Shortly after her arrival in New York, Rachel was asked by the French colony there to sing the "Marseillaise." She refused, addressing the following letter to the deputation who had been commissioned to make the request:—
Dear Fellow-countrymen,
Seven years have passed since I sang the "Marseillaise." A "je ne sais quoi" gave me then the semblance of a voice, besides which my health was stronger. Now I am often completely tired out after a representation. I should be afraid, therefore, of compromising other interests than my own, if I increased the strain put upon my strength.
I trust you will accept the assurance of my sincere regret in not being able to accede to your wishes, especially when I tell you that I loved to sing the "Marseillaise" as much as to act Corneille's finest part. Accept the assurance of my distinguished sentiments.
A witty travesty of this letter was given at the time: it began—
Now the Empire is peace, and were I, dear compatriots, to make the least effort to sing the "Marseillaise" in New York, I feel that, on my return to Paris, I should be compelled to sing very small indeed. * * *
Both by hearsay and experience; the Americans had been made aware of the exacting and greedy temperament of Rachel and her brother, and many were the jokes made at their expense. It was, indeed, in this pitiless New World that Rachel was destined to test how low she had descended in her art. She was wont to say, La fortune c'est la mésure de l'intelligence"; and in the pursuit of fortune, not to advance the honour of Racine or Corneille, she had come across the Atlantic. The company of actors she had brought with her were, as one critic frankly expressed himself, "but a bundle of Hebrew sticks destined to fill the minor characters." No attempt was made to put the tragedies fittingly on the stage. Beauvallet gives a
