The First Actress Read online

  In the weeks leading to opening night, I indeed had no other life. Every waking hour was devoted to learning my lines and rehearsals. Even Marie, who still had a year left to complete at the Conservatoire, complained I never had any time for her. I couldn’t help it; I was now a member of the Comédie, working with far more experienced actors, all of whom treated me with the same regard as they would any untried ingénue, which was scarcely any at all.

  And Provost was merciless. He shouted and banged his cane, pushing me past endurance, so that I returned home late at night in such exhaustion, I could barely undress before collapsing into bed. At dawn, I was up again, shoving a croissant down my throat as I readied myself to depart for the theater, while Régine sulked and Madame G. sighed, saying I was gone so much these days, my sister feared I might never return. To assuage Régine, I started bringing her with me to rehearsal, armed with sweets and strict orders to sit still and be quiet. Julie and Rosine neglected her terribly, flitting about Paris and beyond on their engagements, often taking Jeanne with them, but leaving Régine with Madame G., who, kindly as she was, couldn’t curb my youngest sister’s tantrums. Yet in the theater, Régine turned surprisingly docile, her little form upright in the front row as she raptly followed the fantasies on stage.

  Long before I felt ready, the evening of my debut was upon me. As I prepared to leave for the theater, Régine wailed that she wanted to go with me. Madame G. had to hold her back, for I couldn’t bring her tonight. Debuts were sold-out events, attended by critics eager to assess the crop of new talent, or lack thereof. Much as I adored her, Régine would be a distraction, and who knew how she’d behave in the chaos backstage.

  Provost was waiting impatiently, for I was late. He spared me a lecture, thrusting me into my tiny dressing room to oversee my makeup. My costume no longer fit; I’d lost too much weight and the toga-like robe exposed my bony arms. When I suggested adding sleeves, he snarled, “If you can sew them on in five minutes, by all means do so.”

  Hearing the audience taking their seats beyond the curtain churned my stomach. As I waited for my entrance, all of a sudden, I felt faint. I knew this feeling, though I hadn’t experienced it since the play at Grandchamp. I looked in panic at Provost.

  “Le trac,” he said. “Most players suffer it. You’ll forget it once you take your mark.”

  “Has anyone died from it?” I whispered, for I felt as if I might.

  “Never,” he said, and on my cue, he pushed me forward. “Merde.”

  No amount of rehearsal could have prepared me for the vertiginous sensation of standing on that immense platform, the gas flames in the footlights seeming to shine directly into my eyes, the mass of people waving fans and playbills or peering through their lorgnettes. I imagined myself under a gigantic paw, paralyzed for an endless moment before the actor playing Agamemnon strode to me, and I clutched at his arm.

  I croaked out my lines.

  “What did she say?” someone shouted from the upper loge.

  In the scene when I implored Achilles to save me from Eriphile’s envy, I remembered to throw out my arms, but failed to turn to the audience to declaim my lines, as Provost had drummed into me countless times. Something inside me compelled me to reach out instead toward my fellow actor with my gesture of imploration; as I did, a man in the audience issued a ribald “Have a care, Achilles, lest she impales you on her toothpicks!”

  Laughter roared through the house. I wanted to die.

  Staggering backstage at intermission, I found Provost wringing his hands. “Why?” he implored. “Just tell me why, after everything I taught you. Why turn aside from the audience at such a crucial moment?”

  “I…I don’t know,” I quavered. “I didn’t think. Forgive me.”

  “Oh, I forgive you,” he retorted, “even if Racine in his grave never will.”

  He strode away. Stifling my desperation, I hurried to my dressing room. It was only then that my anger spilled forth; I would have swiped the little table clean of my cheap makeup tubes had I not two more acts left. As I grabbed the stick of greasepaint to dab at the rivulets carved by sweat on my cheeks, my reflection stared back at me: huge eyes in a pinched face that, despite the heavy paint, had gone as colorless as my costume.

  I heard Mère Sophie as if she stood beside me. Despite the odds…it’s a sign of greatness, though you may not believe it now.

  Savagely, I scrawled Quand même in greasepaint across my mirror, squashing the stick. “You can do this,” I told myself. “You must.”

  I felt more in control during the next acts, mindful to do everything as Provost had instructed, not deviating once from the established choreography even though I thought I must resemble a marionette, my strings manipulated by an invisible conductor. I wasn’t certain if I actually was any better, however, until the curtain fell and Provost gave me a terse nod.

  His lack of advice made me realize better wasn’t good enough, as I discovered the very next morning when the fearsome critic Sarcey published his notice of the play: “Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt, the latest pensionnaire, carries herself well and has near-perfect pronunciation. Unfortunately, that is all that can be said of her at the moment.”

  It wasn’t devastating—he reserved his most acerbic remarks for the production values, which he deemed “an embarrassment”—but Provost assured me that Sarcey had put me on notice. “Your next performances must be flawless. While a pensionnaire’s debut rarely garners high praise, it is our testing ground for future status. Thierry thinks granting you a contract was a mistake. Not even Morny can save you if you prove him right.”

  I plunged into rehearsals for my subsequent roles as Henriette in Molière’s Les Femmes savantes, which had won me second prize at my exams, and the lead in Eugène Scribe’s comedy Valérie. Provost had me stay late at the theater to go over my lines and movements until he felt I’d mastered both to perfection.

  Because of his diligence, I experienced no further mishaps, though le trac overcame me every time before the curtain rose. I even vomited once, moments before my entrance. But my plays were well received, judging by the audience’s response, and helped to restore my frayed confidence—until Provost delivered Sarcey’s latest critique. We sat in the theater, where I’d arrived early to refine my final role of the season as Hippolyte in L’Étourdi, written by Molière, patron saint of the Comédie.

  As I recited from the column that L’Opinion devoted to the venerable critic, my voice broke. “ ‘Mademoiselle Bernhardt has excellent carriage and a lovely face; one might even say that one day she may become a beauty, but as an actress, she’s rather unremarkable. Which is not to anyone’s surprise. It is inevitable that most pensionnaires will never excel—’ ”

  I lifted my horrified gaze to Provost. “How can he judge me on my very first year?”

  Provost gave a sigh. “Sarcey is our most feared and respected theater critic. He can judge you because it is his job to do so.”

  “But you told me, debuts rarely garner praise. Not even Rachel had any acclaim at first. The critics barely noticed her first role as Camille in Horace. It took months, and several more roles, before she—”

  “Your knowledge of Rachel’s career and desire to emulate her are noteworthy,” he interrupted. “But she’s dead now, and we urgently require another of her stature.”

  “How can I gain her stature if no one will give me the chance?” I stabbed my finger at the newspaper. “Rachel didn’t become renowned overnight.”

  He lapsed into pained silence before he said, “Alas, becoming renowned overnight is the order of the times. The few who seek to fill Rachel’s shoes are aging. We have no time, let alone patience, to wait for an ingénue to grow into her talent.”

  “Then I must do something different,” I replied.

  Provost gave me a contemplative look. “Am I to understand you have objections to my method o
f instruction?”

  I forced myself to return his stare.

  “Yes?” His voice was impassive. “This would be the time to state your concerns.”

  He’d never requested my opinion before, and though now he did, I still had to gather up my courage before I said, “You know how much I respect you, how honored I am by your trust in me—”

  He held up his hand. “Mademoiselle, I didn’t ask for flattery.”

  I swallowed, trying to find the words to express aloud what to me was barely coherent, an innate instinct that felt almost primal and became clear only when I was onstage. “It doesn’t feel natural,” I said at length. “How can I become my character unless I’m allowed to discover her for myself? When my performance is so ordained in advance, I can’t feel it.”

  “I see.” To my relief, there was no overt censure in his tone. “I’ve undergone great pains, and considerable risk to my own reputation, to take you under my charge. I have guided you in the traditions of this house: to declaim toward the audience, so your emoting can be seen; to precede every line with a precise gesture that conveys the pathos in the verse; to support the ensemble and not your individual self. This is our established precedence. It is how things have always been done at the Comédie.”

  I lowered my eyes. How could I explain to this man, who’d earned his senior status from a distinguished career playing hundreds of roles, that his established precedence was impeding me? That while I had no experience to draw upon, something within me told me that what I must do to earn acclaim was not adhere to tradition, but rather inhabit my character in such a way that her humanity transcended her particular circumstances to stir the hearts of everyone in the audience.

  He leaned toward me. “I must insist that you say what you think, mademoiselle.”

  “I’ve no wish to imitate what others have done before,” I finally whispered, terrified by my admission. “I want to be different. Isn’t that how Rachel achieved success?”

  He went quiet for such a long moment, I thought I’d transgressed beyond redemption. Then he said in a voice that sounded almost apologetic, “You are correct. To be different from everyone else is indeed the path to success. Those who achieve greatness in our profession do so by setting their unique stamp on every character they play. They must have not only the talent, but also the daring and ambition to prove themselves on the stage.” He paused, lacing his hands as he picked his next words. “I’ve seen many come and go through this house in my years as an instructor, but no one quite like you. It is why I’ve risked as much as I have. But,” he added, before I could react to his unexpected praise, “even our Rachel had to start somewhere. Even she had to follow the rules at first. Defiance at this time will not serve you. Moreover, my influence can only extend so far.”

  I swallowed. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning every company needs competent actresses for secondary roles, but I fear that is all you can expect for now. If you wish to deviate from my instruction for your final performance of this season, I will permit it, within reason. It is in both our interests that you deliver your best, even if Hippolyte isn’t the role to elevate your profile.”

  “Nevertheless,” I replied, “I will play her as if she can.”

  He allowed me to make limited changes, mainly in how I declaimed. Rather than turning to the audience to deliver my lines, I engaged with my fellow actors and imbued Hippolyte with my own vulnerability. I was perfect, Provost assured me when the play closed. But Sarcey hadn’t bothered to attend. He had issued his verdict on my debut and I’d therefore performed to a near-empty house.

  My debut season ended in late July, as did my contract. I had no idea if I’d be called back, returning in dejection to the flat, where Régine was overjoyed to have me home. To fill my spare time, I resumed my painting, filling canvas after canvas, trying to forget my theatrical venture, which I feared wouldn’t amount to anything more. I saw no reason why the Comédie would care to renew my contract, given my inauspicious notices, and the vast unknown of the future stretched like an abyss before me. Painting at least relieved my desperate uncertainty, even if it, too, could amount to nothing more than a pastime.

  “You should try to exhibit your work,” remarked Madame G., looking over the stack of paintings cluttering my bedroom. “These are so lovely. You are a talented artist.”

  “Do artists have an easier time of it than actors?” was my morose reply.

  “You will hear soon enough from the Comédie,” she assured me, unfailing as ever in her optimism. “I know you will. Just give it time, my child.”

  I wanted to believe it, wondering if Provost was right that the Comédie always needed girls like me. The Conservatoire churned us out like loaves of bread, hundreds of aspirants. Competent mediocrity, it seemed, was not in short supply.

  And as Sarcey had pointed out, most never succeeded.

  Was I destined to be one of them?

  III

  My contract for the following year was renewed, albeit begrudgingly, with Provost warning me that Thierry had informed him that if I were not “his favored pupil,” he’d have shown me the door. This time, Julie bestirred herself to accompany me to the signing. Thierry turned obsequious, declaring himself “overjoyed” to include me in the company ranks for another year, and to please give his regards to Monsieur de Morny.

  I gritted my teeth until we were back in the carriage. “Morny again. Does he own the Comédie, per chance, that he can snap his fingers and they’ll do whatever he says?”

  Julie eyed me from under her parasol. “Perhaps you should show gratitude that he still has an interest in this so-called profession of yours. It’s not as though you’ve done anything to deserve it.”

  “I most certainly have! I studied for two years at the Conservatoire and have done nothing but dedicate myself heart and soul to—”

  “Yes, yes.” She tilted her parasol to shade her face as the carriage took us down the avenue. “We’re all well aware of how devoted you are to your craft. Unfortunately, it would appear your craft is not so devoted to you.” She sighed. “You’re simply not suited for the stage. You are too thin and pale; your voice might be distinctive, but you have no presence.” She delivered this condemnation in serene indifference. “But you might end all this unnecessary suffering if you only do as I suggest.”

  “Marry that merchant, I suppose,” I snarled, “who can hardly be the prize you claim if after all this time he’s still available.”

  “We get what we pay for. If marriage isn’t to your liking, let me instruct you in a less burdensome way to earn your keep.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke, her eyes fixing on some remote point beyond the carriage. “You might find the success you crave elsewhere, should you apply yourself. Look at Rosine; she has a permanent suitor now. Not once has she had to endure being ravaged by critics before the entire city.”

  “Never. I’d rather bed with curs than sell myself.”

  She chuckled. “As you wish. But fifty francs a month won’t detain the fleas.”

  I was enraged by her reminder of my helplessness. Though I had a new contract, I couldn’t see it as an achievement if Morny had been behind it, and gnawing fear beset me that I’d end up playing insignificant roles to barely full houses for the rest of my life.

  On January 15, 1863, the new season officially began with La Cérémonie, the company’s annual tribute to Molière—a sacrosanct event held with due pomp. All the company actors were required to attend, dressed in costume from the playwright’s most famous works, lining up to place a palm frond at the foot of his bust—brought center stage for the event from the greenroom—and recite a selection of his noteworthy lines. As the member of least status in the Comédie, I was given the task of bearing the laurel wreath, which I had to hand over to Beauvallet for placement on the bust’s marble curls.

  I practiced carrying the wreat
h at home, solemnly parading down the corridor carrying a veiled hat, Régine scampering at my heels as Julie watched from the salon. When Jeanne asked, “Is she attending a funeral?” Julie broke into peals of laughter.

  I didn’t care. It was my first participation in this time-honored ritual; minor as my role might be, I must fulfill it without mishap. I must show the entire company that I, too, held our founding father in the utmost respect.

  Régine begged me to take her with me. “Please let me come. Please, Sarah. I’ll be good, just like at your rehearsals. I’ll sit there and watch.”

  “I don’t think it would be appropriate,” I said gently, but as she burst into tears, Julie remarked, “What possible harm can she do? It’s not as if you’re resurrecting Molière.”

  I glared at her. Who was she to tell me what harm Régine might do, when she never paid my younger sister the slightest mind? But the tears rolling down my little sister’s face persuaded me; she was only eight years old, so young and innocent despite her unpredictable temper, and she loved me so much. She would sit for hours, joyfully ripping apart her dolls while I painted. She was never happy when I was gone, Madame G. told me; she wept for hours, refusing consolation, thinking I’d abandoned her.

  “Very well,” I told Régine. “But you must promise to be on your best behavior.”

  “I promise.” Régine wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, ma sœur. I love you more than anything. I love you more than these nasty putaines.”

  The frozen look on Julie’s face was worth it. I dressed Régine in a white frock, tied up her dark curls with a satin bow, and brought her with me to the theater.

  Thierry frowned; a child at the ceremony was unheard of. There were invited patrons of the house, as well as the journalists obliged to pen saccharine praise of the occasion. I told Régine to stand aside by the entry pillars at the edge of the stage, out of view of the audience, and wait there as I took up the wreath.