The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  It was her sole defense against a life she couldn’t understand. Unlike me, my sister had not found any outlet for the pain and grief inside her.

  “You’ll never abandon me, will you?” she whispered. “You won’t send me away, as she did to you?”

  “Never.” I embraced her, pulling her taut body against mine, feeling every bone under her skin as if I held a captive bird. “I promise,” I said, my voice thick with tears.

  She clung to me. Against my chest, I heard her say, “I’m never afraid when I am with you, Sarah. I’m always afraid when I am not.”

  I understood then that she was as much my child as Maurice was. She had only me to safeguard her, to guide her past the chasm of Julie’s indifference, toward a future she might make her own, if she discovered the will to do so.

  I wasn’t certain if she would. But while she had me, my sister must never fear again.

  VI

  “What do you think?” I said as Duquesnel finished reading and set down the play. Christmas had ended, and I’d eagerly come to the Odéon to find him bleary-eyed from the festivities, facing a stack of overdue invoices left on his desk by de Chilly to review.

  “You say Marie’s lover, that mousy clerk, wrote this?” he asked. When I nodded, he gave a wry chuckle. “Who would have thought? The man stamps papers at the Ministry of War for a living.” He had read it very quickly, and judging by his slight grimace as he’d done so, I suspected he didn’t share my opinion of it.

  I leaned to him, stroking a lock of his fair hair back from his brow. We hadn’t been together during the holidays, and I hoped my gesture conveyed enough seduction to soften the doubtful look on his face. “I think it can be a success. Love duets have such popular appeal, and it’s only two acts, so it’s perfect to inaugurate the charity benefit. A simple production. Two characters, one set. Marie Agar and I can provide our own costumes, and use whatever props we have here. It won’t cost any money.”

  “Sarah, it’s the theater. Everything costs money.” He tapped his finger on the sheaf, his expression perplexed. “While our benefit is for charity, it precedes the opening of our season, so we must present a notable repertoire. No one knows who this Coppée is.”

  “Not according to Marie. She tells me he has numerous literary contacts and has already published a well-received volume of poetry. The staging of his first play will bring his friends to the house, which won’t be bad for business. And you need something fresh to open the benefit. Don’t you always inaugurate it with a new work?”

  He leaned back in his chair to evade my caress, for he was no fool. “Unfortunately, I do need something. De Chilly has left it up to me, as usual. He doesn’t countenance these benefits, claiming we should only hold ones that actually benefit us—though we can’t ignore our civic duty. We receive government sponsorship and must contribute our share in return.” He grimaced. “I optioned another work, but the writer is a drunk and claims he needs extra time to revise it. With our benefit less than three weeks away.”

  “Then the timing is perfect. This play is finished and has such unique charm—”

  “Not to mention a unique character for you to stake your claim to before anyone else.”

  “Why, yes. It’s not been staged.”

  Duquesnel eyed me. “All our wealthiest patrons will attend. I should think you’d be eager to perform something”—his fingers tapped the play again—“less inconsequential.”

  “I have a good feeling about it,” I replied. “I can’t explain why.”

  “Neither can I. It’s not Hugo or Dumas, but under the circumstances, we have no other choice. I’m not about to issue another advertisement for new playwrights.” Before I could declare my excitement, he added, “Nevertheless, I must consult with de Chilly first; I’m in no temper for another scolding. He might not wish to be bothered by the details, but if he dislikes what I select, I’m the one who must hear about it.”

  Seeing as I’d been the one to bring the play to Duquesnel’s attention, de Chilly had to make an acerbic comment about allowing me more liberty than any player should be allowed. But with the other play unfinished and the upcoming season to oversee, he gave terse consent to opening the benefit with Le Passant, providing we saw to our own costumes and set décor.

  With so little time to prepare, Marie Agar and I went to work. I paid out more than I should have for a custom-made doublet; I wasn’t broad in the hips, so I could wear hose, but the doublet must be authentic. After poring over research books, I found an illustration of one in the fifteenth-century Florentine style, with white-satin slashing and dagged sleeves in crimson velvet, and a tailor willing to create it in the allotted time.

  On January 14, 1869, our charity benefit opened to a full house. The annual benefit brought out the best in society, so that along with a beaming Coppée, Dumas and George Sand were also in attendance. None of us were prepared, however, for when de Chilly burst into our dressing room in a panic, exclaiming, “Her Highness Princess Matilde is here tonight, with several ladies of her court!”

  “His Imperial Majesty’s sister, no less,” remarked Marie Agar to me, as de Chilly blustered out again, barking orders at the stagehands. “Oh, Sarah—the princess herself is about to see our little play. My darling Coppée must be a bundle of nerves.”

  I could see she herself wasn’t the least bit nervous. Dressed in a Renaissance gown from another production, she was delighted to be the center of attention. Her skill as a tragedienne had made her a staple in the company, but with the passing of years she’d been relegated to secondary roles. Tonight she was again the lead, in a part written to exalt her talents.

  Except now, I must overshadow her with my own talent. With the emperor’s sister in the audience, I had to steal the show.

  We went to assume our places. In the wings, I adjusted my shorn hair under my cap. I’d experimented with various ill-fitting wigs until, in a fit of pique, I took a pair of scissors to my mane, shearing it to a shoulder-length page-boy cut. Duquesnel was horrified, but Marie Agar proclaimed it “enchanting,” mollifying my dismay at my impulsiveness. I greased it enough to subdue its frizz, and in my new doublet and tights, I felt boyishly lithe.

  The curtain lifted to tepid applause and the distinct murmur of ongoing conversation. Because the benefit opening always featured a new work, not a venerated classic, no one present expected much. Thinking I might have erred in my enthusiasm, I felt anxiety surge in my veins as Marie began her soliloquy in her rich, vintage voice and I awaited my entrance.

  “ ‘Commend me to summer nights,’ ” I sang out, striding onto the stage with a lute in my hand. “ ‘For travel far and wide. A modest supper, such as hazard may provide, beneath an arbor set aglow by sinking sun…’ ”

  I heard the sudden silence as the lure of the verse and Italian setting captured the audience’s jaded attention. Too much plum pudding and seasonal cheer had made our Parisians maudlin; they were, as I’d hoped, ripe for this ditty that didn’t require any effort on their part.

  I had decided to put my instinct to the test. This was unlike my previous performances, as none, save for an unexpectedly absent chorus, had provided me the opportunity. My other roles had been weighted by significance, penned by celebrated playwrights and performed countless times before, but this part was new, and one I might make entirely mine. Avoiding the overt deep tonality and broad gesticulations that characterized a woman in a male part, I imbued my troubadour with a silken voice, feline gait, and deliberate sensuality. I knew my naturalistic approach might come across as inept, even ludicrous. An actress playing a man wasn’t novel, but an actress obscuring her femininity in the part was. No actress wanted to look like a man while in a male role; they always exaggerated masculine traits to render them unrealistic, so their innate womanhood would shine through. I wanted to play Zanetto as a conniving youth fully aware of his beauty, who knows exactly
how to captivate his hapless, older conquest.

  And it worked. Before the curtain fell and the silence was shattered by a roar of applause, I knew whom it was I had truly seduced.

  We took four curtain calls before we had to remove ourselves for the next performance. De Chilly exulted backstage that he’d known all along it would be a success; I refrained from reminding him that, as usual, he took credit where none was due. I was too elated to care. I’d not missed a single line. Zanetto had flowed out of me as if I’d been born to play the part. A troubadour created by a minor poet had proven what I could do.

  Le Passant became an overnight sensation. The critics heralded its unassuming appeal, and my tremendous appeal in it, with de Chilly establishing it as a paid venue for the house. Tickets sold out weeks in advance as word spread. I didn’t miss a single one of the 140 performances, not even after an impromptu conflagration from an errant candle ravaged my cottage, obliging me to seek a flat in the same suburb. I mourned the loss of my turtles—my son, sister, dogs, and parrot escaped, saved by Caroline—but I still went to work every night.

  And Princess Matilde was so taken by the play that she eventually sent us an invitation to perform it for the emperor himself at the Tuileries Palace.

  We waited for hours in the appointed hall while a reception for visiting dignitaries was held elsewhere. Marie was now beside herself with apprehension. I directed my nervous energy into my obeisance, practicing it over and over until Marie gasped under her breath, “Sarah,” and I looked up to find Emperor Napoleon III striding toward us.

  “I believe I liked the third curtsy best, mademoiselle,” he said—a short, rather fat man with ginger-hued mustachios, a forked beard, and a receded hairline, clad in a formal blue uniform with a medal-bedecked sash. Behind him trailed a line of courtiers and his Spanish-born empress, Eugénie, all done up in ringlets and flounces. Rumor was that Louis-Napoléon had once romanced my idol Rachel; his watery blue eyes now gleamed lasciviously as Marie and I curtsied and went to the cloth-draped dais prepared as our stage.

  After our performance, he congratulated us with unabashed enthusiasm. I didn’t know the truth about his alleged liaison with Rachel, but I saw his empress turn away as he breathed in my ear, “My sister was right, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. You are indeed a rare talent.” He lowered his voice, and his gaze, to my hose-sheathed thighs. “Were I not otherwise occupied, I might ask to see more of your exquisite charms.”

  On our carriage ride back, Marie Agar laughed. “You enchanted him! Did you see how he looked at you? Mon Dieu, the empress herself didn’t fail to notice. You could be his lover, Sarah. Imagine the scandal. You’d certainly become Rachel’s successor then.”

  I smiled. Dear Marie. Unlike her namesake, Marie Colombier, she’d not begrudged me a moment of adulation. I adored her for her selfless, and decidedly unthespian, ability to set aside her waning ambitions to see mine fulfilled. Of course, she’d reaped benefits, too, about to retire on a high note, yet she seemed genuinely pleased by my disproportionate success, which had indeed overshadowed hers.

  “No doubt he says the same to every actress,” I replied. “He’s a Bonaparte, after all.”

  “Perhaps. But he did not try to seduce me.”

  The next day, our gallant emperor sent gifts—a bejeweled brooch for me, embedded with so many diamonds spelling out his initials that had I ever need to pawn it, the proceeds would keep me debt-free for years. Marie received an exquisite rope of black pearls. Within days, the newspapers were peppered with salacious innuendo that Louis-Napoléon had commanded me to court for a reprisal of my performance—in his bedchamber, no less.

  Nonsense, of course, but nonsense that Duquesnel wasted no time in turning to our advantage. He had no compunction dropping hints to critics and journalists that I now shared my favors at court, not if it would fill our seats. As for me, I reveled in the attention. I’d worked hard for it, and now I wanted to savor every moment of it. What was the harm in being touted as the latest imperial paramour, of whom Louis-Napoléon had dozens? Gossip sold tickets, and with de Chilly’s approval, Duquesnel prepared a roster of leading roles for me, under an extended four-year contract.

  I was now earning enough to hire a cook to assist Caroline. I also reestablished my artistic salon. As the Odéon’s newly minted lead actress, I must live up to the role. Rehearsals and performances took up most of my time, but after-work hours were devoted to my soirées, where I could make personal contacts and coyly respond to whispered inquiries as to whether Louis-Napoléon’s prowess in bed was as tireless as rumor had it.

  I threw myself into my work and my life, unaware that both were about to be eclipsed by tragedy.

  VII

  It started with Otto von Bismarck, the portly statesman appointed minister president of Prussia by King Wilhelm I. Upon uniting the fractious German states, Bismarck had rattled his saber over Austria and stirred up persistent talk of conflict with France.

  I paid the disquiet no mind. I was about to perform in a new comedic play written exclusively for me by George Sand, titled L’Autre. The role promised another success, if I could get it right. Extra rehearsals were mandated by Duquesnel, who invested significant advance publicity in Madame Sand’s play. Although she declined to impart advice or oversee rehearsals, she would of course attend the premiere. Everything must be perfect.

  When Rosine unexpectedly arrived at the Odéon, racing into the theater as I rehearsed one of my most challenging scenes, her appearance startled me. She’d never so much as come to see me perform, so I ignored her as she stood panting below the stage, staring up at me, bunching her gloves in her hands until Duquesnel remarked, “Perhaps your house is on fire again,” and motioned me to see why she was here.

  I drew her aside. “Whatever is the matter? Can’t you see I’m rehearsing?”

  She whispered frantically, “You must come with me at once. Jeanne has taken ill.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Duquesnel was frowning. “Is it so serious that it cannot wait until I’ve finished?” I said, turning back to Rosine. I had steered clear of Julie’s ploy with my sister. I knew Jeanne had attracted her first suitor at the Opéra—and it was all I wanted to know. I vowed not to interfere, showing my displeasure by not visiting my mother if I could avoid it. Until now, I had avoided it—entirely.

  “You must come.” Rosine seized my hand. “Sarah, please. Jeanne needs your help.”

  Excusing myself with the promise to return as soon as I could, I accompanied Rosine to the flat to find my mother pacing outside the bedchamber, her mauve skirts making an angry rustle, her face pinched. She turned sharply at my entrance. “Why is she here?” Julie said to Rosine. “I can’t imagine how you think Sarah can improve matters.”

  The insinuation that I’d only make matters worse alarmed me. I peeped into the bedroom to find Jeanne white as her nightgown, her hair matted with sweat as she moaned on her pillows and the maid applied compresses to her forehead.

  “What’s happened to her?” I turned back to my mother.

  Julie lifted her chin. “What else? She failed to take the necessary precautions. We all fall in love so easily, it seems, until we must deal with the consequences.”

  I went still, meeting her impervious stare. “Are you saying she’s with child?”

  “Was. She took it upon herself to be rid of it.”

  “Dear God.” My hand gripped the bedroom doorknob. “How?”

  “With herbs, I suppose. Followed by a visit to a back-alley crone.” Anger tinted Julie’s cheeks, belying her careless tone. “Had she only come to me.” She shot me a venomous look, laden with everything she’d never voiced about my own pregnancy. “It’s really so simple to avoid these complications, if one seeks the proper advice.”

  I was trembling with rage. “When did you ever give us proper advice?” I hissed at her. “We must fetch a physician th
is instant.” I started to the front door, needing to escape the flat before I completely lost control of myself and assaulted her.

  Julie cut me short. “No physician. If there’s any scandal, she’ll be ruined before she’s begun. She’s young. Healthy. She will survive this, and learn her lesson while she’s at it.”

  I drew to a halt, incredulous. “You cannot mean to let her suffer.”

  “The worst of it is done. Go back to your play,” said Julie.

  Rosine implored, “Julie, please. Sarah can pay for a discreet physician—”

  “No.” Julie stared at me, rendering me frozen with her spite. “I’ve had enough of her charity.” She spat out the word as if it left a nasty aftertaste in her mouth.

  Clenching my hands lest I actually strike her across the face, I said, “Then I will move in and care for her myself.”

  Julie flinched. “There’s no need. Rosine has overreacted, as usual. Jeanne has a fever at the moment, yes, but she’s expelled the—”

  I took a step to her, taking savage pleasure in her recoil. “I’ll have Caroline bring my pets, Maurice, and Régine. Madame Guérard is upstairs. We will stay here as long as required.” I looked past her rigid stance to Rosine, who appeared about to weep in gratitude. “I’ll need your help,” I told my aunt. “I have a play to open. And while we are here,” I added, returning my stare to my mother, “you will conduct your salon elsewhere.”

  I marched out before Julie could say another word, flinging open the front door with such force that it swung against the wall, cracking the plaster.

  I must do this for my sister, I told myself as I hailed a hansom to the theater. For Jeanne’s sake. Yet deep within, the residue of poison inside me started to drain, the last venom of my flight to Brussels leaving me at last.

  This time, my mother would indeed pay for my charity.