The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  Louise took one look at him, rolled her eyes, and trudged upstairs to paint.

  Oscar now exhaled an exasperated breath. “Yet the Times somehow saw fit to publish my poem on their editorial page and allotted that tedious American an entire column.”

  “Henry James is a rather famous American, is he not?” I said. “I understand he’s published several novels.” Not that I could cite a single title, let alone claim I’d read one.

  Oscar sniffed. “I’m a far better writer.” Humility was anathema to him, which I could appreciate. I also had no illusion that his homage toward me was altruistic; a journalist by trade, he aspired to wide recognition, cleverly befriending the most influential in current cultural and artistic circles. He’d already informed me that once he completed work on his first novel, he intended to write a play for me, a sordid recounting of Salome. He’d created plenty of sordid scandal already from what I had heard, though not yet past his thirtieth year, with his defiance of expected attire and his scathing opinion pieces on the arts, published in the newspapers, skewering anyone who failed to meet his standards—which was nearly everyone.

  Oh yes, he was decidedly continental. He spoke several languages, had lived in Paris for a time, and even traveled to America. Not at all what a British gentleman ought to be.

  All of which I found delightful.

  “Come.” I beckoned him. “Stop pouting and help me sort through these impossible invitations. I don’t have the faintest idea who any of these people are.”

  With elfin-like glee, he tore into the pile. “Frightful bores. Except for Miss Terry and Henry Irving, everyone here promises to put your incomparable self into a stupor. They’ve been dousing Mayfair in conversational laudanum for centuries.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Jarrett insists. He says these are my incomparable entrées into the highest echelons of tedium. So, whom shall I allow to put me into a stupor first?”

  He gave a dramatic pause, his finger tugging at his lips as if he were pondering. I knew he wasn’t considering anything other than his own interests, as he confirmed: “If you must accept every one of these engagements, you’ll need a proper British escort, who can also act as your translator. Your command of our language is beyond appalling.”

  I passed my gaze over him.

  “I can be proper,” he said at my unvoiced insinuation. “More proper, in any event, than your Mr. Jarrett from the United States. A foreign impresario.” He enunciated the word with an exaggerated shudder. “My lady Dudley has invited you to tea and a jaunt in Hyde Park; she would never permit a man of such low station, from a former colony no less, to mount one of her purebred mares.”

  “But she’d allow you?” I couldn’t repress my smile. I was certain she’d rather not, but the thought of appearing with him in his velvets in elite drawing rooms was irresistible. If I must undertake this exercise in pursuit of my present course, I needn’t be too bored.

  “If you say nothing in advance,” he said, “how can she refuse?” As he spoke, he opened one of the larger thick cream-paper envelopes. He went still. “HRH Prince Edward of Wales requests Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt’s attendance at—” He let out an uproarious laugh. “Our quim-whisker prince has invited you to a midnight supper at la maison de Rothschild.”

  “Is that what he’s called?” I’d heard plenty of salacious talk about Bertie of Wales, but not this particular nickname.

  Oscar set his hand on his hip. “It’s what I call him. Must I explain?”

  I smiled. “I believe I understand.”

  “Even if his long-suffering spouse, Princess Alexandra, does not. Nor his venerable forever-in-mourning mama, our beloved and most tedious Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

  “Will she be there?” The possibility startled me. “The queen herself…what on earth does one wear to such an occasion?”

  Oscar waved the embossed invitation about him as if to dispel an offensive odor. “Her Majesty will most certainly not be there. You may have enchanted London, but you’re still an actress. But everyone else who is anyone will attend—which is why you must bring me with you. Or I shall chastise you in my next article for your heinous disregard of our English dressmakers.” His eyes narrowed at my silence. “Or do you fear I might embarrass you before His Royal Highness?”

  “I hardly care.” I laughed. Embarrassment in England seemed rather improbable, considering how everyone thought my premiere at the Gaiety had been superb.

  “I will ensure you are received as your incandescent spirit deserves,” he declared, with the grandiosity of an imperial official. “You must therefore reply at once that Mademoiselle Bernhardt would be honored to accept His Highness’s invitation. And allow me to see to your attire. I know my royals. Moderation is a fatal thing. To them, nothing succeeds like excess.”

  * * *

  In between my performances at the Gaiety and recitals in exclusive abodes, Oscar lured me to Charles Frederick Worth’s establishment in London. My poet had an unerring eye for fashion, and utter disregard for its cost. After ordering an entirely unsuitable custom-made white silk suit with trousers for working in my studio, which caused a fuss—“White silk, to paint in?” exclaimed Mr. Worth—I was obliged to then order several day dresses, as well as an evening gown for my dinner at the Rothschild estate, though I thought Worth’s gowns fussy and unimaginative. When I mentioned this to Oscar, he laughed. “You’ve just described England. Seeing as there’s nothing fussy or unimaginative about you, you will lend his dresses the qualities they so sorely lack.”

  I also ordered a gown in dark blue silk for Louise, obliging her to attend a fitting, which didn’t please her in the slightest.

  Oscar indeed proved to be the ideal companion. His fluency in French and English helped me navigate the interminable receptions I had to attend, followed by the recitals I was obliged to deliver. He was amusing without harboring ulterior motives—whatever motives he had, he stated out loud—though he reveled in exciting attention with his wit, which bordered on the insulting without ever quite being so. Most of the ladies naturally flocked to his charm, while most of the gentlemen regarded him askance, as if they weren’t sure whether to let him alone or hunt him down like one of their foxes.

  “He’s quite impossible,” remarked the actress Ellen Terry, at the soirée that she and her lover Sir Henry Irving arranged in my honor. She spoke fluent French, to my relief, as I had made no effort to learn any English. “How ever did you come across him, Sarah?”

  An auburn-haired woman with enviable cheekbones and an English-rose complexion, she seemed bred for afternoon tea. Not at all what I expected of an actress who’d become the most renowned in London for her Lady Macbeth, but I soon discovered her persona was deceiving, for like all of us who toiled on the stage, she had an avid ear and tongue for gossip.

  “He found me,” I said. “He bathed me in lilies. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  She leaned to me. “You might have a care, Sarah, where he is concerned. He has a reputation. Greek affairs—rather the scandal, as I recall.”

  I smiled, watching Oscar saunter through the room, bestowing his feline smile, his fingers stroking his wineglass stem as if he were transmitting a secret code. “I admire him for it. He refuses to be anything but himself.”

  “Be that as it may, he is still married, with a child,” said Ellen, without any perceptible judgment that I could discern. She was merely stating a fact.

  “Is it so unusual here?” I asked. “Surely not. Men like him abound in Paris, particularly in our profession.”

  “London isn’t Paris, as you have seen. We still have censorship laws here, restricting what we can perform. You need only look at the turmoil you’ve created, with all these claims that you parade about in trousers in the company of a decadent Irish dilettante and a female painter of equally uncertain disposition, smoking cigars on your terrace at Ches
ter Square and fencing at midnight on the green.”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s absurd! I don’t smoke. And I don’t know how to fence, though perhaps I should learn.”

  She smiled. “Evidently, you also don’t read our periodicals.”

  “They’re in English,” I reminded her.

  “Ah. But they’re reporting much the same in France.” She paused, her smile faltering as she took in my expression. “Sarah, didn’t you know? I regret to tell you this, but in Paris, they’re saying you are unpatriotic for consorting with foreigners, among other unsavory accusations.”

  “Unsavory?” I suddenly felt drenched in ice. “Such as…?”

  She let out a sigh. “I don’t wish to spoil our evening. Suffice to say, we don’t believe a word of it. It’s not considered avarice here to recite in private, given our paltry theatrical earnings. None of us prefers to starve for our art.”

  I had to nod, even as anger simmered inside me. I’d paid no attention to what was being printed about me, unless Oscar mentioned it, as he often did, bringing me excerpts of the notices from my latest performance at the Gaiety so we could revel in “the execrable prose of writers who should only be permitted to review a washerwoman’s hose.” We’d laughed over the hyperbole, reading it aloud as if it were a comedic play, but he’d never cited any criticism, though he must have seen it, since he scoured the newspapers on a daily basis for items to exploit.

  Ellen reached for my hand. “You mustn’t pay it any mind. You’re a sensation, invited to dine by His Highness. It’s envy. We don’t want to admit that men like Oscar Wilde exist nor that we harbor resentment for those who aren’t British, but as we both know, men like Oscar do exist and many here resent the French. It’s always been thus: You have Voltaire and Hugo. We have Shakespeare and Byron. A constant battle to prove who is superior.”

  “You also have an empire,” I retorted. “We lost ours.”

  She laughed. “Indeed. We still have that much in our favor.”

  I came to my feet. I’d chosen one of my Doucet gowns for tonight—stark black velvet, with a high gauze neckline and Chinese-silk scallops down the side and about its frothy hem, with elbow-length leather gloves and my untidy chignon to highlight its unusual design. No woman wore anything like it, as I’d noted by the appraising looks when I’d first entered the townhouse, where Sir Henry had gathered the luminaries of the British stage to meet me.

  Now, all eyes turned again to me as I called out, “My poet!” and Oscar bounded to me with a grin that betrayed he’d imbued enough wine to be primed for mischief. “Shall we recite for this marvelous assembly?” I said, my voice loud enough to carry.

  Sir Henry immediately protested. “Sarah, it’s not necessary. You are our guest tonight. You must be exhausted from the Gaiety and all the recitals you’ve already—”

  “I wish to do so.” I cast a warm smile in his direction. He was very handsome, with his thick, well-groomed beard and expressive features. And like Ellen, he had no pretension despite his success; they suited each other perfectly. “I’m so moved by this occasion.”

  As Sir Henry stepped forth to accompany me, I said, “Oscar and I shall perform a scene and poem, a recital in dual languages to celebrate friendship between our nations.”

  Oscar clasped my hand in his, his voice lowering as he said to me, “Which poem?”

  “The one you composed for me,” I replied. “I shall recite from Zaïre, when she’s unjustly accused of betrayal.”

  Once Oscar had declaimed his English verses in a voice made for the stage (he would have made a magnificent actor), I delivered in French my plea of innocence. We’d never rehearsed together, though we’d had plenty of practice with my notices; and it was, in my opinion, the best performance I’d given thus far in England. When we were finished, the silence in the drawing room was taut. Then Ellen began to applaud; at her cue, the others followed suit, even as Henry Irving’s pained look betrayed that he knew what had motivated my impromptu delivery.

  Oscar executed a sweeping bow. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, his voice thick with emotion, “I give unto you the Incomparable Sarah Bernhardt.”

  I did not curtsy. I made no gesture of obeisance. I kept my gaze fixed on these people who must have already read what I hadn’t. Let everyone here report that Mademoiselle Bernhardt refused to display anything but supreme confidence in her abilities.

  While I plotted my revenge.

  II

  “Who is it?” I stood before Jarrett in his office, my newly purchased copies of Le Monde and Figaro flung onto his desk. “Who is telling such intolerable lies about me?”

  To his credit, Jarrett didn’t immediately try to placate me. But then, he’d never seen me in a temper before and his French was somewhat limited, so he may have needed a moment to digest my outrage.

  Then he said, “Sarah, this isn’t unexpected. Your name at the Gaiety is the company’s sole draw; when you’re not on the playbill, their receipts drop by half.” He paused. “You also cannot be unaware that Mr. Wilde is not considered a suitable companion.”

  “He suits me.” I’d already confronted my poet earlier, demanding to know why he’d kept such vicious rumors from me; breaking into tears, Oscar swore he only sought to protect me. “How dare they judge me on the company I keep? And how dare my own countrymen denounce me for doing what every actress in my position has done? You told me that these recitals would not impede. How is this not impeding?”

  “It is only impeding your standing in Paris.” He raised a hand to stifle my outrage. “Sarah, I have it on good authority that Sarcey is responsible for the criticism. I had a luncheon with Mr. Hollingshead of the Gaiety last week and he expressed disappointment in the Comédie. Perrin’s choice of repertoire is antiquated; were it not for you, their engagement would be a disaster. Sarcey has come to London to support the Comédie. He’s offering paid lectures and writing in his column on the superiority of French theater—”

  “He’s always been enamored of the superiority of his own opinion,” I cut in. “Like every critic.”

  “Well, his opinion isn’t doing you any favors. He knows your recitals are garnering more profit than the Comédie stands to earn in their entire run here. It’s precisely what Ellen Terry told you: they are envious of your success and seek to tarnish it.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “How can calling me a traitor and a Jewish opportunist,” I seethed, quoting one of the vile commentaries in Le Monde that I’d made myself read, “tarnish anything but the very company that hired me, which I now represent as a senior sociétaire?”

  He sighed. “In my experience, envy rarely conforms to reason.”

  I thrust my hand into my bag, yanking out a sheet of paper. “I’ve written a rebuttal. I want it transmitted to the newspapers, both here and in Paris. Oscar has done me the favor of translating it into English.”

  He lowered his eyes to my letter, tear-stained by Oscar, who’d taken my dictation as I’d stormed about my residence parlor. “I will not let myself be defamed,” I added.

  To my surprise, he gave assent. I’d expected more of an argument.

  “Very well,” he said. “But might I suggest a delay until after your dinner with His Highness?”

  “Why?” At this point, I wasn’t sure if I cared to dine with the prince or anyone else.

  “Because his influence can do more to stifle this controversy than any rebuttal. Should the Prince of Wales come out in your defense, all of London will be yours.”

  “I thought London was already mine. And that’s why they envy me.”

  He actually had the temerity to smile. “With Bertie of Wales in the royal box at the Gaiety, you can be assured of unquestioned vindication.”

  * * *

  When I descended the staircase of my residence on the evening of the Rothschild dinner, Osc
ar arched his eyebrow at me from the foyer. He wore black tails and his opera cape; behind me, encased in her new Worth dress, Louise yanked at the bodice’s low cut and grumbled, “Am I required to display my entire bosom to His Highness?”

  “I have it on excellent authority that His Highness would prefer it,” said Oscar. He kept his gaze on me. “I see no such worries on your account. Did your new gown not fit?”

  “Like a shroud.” I swept past him to the waiting carriage in my ivory-lace Doucet, as high-necked and unembellished as the gown I’d worn to Henry Irving’s soirée. “The Rothschilds are French. This gown is French. I am French.”

  Oscar gave a resounding clap of his hands. “Vive la France!”

  Louise scowled at him. “Must you behave as if everything is a farce?”

  “Isn’t it?” he replied.

  The Rothschilds’ London townhouse was a mansion, replete with stained-glass windows that might have adorned the Sainte-Chapelle. Carriages lined the entire roadway to the entry, where footmen escorted guests into the gaslit three-story house.

  “How garish,” muttered Louise under her breath.

  “Chin up,” I told her. “Smile. Tonight, we are in France.”

  She might have scoffed had we been alone. She’d declared my pillorying in the newspapers meaningless, with her habitual indifference. She truly had no care for what anyone said or thought, but then she came from money, and those with money often didn’t need to care.

  As for me, I didn’t know what to expect. By now articles of my alleged misdeeds were a daily event, each story more ludicrous than the last. I’d submitted to Jarrett’s request to delay my rebuttal, but the hasty cancellation of several of my recitals warned us both that Sarcey’s pen was accomplishing its venomous work. In retaliation, I’d canceled a Saturday matinée at the Gaiety, claiming illness. Perrin had to replace me with Marie and the attendees swarmed the ticket office to demand refunds. He sent me a curt note that any further absences would not be tolerated. I wanted to submit my resignation from the Comédie, having had enough of Perrin and threats, but Jarrett once more forestalled me. This was not the time for such a move, he advised.