first appearance at the Comédie Française. We will now give his account of her when her success was assured, and when the small, insignificant child, whose promise he had been one of the first to see, was delighting thousands every evening by the magic of her genius.
Ah the delightful evenings! I will never forget them, nor those mornings consecrated to the dramatic education of my marvellous pupil. I count them among the happiest hours of my life. . . . What quickness of perception, what precision of understanding! Remember that this child knew nothing—that I had to explain the character of the person she was about to represent, and to give her a short historical lecture, as it were, before the lesson in declamation began; but, once she had grasped the subject, she entered at once into the spirit of the rôle. Nothing was slurred over, nothing was left unstudied. We took note together of every line, of every point to be made. . . . Rachel was above the medium height. Her forehead was prominent and low; her eyes deep-set and, although not large, very expressive; her nose was almost straight; her mouth, furnished with small white, straight teeth, had an expression at once proud and sarcastic. Her head was small and perfectly set on her graceful neck. Her thinness was excessive; but she dressed with extreme art to hide it, and made it almost a beauty. Her walk and gestures were easy, all her movements undulating, her whole appearance, in fact, eminently distinguished. She had, to use a hackneyed expression, the hands and feet of a duchess. Her voice—a contralto—was limited in compass; but, thanks to her extreme correctness of ear, she used it with great skill, and the finest and most delicate inflections. It was often hoarse when she began to speak; but that soon wore off. When she first appeared on the stage her figure was not fully developed, her small features and close-set eyes salient enough, and the public pronounced her ugly. Later they pronounced her beautiful. The fact is, she was neither one nor the other, but both, according to the hour, the day, the expression that was dominant.
How can I give an idea of this admirable talent to those who have not heard her? I, who taught her the secret of her art for so many years, am forced to confess that all my efforts to describe her are futile. Dramatic art leaves nothing as a heritage to succeeding generations. The talent of the actor descends to the grave with him, and the memories he bequeaths to his admirers—memories always inadequate—fade away by degrees, and die even with the generation that
