“A sodden newspaper.” I started to march past him when he snarled, “Look at it.”
I paused, turning from his icy expression to the others, assembled in the foreground like sentinels of doom. Jean was handsome as ever in a black cashmere overcoat, his thick mane cascading about his chiseled, moody face. His intense stare caused me to lower my eyes to the article Perrin had circled in irate red ink:
Drawing Room Comedies of Mlle Sarah Bernhardt, under the management of Mr. Edward Jarrett:
The répertoire of Mlle Sarah Bernhardt is composed of comedies, sketches, one-act plays and monologues, written especially for her and other artistes of the Comédie-Française. These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and can be adapted for matinées and soirées of the best society. For details and conditions, interested parties should please communicate with Mr. Edward Jarrett, Secretary of Mlle Bernhardt, at His Majesty’s Theatre.
Looking up at Perrin, I saw such antipathy that I thought for a moment he’d refuse to let me disembark. I was speechless in that moment, too, for in my rush to prepare for the voyage, I hadn’t glanced at a single newspaper, though, as Perrin confirmed, it wouldn’t have done me any good. “In the London Times.” The paper crunched in his fist. “An advertisement for the extracurricular services of a senior member of this company on the very eve of our arrival.”
I forced out a smile. “I understand others have done the same.”
“They most certainly have not,” he retorted. “Not under my management.”
“Is it forbidden?” I assumed ingenuousness, for the last thing I wanted at this hour was an altercation with him. “Are we not allowed to do as we wish in our spare time?”
“Mademoiselle Bernhardt.” The constrained fury in his voice turned my name into an indictment. “You knew very well how this would appear, as well as my sentiments regarding it. I’ll not have our engagement in London disturbed by more of your unseemly antics. It may not be stated in our contract, but rest assured, I do forbid it.”
“Then, as the advertisement says, you must address your concerns to Mr. Jarrett.” I stepped past him, feeling his stare, and those of the others, boring into my back as I sauntered to the gangplank and flung out my arms to the waiting crowd.
* * *
—
There was even a band, with discordant trumpets and cymbals. Bouquets of carnations were deposited in my arms as I paraded to the boat train with the company trudging behind me, and hordes of strangers with wind-chafed cheeks shoved playbills and shreds of paper at me, begging for my signature.
Naturally, I had to stop, smile, and sign. A stout woman in a preposterous bonnet gasped in my face in broken French, “I saw you in Paris as Zaïre, Mademoiselle Bernhardt! I wept. I barely understood the play, but I didn’t care. I wept like a babe at her death.”
“How charming.” I scrawled my name across her playbill. She clutched it to her chest as if she’d received a benediction.
“What next?” snarled Marie Colombier. “Marble busts and champagne?”
Before I mounted the train, a booming voice called out, “Incomparable One!” I turned to gaze into the crowd. A long-limbed youth in a bold purple-collared frock coat was shoving his way toward me, waving a clutch of white lilies—my favorite flower—in his hands. “Vive l’Incomparable!” he cried, and he tossed the lilies into the air, their sculpted petals showering about me as the crowd took up his chant in their atrocious accent.
The youth regarded me in adoration through heavy-lidded green eyes, his elongated Germanic features under a tousle of wavy brown hair; in response to my amused smile, he bellowed in perfect French: “Remember me. I’m your devoted slave and poet, Oscar Wilde!”
Once in the train, I collapsed onto my seat. Louise eyed me. “I expect you’re going to find many interested parties for your drawing room comedies and monologues,” she remarked, as I twitched aside the curtain at the window to catch another glimpse of that strange young poet who’d thrown lilies into the air like confetti. I’d found the gesture too extravagant, a waste of fragile beauty, but also very romantic and decidedly continental.
“I had no idea the English could be so impulsive,” I said, turning from the window in disappointment when I failed to spot him.
Louise snorted. “They’re not. Perhaps you are about to change them.”
* * *
—
London was beset by rain and smothered in an acrid fog that made my eyes burn. At Victoria Station, there was no band or cheering crowds. There was a soiled red carpet, but not for us, as we were informed by the stolid employees of the Gaiety Theatre sent to escort the company to the hotel. The carpet had been laid out for Their Royal Highnesses of Wales, who’d just departed on a trip to France, of all places.
“Departed?” I echoed in dismay, before Perrin could utter a word. “But we’ve only just arrived. Won’t Their Royal Highnesses be attending our premiere?”
“I’m afraid not. His Grace the Duke of Connaught will attend in their absence,” replied one of the escorts, as if I had any concept who this duke was. “But Their Highnesses will return in time to see you perform, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. His Highness Prince Edward made himself clear on that account.”
More unpleasant surprises were in store. The company had rooms in the assigned hotel, but Mr. Hollingshead, managing director of the Gaiety, had rented me a furnished private residence in Chester Square, at Mr. Jarrett’s expense.
“Why should she have a residence?” Marie turned in outrage to Perrin. She’d adopted Madame Nathalie’s deprecation for the trip, as Madame, citing her advanced age and inability to digest foreign food, had refused to join us. To emphasize her displeasure, she’d also announced her retirement.
Perrin had to swallow his own outrage. “We are a company,” he said, to no one in particular, as the employees of the Gaiety could hardly be blamed. “I don’t see why such a separation is necessary.” But it was unthinkable to refuse the offer, so he and the others had to proceed to the hotel while Caroline, Louise, and I took a hansom to Chester Square, a fashionable district with a gated green that did not relieve the abrupt plunge in my spirits.
Caroline set herself to helping the waiting staff unpack and set our belongings in place as I drifted through the lavish townhouse, which, despite all the visible comforts of home, felt alien and oppressive to me. All of a sudden, with a longing akin to despair, I missed the chaos of my own house, of my Maurice, Madame G., and our animals.
Pausing in a sumptuous parlor where vases of roses overflowed every table and sideboard, bearing bonne chance notes from my friends in Paris and invitations from English admirers I’d never heard of—except for Sir Henry Irving, Britain’s foremost actor, who wrote that he was arranging a private soirée for me, where I’d not be required to recite a single word—the weight of what I’d undertaken fell upon me, every bouquet and good luck note like an omen of impending doom.
“What if they hate me?” I turned to Louise, who dangled an unlit cigarette in her hand, as if she wondered whether it was permissible in England to smoke indoors.
“Hate you? You heard your devoted poet. You are their Incomparable One. You could go onstage and do nothing, and they’ll applaud as if you recited Racine’s entire oeuvre.”
“No.” I reached for her hand. “What if I cannot deliver what they expect? It’s too much; they expect too much of me. You saw Perrin’s expression at the station, he’d dispatch me back to Paris this instant if he could. It’s obvious no one will be coming to the Gaiety to see the company.”
“And that surprises you?” She waved her hand impatiently. “Sarah, just do what you do best: perform. Judging by what I’ve seen today, you haven’t forgotten how.”
* * *
—
Monsieur Jarrett arrived that evening, wearing an extremely well-tailored gray wool suit, his silvery
hair slicked to his scalp. As he removed his overcoat and opened his satchel, I started to rebuke him over his cavalier assumption that I’d agree to his terms, until he showed me the three-page list of those requesting my presence in their drawing rooms.
“Impossible,” I said, perusing in disbelief the over forty unfamiliar names with unfamiliar yet impressive titles. “How can I perform my scheduled program and all this?”
“I did promise you a small fortune. All of London is eager to receive you. It’s very unusual for a player to be welcomed thus by society. Your name precedes you, but players here are only starting to gain acceptance, thanks to His Highness of Wales’s passion for the theater—”
“His passion for actresses, you mean,” I said. “I’m aware of his predilection.”
“Be that as it may, these invitations represent the highest echelon of British society. You’d do well to accept every one, if you wish to pursue your current course.”
“My current course?” I set the list aside. “Whatever course might that be?”
He gave me one of his rare smiles; I’d begun to deduce he did not smile often, unless there was significant profit involved. “To leave the Française, of course,” he said in his matter-of-fact way, another trait I found disconcerting.
“I never said anything about leaving,” I exclaimed, as taken aback by his presumption as by his perceptiveness, for I hadn’t admitted as much to myself.
“You don’t need to. I was informed of your reception at Folkestone.”
“For which I can assume we have you to thank. Not to mention the advertisement in the Times, followed by this mansion for me and the hotel for them.”
“I assure you, the reception in Folkestone wasn’t my doing. This house, on the other hand, is necessary. You have important engagements to fulfill that require privacy.” He took out a sheaf of paper and pen. “You are destined to become the most celebrated actress of our age. Monsieur Perrin will not abide it. The only idol he can tolerate is one he creates, and she must be beholden forever to the Comédie. It’s a matter of survival for him. Is that agreeable to you?”
I regarded the pen and paper he extended between us. “Yet if I sign this…”
“You’ll be taking charge of your future. I will manage everything; it’s what the terms of this contract and my commensurate fees dictate.”
“Why me?” I searched his face. He was one of the few men whose emotions eluded me, making me uncomfortable, even if I was certain he wasn’t a liar or fraud.
“Because there is no other like you.” His voice softened. “You cannot bring yourself to believe it yet, but you will in time. Should we fail to find mutual accord, I will not oblige you. You are free to void our contract.”
As I still hesitated, he added, “I can make you very wealthy. You can provide for everyone in your family. For your son. You can perform whatever you like, however you like. Institutions like the Comédie will always serve a purpose, but not for you.”
Before I could persuade myself otherwise, I took the pen and signed in furtive haste, as if I were engaging in a shameful act, knowing Perrin would indeed never abide it.
This time, as he let the ink dry, Jarrett’s smile was almost warm. “I promise, we are about to embark on an extremely lucrative partnership, Mademoiselle Bernhardt.”
* * *
Opening night at the Gaiety made a mockery of the theater’s name; it had all the solemnity one might expect from the Comédie-Française, punctuated by Perrin’s demand that the bust of Molière, which he’d had transported in a felt-lined crate, be placed onstage opposite one of Shakespeare, with the entire company assembled between the deified dead lions in full costume from our various roles.
The company dean began the evening by reciting an interminable poem composed especially for the event, after which, amidst a leaden silence broken only by the ruffling of fans and playbills—it was sweltering inside the theater, June in England apparently consisting of ceaseless damp and rain—the first performance commenced.
I fled into my dressing room, as much to avoid the cold regard of my fellow players—Marie had wasted no time inciting resentment over my preferential treatment—as to evade the polite boredom emanating from our British audience. Perrin had assigned me the scene from Phaedra when she accosts her stepson; as I touched up my white ceruse makeup while Samson delivered a monologue onstage from Voltaire’s Brutus, in its original archaic French, I felt le trac rising to choke me.
As always, when I’d either pinned too much hope on a role or had too little confidence, it surged in me like a curse, constricting my throat until I could barely draw in any air, much less draw a full breath.
I was still fighting back my nausea as I took my place in the wings for my entrance; I’d been scheduled for the second hour, giving enough time to build anticipation for my entrance and for me to succumb to terror. Wild thoughts of dashing from the Gaiety into the night, of walking all the way to Folkestone to board the first ferry back to France, tumbled through my mind. I’d rather be accused of irresponsible temperamentality than confront what by now must be an exhausted and thoroughly perplexed audience, subjected to Samson’s funereal intonation as he recited a role written for an actor thirty years younger than he was, arrayed in a musty costume a hundred years older than anyone alive.
It was a calamity. I knew it as surely as I was biting back the urge to vomit. We were going to be yawned out of London on our very first night.
Then Jean stepped to my side. Since the end of our affair, he had maintained an impenetrable distance. His fingers now grazed my bare arm, so warm against my chilled flesh, and he murmured, “You mustn’t let them dissuade you.”
I almost burst into tears. “How can I not? Can’t you feel it? We are boring them to death. They don’t understand a word of what we’re reciting, and—”
“I’m not referring to the audience.” His hand tightened on my arm.
I braved a look at him, afraid of what I might find. His refusal to acknowledge my presence all these months, after the volcanic passion we’d shared, had hurt me more than I’d dared admit. How could anyone love me as much as he’d claimed, then despise me with equal intensity? Though I understood his feelings were twin sides of the same coin, other than Marie and Madame Nathalie, I thought he must yearn most to see me brought as low as he thought I had brought him when I refused his proposal.
Instead, I found only stoic determination on his face.
“Everyone is here to see you,” he said. “Remember what you once told me: We must never disappoint. No matter what, we must give our best performance.”
“Jean…” I whispered.
He released me. “Show them who you are.”
I followed him out, blinded by the footlights—Perrin had opted for glaring realism instead of muting the flames for mystery—drifting like a whisper in my white robe. Another mistake, I thought; I should have chosen any other color than one that reduced me to spectral fragility. I felt as if I might disintegrate into a pile of evanescent cloth as the scene began.
My tongue stumbled over lines I’d recited hundreds of times before. I heard my voice crack, and though I tried to focus on Jean, to absorb his Hippolyte’s revulsion at Phaedra’s frantic avowal and play into it, he grew indistinct, his own lines issuing with a power that seemed to batter the eaves, chipping at my eroding composure.
I didn’t feel myself faint. Darkness simply overcame me, and the last thing I heard were the gasps of the audience as the curtain fell. When I came to, Jean was holding me in his arms. He was smiling. Acid surged in my throat. He’d had his revenge at last.
“Up, up!” hissed Perrin, for tonight he’d planted himself backstage like an avenging conductor. “To your feet at once.”
As the company hastened to their places in line of precedence, headed by Samson in his sweat-drenched ancien régime costume, Jean
supported me around the waist.
The curtain lifted for our call. Blinking in the glare, it was only then that I realized beyond that wall of light, the audience was standing, their applause ricocheting in my ears.
“Sarah! Sarah!”
My name. They were crying out my name.
I
“‘It would require some ingenuity to give an idea of the intensity, the ecstasy, the insanity, as some people might say, of the curiosity and enthusiasm provoked by Mademoiselle Bernhardt.’ ” Upon translating the notice in his fluent French, my devoted poet flung the London Times aside in a gesture as flamboyant as the one he’d made in Folkestone. “Utter tripe. How can any respectable newspaper publish a man with such a limited vocabulary? He’s turned the performance of a lifetime into a rheumatic complaint. My poem to you is far more in keeping with your incandescent spirit.”
I smiled at him from my divan, reclined over scones, tea, and flattery, unopened offers to dinner and other ventures piled up on my side table.
“Your poem is certainly more in keeping with how I prefer to see myself,” I said, enjoying his self-indulgent scowl. His long-limbed body, which should have been clumsy yet he managed to make supple, was arrayed in an emerald-green velvet frock coat; the red-satin-lined opera cape he had worn here in midday was tossed over a chair.
Oscar Wilde had not awaited my invitation. He’d been in the audience at the Gaiety on opening night; even as critical praise was heaped upon me for a performance that had been a disaster—my missed lines not seen as missed at all because who cared what I said in French, my stumbling delivery interpreted as the epitome of Phaedra’s delusion, my swooning at the end deemed the most devastating example of Gallic tragedy that Britain had ever witnessed, rather than the Gallic talent’s horror at her own ineptitude—my poet elected to ignore the prerequisites and storm my house with armfuls of lilies (this time, I insisted on a vase), avowing eternal homage at my feet.
The First Actress Page 36