaths of tulle, I heard the distant cries—“Hurray for Bernhardt!”—and I clapped my hands in eagerness to finally be arriving on foreign shores to such unexpected hospitality.

  Perrin detained my excited stride toward the gangplank. He was dressed in a somber suit with a bowler hat, like an undertaker about to retrieve a corpse, rather than the overseer of an historic engagement by the Comédie. In his gloved hands he held a newspaper, which he thrust before my distracted gaze. “What, may I ask, is this?”