The First Actress

by C. W. Gortner

  The Rothschilds were devoted patrons of the theater, who’d donated to my ward during the siege, and were as oblivious to petty journalistic vendettas as any immensely wealthy family could be. But not immune, I told myself, as we entered their vast drawing room, where the assembly partook of wine and canapés before dinner. And tonight, I needed their support. Like everything I did, and much of what I’d never done, this evening could end up reported in the newspapers; I couldn’t fathom how they managed it, but journalists seemed to possess a vermin-like ability to infiltrate any occasion.

  The sudden lull in the conversation as I paused on the threshold sent a shudder through me. With my honed instinct for an audience, I sensed a quality of hesitation, as if everyone was waiting for someone else to dictate their reaction to my arrival.

  The women wore their hair in ringlets, their variety of Worth creations exposing bejeweled throats and bared shoulders. From what I could see, I’d once more succeeded in being the only one with a collar to my chin. And no jewels, which was also deliberate. The Rothschild women had jewelry unsurpassed by most queens. It was pointless to try to outshine them, not that any other lady present seemed to share my opinion.

  Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild materialized from among the crowd. An older, bald man with a trim beard and soulful gaze, slim and immaculate in his monochromatic evening wear, he greeted me with a gentility that brought tears to my eyes. He and his wife had attended my performances at the Odéon—I knew because they’d always sent a congratulatory bouquet of yellow roses backstage—but until now, we’d not met in person. Their world of international banking and staggering art collections was as inaccessible to me as mine of greasepaint and squabbles over stage lighting was to them. Yet despite the vast social divide between us, we shared a common bond: they, too, were of Jewish blood.

  “Mademoiselle Bernhardt,” said the baron, kissing my hand. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you to my home. We are such admirers of your unparalleled gifts.”

  “Monsieur le Baron.” I inclined my head, feeling tendrils of my hair already escaping the pins holding my chignon in place.

  “His Grace the Duc d’Aumale has expressed eagerness to meet you.” The baron cupped my elbow, steering me with the lifelong expertise of a consummate host past the drawing room into an adjoining scarlet-damask library. The hue of the wallpaper made me think of the linings of Oscar’s frock coats; glancing behind me, I saw I’d effectively been separated from Louise and my poet.

  The smile on my lips felt strained. I didn’t know who this duke was or why he’d be so eager to meet me, but as the baron made a slight motion toward the fireplace, I saw two men seated before it in winged armchairs. The firelight cast their faces in shifting shadows; as I wondered which one was the admiring duke, one of them came to his feet.

  I recognized him at once. His official portrait hung in the royal box at the Gaiety. In person, however, he was smaller, more rotund, of average height, dressed in a simple black tie and gray evening jacket, his egg-like pate at odds with his bushy mustachios and forked beard. He had sharp blue eyes that were startlingly youthful for someone who otherwise appeared much older. Those eyes, I thought as he neared, were his sole attraction. He didn’t require more. Eyes that appeared capable of removing one’s dress with a single glance, coupled with the inviolate power of his rank.

  “Mademoiselle, you are here at last,” said Prince Edward of Wales. “We’d begun to wonder if you were going to leave us famished and in perpetual suspense.”

  I began to curtsy, but the narrow fit of my gown—without excessive petticoats or underpinnings—constrained me. For a mortifying instant, I found myself crouched before the heir to the British throne with my knees half-bent, clumsy as a newborn foal.

  Bertie of Wales gave a throaty laugh. “Charming, as I’d supposed. Shall we?” He held out his arm. Through his sleeve, I could feel the strength in his flesh. Not muscular, but hardy—a man who enjoyed his physical pursuits. “I had dinner delayed to accommodate your tardiness.” He cast a sidelong glance at me. “I hope you like venison. I shot it myself at Windsor. Especially for you.”

  I had to smile. “I’m afraid I no longer eat meat, Your Royal Highness. A peculiarity of mine.”

  “Is that so? Well, let us hope they serve plenty of fish, too, yes?” He patted my hand on his arm. “And you must call me Bertie. No ‘royal highness’ here tonight. Consider me just another of your legions of admirers.”

  I suddenly remembered. “What of my lord the duke?” I asked, shifting my gaze to the other figure slumped in the armchair.

  “Fast asleep.” Bertie leaned to me, his mustachios prickling my ear. “No head for spirits, I’m afraid. And deaf as a stone. He’ll regret it later. I will not.”

  * * *

  —

  At dinner, he consumed his slaughtered deer with gusto, along with copious glasses of Rothschild’s vintage wine. He told me that while he loved the theater, he detested books.

  “I’ve never understood the purpose of turning the pages of someone else’s story,” he declared. “I prefer to make my own stories.” He went on to regale me with tales of his travels, fascinating me with his hunts in India on elephants and making me think of Maurice’s love for those majestic creatures. The prince also surprised me by being fully versed in my own adventures during the Prussian war—“Such a barbarous display of Teutonic rapacity,” he growled. When I explained that I’d lost my appetite for meat after the wholesale slaughter during the siege of every living creature in Paris, he nodded as if he understood my unusual abstention, though it didn’t deter him from ladling his plate with slabs of his freshly shot venison. He made no mention of his absent wife. Neither did I.

  After the ten-course dinner, during which he monopolized my attention and most of the conversation, he announced that he wished to smoke and bade me accompany him back to the library. The other guests leapt to their feet, bowing and scraping back chairs in their haste to accommodate him.

  “Such a gaggle of nobodies,” he groused as we entered the library to find the somnolent duke exactly as we’d left him. Bertie snapped open a cigarette case and extended it to me. I nearly demurred before I took one and allowed him to light it for me. I let the aromatic smoke drift uninhaled from my lips as he poured two cognacs.

  “Some might say I’m a nobody,” I remarked.

  “You?” He let out a guffaw. His face was flushed; he had eaten and drunk more than I’d ever seen a man consume in a single sitting and still remain upright. “The Incomparable One. Isn’t that how your friend the poet has christened you?”

  I sipped the cognac he handed me. “I thought you didn’t like to read,” I said.

  “Books. I don’t like to read books. Newspapers are shorter, if no less arduous.”

  I smiled. “Oscar has a propensity for exaggeration.”

  “No.” He regarded me. “He’s very peculiar, but he’s no fool. He knows an exceptional woman when he sees one.” I saw a smile tease under his mustachios. “I understand that in addition to performing on the stage, you also like to paint and sculpt.”

  “Whenever I can find the time—”

  “I’d like to see your works.” His smile widened. All of a sudden, he resembled an overgrown cherub. It was nearly impossible to believe that this man with too much wine on his breath stood to inherit one of the largest empires in the world. Had I not known, I’d have thought him one of those enterprising charlatans who ran a boulevard theater; he had the same ability to make one believe his charm was exclusive, despite the inescapable fact that his charm was as promiscuous as his appetites.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any of my artworks with me,” I demurred.

  “Then you must send for them. We shall mount an exhibition here, patronized by me.” He chortled. “You will sell every piece, I assure you. And,” he said, bringing his voice to a confidential hush,
though the duke was snoring and we were otherwise alone, “it’ll put a well-deserved bridle on those insufferable wagging tongues. If they must resort to gossip, let them do so with a smattering of truth.”

  I downed my cognac. Its fiery spear coiled about my heart.

  “How can I ever repay such generosity?” I met his stare. “A private recital, perhaps?”

  “I’ll hear you recite on closing night at the Gaiety.” He drank his tumbler, setting it aside. “I had another type of private performance in mind.” He held out his arm again. “Shall we return to the wolves? We don’t want them resorting to gossip too soon.”

  I accepted his escort into the drawing room. He was right, of course. If they were going to spread slander about me, let it be slander that I initiated.

  III

  Jarrett made the arrangements to bring my paintings and sculptures from Paris; he also undertook the task of communicating with the prince’s secretary to determine the venue and list of invitees. Seeing as my artworks were coming to England, I saw no reason not to send for Maurice and Madame G., as well. My son hadn’t completed his summer term, but in her correspondence, ma petite dame conveyed he was unlikely to pass his failed courses. All he did was mope about the house, the dogs at his heels, saying he missed me.

  Under the prince’s patronage, one hundred invitees were agreed upon; on the night of the exhibition, more than two hundred showed up, alerted by newspaper articles highlighting that Mademoiselle Bernhardt had made HRH of Wales’s acquaintance at a private dinner organized by a foreign banking dynasty. The innuendo was hardly subtle, given Bertie’s well-publicized affection for foreigners and actresses, so I elected to capitalize on it.

  In addition to having French champagne served at the Piccadilly art gallery, I paired an ebony ivory-handled walking stick with my Worth suit of white silk, adorned by a large tulle bow at my throat. I made certain to greet everyone personally, to make amusing conversation and provide anecdotes about the inspiration for my works, none of which were true. But high society expected art to have a raison d’être, and only Prime Minister Gladstone, a longtime ally of the prince, deduced I was playing everyone present for a fool.

  Decidedly attractive even in his seventieth year, with piercing, agate-colored eyes and a well-tuned, melodious voice, the prime minister was also extremely erudite, engaging me in spirited conversation ranging from the moral lessons we could derive from Phaedra to our shared opposition to capital punishment, as he was renowned for his liberal notions.

  “If I were queen,” I told him, “I’d put an immediate end to such savagery.”

  He gave me an indulgent smile. “I fear you’d not last long on our throne.”

  “No doubt,” I replied. “But imagine how few heads would roll in my brief reign.”

  When Bertie arrived with his princess, he bestirred the guests to a sudden rush to purchase my works. Alexandra of Wales greeted me with the polished opacity that only those born to royalty could display, but women have an unerring instinct for betrayal, and I felt a pang of remorse when I glimpsed the wound behind her glacial poise, her constant awareness that her husband was an incorrigible voluptuary. Whenever Bertie pointed out a piece he favored, within minutes said piece was acquired by a sycophant eager to curry his favor.

  “A very successful exhibition,” said Princess Alexandra, as she and Bertie prepared to depart. “What shall you do with the proceeds, Mademoiselle Bernhardt?”

  “Put it toward my son Maurice’s tuition,” I replied carelessly.

  Her practiced smile slipped. “I wasn’t aware you were married.”

  Bertie regarded me with an insouciant smile, as if he was daring me to lie.

  “I am not, Your Highness.” I leaned to her. “My son was un petit accident d’amour.”

  Alexandra did not display a visible reaction, which I had to admire, even as the court ladies flanking her released a united gasp of dismay.

  On the carriage ride back to Chester Square, Louise said dryly, “You now seem determined to prove that everything they report about you is true.”

  “What else should I do?” I retorted. “Don one of their funereal gowns and bon marché bonnets, while dragging a penitential cross to the Gaiety?”

  She burst out laughing. “Finally. This is the Incomparable One I know and love.”

  * * *

  I was overjoyed to have Maurice with me, to hear him race about the house jabbering in French, startling the English staff, and earning Caroline’s reprimand for taking to the staircase banister as if it were a toboggan.

  “Maman,” he said to me, “why don’t we have any animals here? I miss Clotilde.”

  Our pets had remained in Paris in the care of my maids, seeing as my stay in London was nearing its end. But upon my son’s dejection, I asked Jarrett where I might acquire additions for my menagerie. He located a gentleman in Liverpool who kept an exotic zoo and offered to receive me. Maurice fell in love with a young cheetah he named Sylvie. I fell in love with four iridescent African chameleons and a pair of majestic lions, though after some deliberation, I conceded the lions were too imposing to ship back home. Instead, I settled on an Irish wolfhound as large as a pony and docile as a puppy, resembling the one Clairin had depicted in my portrait. Hiring an entire train carriage to convey them—and expending my exhibition proceeds—I arrived in Chester Square with the chameleons clinging to my skirts, having munched on hand-fed leaves on my lap during the trip.

  Maurice’s cheetah strained at her tether. She was scarcely out of cubhood, lean and strong; at the sight of her, Madame G. shrieked in terror and fled into the house.

  My son frowned. “Sylvie won’t hurt anyone, will she?”

  “No,” I said, “but she must be very hungry by now. Come.”

  Putting my chameleons in a cage and handing it to Caroline, I strode into the gated private green of the neighborhood with the wolfhound, Sylvie tugging at her leash. As squirrels scampered in panic up the trees, the wolfhound bayed and I told Maurice to unclip Sylvie’s tether. She pounced with a speed that left us breathless. Faster than our eyes could follow her, she sprang onto a branch to seize an unfortunate squirrel in her jaws, devouring the poor creature whole.

  Maurice went wide-eyed. “She was hungry,” he said in amazement.

  “Indeed. We must take care she doesn’t try to eat Madame Guérard.”

  Maurice let out an uproarious laugh; about the green, the windows of neighboring houses flung open, heads poking out to determine what the clamor was about. When they saw Sylvie slinking to us at Maurice’s insistent call, her snout bloodstained, an eruption of fearful outrage obliged us to hasten back into my residence. The police were notified.

  The very next day, every newspaper was flooded with declarations that Mademoiselle Bernhardt kept wild animals about her, which she let loose on the streets to hunt. I was fined a hefty sum for my transgression and warned to keep my pets under strict restraint.

  I thought it a fitting conclusion to my British sojourn.

  * * *

  On closing night at the Gaiety, I performed scenes with Jean from Zaïre, followed by my regal monologue from Hugo’s Ruy Blas. The notices were unanimous; no one, exulted the London Times, “can argue that Mlle Bernhardt is our era’s most accomplished player, even if her private life isn’t at all what one is accustomed to.”

  Bertie fulfilled his promise to the last, leading the house in a standing ovation with his princess at his side. He flooded my dressing room with roses.

  As I was packing up my belongings for my return to Paris, Oscar came to say goodbye. His despondent expression made me chuckle.

  “Now, now.” I cupped his chin. “None of that. We shall see each other again in Paris, yes? I insist you come visit. And don’t forget you have that play to write for me.”

  I almost added that he would also find plenty of like-mi
nded gentlemen in Paris to entertain him. Meyer would find him irresistible and take him to all the places where those of their persuasion gathered. I did not say it, though, because while I knew his secret, Oscar himself hadn’t told me, so I had no wish to pry into his private affairs unless he allowed it.

  While he made the effort to be cheerful and helped me pack, remarking that he thought it ill-advised that I hadn’t brought my bat hat with me and worn it to my meeting with the prince, the English maid entered my bedroom with an envelope. “This was just delivered for the mademoiselle,” she told Oscar, who, to my amusement, displayed that he shared none of my compunction regarding privacy as he ripped the envelope open himself.

  He let out a laugh, laced with the gusto that had made me adore him. “No need for my translation services here,” he said, handing the note to me. “It’s written in perfect French. And from an exalted admirer, I might add.”

  Looking at the handwritten note, I read:

  You have conquered this isle. Alas, we failed to conquer the wagging tongues.

  I looked up to see Oscar smiling. “Will you miss him?” he asked.

  “Not as much as I will miss you,” I replied.

  IV

  I was overjoyed to return to Paris, to be home among my pets and things. I soon discovered not everyone in Paris was overjoyed to have me back.