ference between the Frenchman and the Greek, to whom he is so fond of comparing himself. In restricting ourselves to a consideration of Rachel and her art, however, we have to thank the petit-maîtres of Versailles for one of the grandest scenes in one of the actress's grandest parts. Here the modern as well as the ancient Phèdre awakens to the "full consciousness of her own divinity"; she feels she cannot escape the all-penetrating glance of her "celestial kinsfolk." The Sun, the Stars, Minos—the terrific judge of Hell—all see her guilt, and with her invocation to each in turn, the unhappy woman sinks on her knees imploring mercy, and gasping out the marvellous word, "Pardonne!" The climax was reached. Nothing was ever imagined more pathetic and heart-stirring than this speech, as declaimed by Rachel.
The year she first appeared in Phèdre, and the two years preceding it were, as we have said before, the happiest and best of Rachel's life. Devoted to her art for art's sake, not for the remuneration to be obtained, she lived in a commerce plein de douceur avec les muses, undisturbed by the indecorum and self-seeking of later years. Some of her letters written at this time show that the greed of gain and applause, with which her enemies charged her, had not deadened her appreciation of the true aims and instincts of an artist. She wrote to Madame de Girardin, 6th February 1843:—
Madame,
I am suffering and tired, yet am obliged to play Phèdre tomorrow; I may have to act Friday also. The Comédie cries, "Misere" and declares its salvation depends on me. But just now it is a great trouble to me, for I am obliged to refuse everything so as not to fail in my duty.
Rest assured, Madame, that, if it were not for this, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to accept your kind invitation. I regret
