THE GREAT TRAGEDIAN.
On the 23rd November 1838, Rachel appeared as Roxane in Racine's tragedy of Bajazet. She had already undertaken six different classical rôles on the stage of the Théâtre Français: Camille in Les Horaces, Émilie in Cinna, Hermione in Racine's Andromaque, Aménaïde in Voltaire's Tancrède, Éryphile in Racine's Iphigénie, and Monime in Racine's Mithridate. Roxane, next to Phèdre, is the most difficult of Racine's heroines to portray. She is a slave in love with a man who despises her, and threatens him with death if he refuse to forsake her rival Atalide for her sake.
"The desire to hear her in this new part," Védel tells us, "was enormous." The mob struggled at the door, and the receipts rose to more than six thousand francs. But the actress had no success, and even the famous "Sortez!" was received in sullen silence by the public. When, at the beginning of her career, she had acted night after night to empty houses, Rachel, filled with determination and impelled by the strong artistic instinct within her, had been unconcerned and fearless; now, that the tide of success had set in, she was overwhelmed with nervousness every time she undertook a new rôle. Rose, her servant, who knew her better than anyone, would enumerate all the symptoms of that disease called "stage fright," from which her mistress suffered on "first nights": inability to speak or move, her hands cold and trembling, perspiration running down her face, a nervous irritability that was most trying to those around her. The critics, in consequence, often pronounced a part a perfect failure that, after several representations, was numbered among her greatest triumphs. So it was now. She did not act nearly up to her usual average, and the coldness of the audience completed her discomfiture. They had heard of the enormous demands made by her father, and wreaked their displeasure on the young girl, destined all her life, like the Roxane she impersonated, to be the plaything of that tyrant, the Public, and the slave of those who sought to enrich themselves by her popularity and her genius. The very clique paid by the opposition did not applaud, while the critics showed that she could expect no support from them. Her enemies were triumphant, her friends depressed, and everyone believed the moment prophesied by the sociétaires had really come. "The public was weary of its new toy." Védel, at the end of his resources, went to see Janin, hoping to modify his judgment, and induce him to treat the young actress with more leniency. Critic and manager were discussing the subject, when Rachel was announced; she was evidently nervous and embarrassed, and hung her head like a criminal before his judge. Janin received her with the greatest kindness, and calmed her somewhat, but confessed that, in spite of all the affection he felt for her, and the interest he took in her career, it was impossible to give a favourable account of her acting in Roxane. Poor Rachel sobbed bitterly; Janin did all he could to console her, but insisted that she should not appear in the part again.
"On this point we were not agreed," Védel tells us. "'I accept all the responsibility,' I said to him; 'the rôle was chosen by me, therefore blame ought to rest on me alone, and I am prepared to bear the brunt of defeat.' We left him, very ill-pleased with the result of our visit. I felt convinced, however, that Rachel would remain firm under the rebuff. We had hardly got into the cab before I said, 'Never mind, my child, no hesitation; and in spite of all you have just heard, Bajazet the day after to-morrow.'
"Conquered, at least apparently, by my pertinacity, Rachel promised to accede to my wishes. I took her home and returned to the theatre.
"At 4 o'clock Félix was announced. He informed me, with the greatest determination, that his daughter should not play Bajazet the next day.
"'Why?' I asked.
"'Because I have made up my mind not to allow it.'
"'You forget, Monsieur, that under the terms of her engagement. Mademoiselle Rachel has bound herself to appear in all her parts, according to the orders of the director.'
"'I repeat,' he said, 'that she shall not act.'
"'I warn you, Monsieur, that the second representation of Bajazet will be announced for the day after to-morrow; and you may be sure that if Mademoiselle Rachel is not in her dressing-room by 6 o'clock on the evening of that day, I will give the public back their money, assigning as a reason the refusal of your daughter to fulfil her engagements. The approximate value of the representation will also be deducted from her salary, and she shall not set her foot on the stage of the theatre until she shall have acted Bajazet for the second time.'
"'You can do what you like; she shall not act.'
"'Would you be good enough to withdraw, Monsieur; I have nothing more to say.' With which request he complied."
Immediately after this scene, Védel wrote Rachel an imploring letter, laying stress on all the personal and other reasons which could induce her not to follow her father's injunctions, and throw away her future so recklessly.
"I sent one of the boys about the theatre," he writes, "with orders to take this letter, and give it only to Rachel in person, to wait for her, whatever hour at night she returned, and to bring the answer to me at the theatre, where I had determined to wait. At 1 o'clock in the morning the boy brought me the following line, scribbled in pencil, on a scrap of paper, which I have kept religiously:—
Ne suis je pas a vos ordres? Quand on aime les gens, on fait tout pour leurs plaire
Rachel.
Meantime, on the very day of the second representation, November 26th, appeared an account of the fatal evening, in the Débats. It was remorseless and cruel:—
How could Mademoiselle Rachel be expected to fill the rôle of Roxane? How could she, a child, comprehend a passion so entirely of the senses, not of the soul? Only an actress with all the experience and vicissitudes of a varied career behind her could hope to grasp such a conception. But here we see a half-developed child, with none of the requisites, either voice, walk, or bearing, put forward to act a part in which lust, energy, and violence rule supreme. . . . This delicate girl, this puny overtasked frame, this undeveloped bosom, this troubled tone, could these suffice to represent the stalwart lioness whom we call Roxane? Mademoiselle Rachel appeared, and in an instant the house felt she was unequal to the task. This was not the Roxane of the poet; it was a young girl wandering in the "Seraglio."
So Janin went on in the same strain for two columns, so crushingly antagonistic, that Védel almost made up his mind to yield and defer for some time the second representation of Bajazet.
On further reflection, however, he resolved to keep to his point, if Rachel were not too discouraged by the judgment pronounced so pitilessly.
"The evening came. She arrived punctually. Shortly before the moment of her appearance, I went up to her dressing-room; she was ready, and looked superb in her costume.
"'Well, my child, how do you feel?' I asked her.
"'Determined to do my best. I have had my way, but not without a terrible struggle,' she answered, smiling. 'I think it will go better this evening.'
"'You are not afraid?'
"'Not in the least.'
"'I like this confidence; it is a good omen. You have read Janin's article?'
"'Yes; he polishes me off nicely (il m'habille joliment). But wait; I will serve him out.'"
The young actress reaped the reward of her courage. She was victorious all along the line. Her success far surpassed anything she had yet achieved. Recalled innumerable times, she was received with frenzied acclamations of applause, while the attendants were obliged to carry away the heaps of flowers that were showered on her. After the termination of the piece Védel went behind the scenes at once to congratulate the Roxane of the evening; but already her room, that had been nearly deserted after the first representation of Bajazet, was so crowded that she could hardly make her way towards him through the crowd. Throwing herself into his arms, she whispered, "Thank you, my dear friend; I knew you were right."
From this day forth Rachel had no further need to fear her enemies or seek the suffrages of her friends. Elle dominait son parterre. That supreme tribunal in all questions of dramatic art, the public, unmoved by favouritism or prejudice, knew nothing of Classicism or Romanticism. Once touched, they cared no longer for the interests of the sociétaires, the rapacity of Félix, or the susceptibility of Janin. They only recognised that this girl gave expression to the thoughts and words sanctified by tradition, and compelled them to smile and weep when she chose. From that moment her authority was supreme. Regardless of tenets or schools, they proclaimed her queen by the right divine of her genius. It is true that, like all kings and queens crowned by the mobile, changeable, passionate race she ruled, she was worshipped and implicitly obeyed at times, and at others decried and calumniated; but that was in later years, when she, perhaps by her own capriciousness and tyranny, had exhausted the not very long-suffering patience of her subjects. Now, if a cloud did dim the sunshine of her popularity for an instant, it melted away under the influence of her fascination and consummate dramatic power. She not only ruled on the stage, but in social circles. The great ladies of the Faubourg Saint Germain chose to caress and make much of her; and she who had gone about singing for her daily bread, half-clothed and ill-fed, and who had stood many a night eating fried potatoes under a column outside the Salle Molière, was a match in bearing and manner for any Duchess in Paris. Dr. Véron says, not without hidden satire: "What taste and tact were required to enable her to bear with dignity this sudden transition from obscurity to splendour, from misery to filling the position of the spoiled child of fortune. This society, which later exaggerated her faults and accused her unjustly of many things, only chose at the beginning of her career to see perfection in every act, and a heart above all the evil sentiments and violent passions which she knew so well how to portray. The success which Mademoiselle Rachel obtained in the drawing-rooms of the great, the favour full of tenderness which she knew how to win from distinguished women of the world, can only be explained by the rare qualities—I do not say of the actress, but of a young girl who was spirituelle, amiable, and always mistress of herself." Her social perception was instinctive. She who a few hours before had held hundreds rapt, watching every smile and frown, and hanging on every word she spoke, now retired and entrenched herself behind the most charming repose and reserve of manner, never venturing to assert her superior intellectual powers, or obtrude her personality in any way. Her taste in dress was exquisite, simple, unostentatious, but perfect in every detail. Théodore de Banville, the poet, says: "Her most marvellous creation was neither Hermione, nor Phèdre, nor Thisbé. It was that chef d'œuvre, worthy of Balzac and Gavarni, Rachel Parisienne." In her grace, in her distinction, she was essentially well-bred, essentially refined; and this is not the least proof of the largeness and versatility of her genius.
The great and powerful of the land vied with one another to do her honour. Louis Philippe, who had not been once to the theatre since his accession, paid several visits to see her act. One evening, after performing before His Majesty, she was presented to him at the conclusion of the tragedy. The King took her trembling hand in his, and assured her that every time he saw her it was with increased pleasure. In her confusion the young actress addressed him simply as "Monsieur." On being afterwards blamed for it by her companion, she replied that, "being in the habit of conversing only with the Kings of Greece and Rome, she was ignorant of the form of speech used towards the monarchs of her day." On the following morning His Majesty sent her a thousand-franc note, his first gift to any actor or actress. Great as were the honours heaped upon her by royalty all her life, Rachel ever remained one of the people at heart. A night or two after her interview with Louis Philippe, a friend of hers was eye-witness of the following scene:—
Mademoiselle Rachel was leaving the Théâtre des Italiens during a representation; the carriage was coming up. She was on the point of putting her foot on the step, when a little girl selling oranges, recognising her, called out with that mocking tone of voice common to the street Arab, male and female, "Ah, Rachel, Rachel!" The tragedian stopped, turned, and answered gaily in the same tone, "Tiens c't autre!" then, assuming her natural voice, "My dear child," she added, "are you selling much?" Without waiting for an answer she threw a gold piece amongst the oranges. The little girl poured forth her thanks, and, bending down, picked up some rose leaves Rachel had let fall from a bouquet she held. She told me afterwards she valued the homage paid by this child in her rags more than half the adulation received from the cultured audience who came nightly to do her honour.
Rich and poor, educated and uneducated, all united to do Rachel honour in those days. When she appeared in public she was fêted. When she assisted at the sittings of the Chamber of Deputies, as was the custom for the great ladies of the day, she attracted universal attention from speakers and audience. In one of her brilliant articles that appeared periodically in La Presse, Madame de Girardin alludes to Rachel's social success:—
Mademoiselle Rachel appeared to-day at the Chamber of Deputies and then at a Ministerial Ball, receiving at both places the most marked homage and attention. Are these signs of favour that the Parisian world show Mademoiselle Rachel accorded to her talent? to her character? No, they are accorded to her rank. You start! But there are different sorts of rank—social rank and natural rank. Not only does nature bestow by her gifts a rank, but that rank is a vocation.
And so the brilliant and clever lady goes on to prove that Rachel possessed the only true kind of rank; and she and Émile de Girardin gave evidence of the consistency of their opinions by entertaining the actress continually at their hospitable table, and when many others later held aloof, ever remained equally cordial and friendly.
Rachel was admitted at this time into the exclusive circle at the Abbaye aux Bois, where Madame Recamier, although no longer rich, beautiful, or young, succeeded in keeping a large circle of illustrious and respectful admirers—La réunion des refusés! as profane outsiders called it; but which was looked upon by those admitted to the sacred precincts of the old convent as the tribunal of art and æstheticism. Here Rachel met Chateaubriand, and listened to the chapters of the Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe read aloud by the author. The young actress astonished and charmed these apostles of culture by her simple dignity, unassuming manner, and ready wit. When introduced to Chateaubriand, the venerable poet said to her in a melancholy tone, "How sad it is to think, Mademoiselle, that such as you should be born as we are about to die." "Sir," she replied, "there are some who never die."
On one of these literary afternoons, which were of frequent occurrence at the Abbaye aux Bois, Rachel had been requested by Madame Recamier to recite the celebrated scene from Corneille's Polyeucte.
Mon époux, en mourant, m'a laissé ses lumières;
Son sang, dont tes bourreaux viennent de me couvrir
M'a dessillé les yeux, et me les vient d'ouvrir:
Je vois, je sais, je crois!
As she spoke the lines, the Archbishop of was announced.
"Monseigneur," said Madame Recamier, slightly embarrassed, "allow me to present Mademoiselle Rachel, who was good enough to recite some verses of Polyeucte for our benefit."
"I should be sorry to interrupt Corneille's poetry by my prose; pray continue," said His Eminence.
Unwilling, as a Jewess, to speak the words "Je vois, je sais, je crois" before a Christian prelate, Rachel replied, diffidently, "If Monseigneur will allow me, I should prefer to recite some verses of Racine's Esther."
When the young girl had finished, the Archbishop addressed her in terms of the highest praise.
"We priests," he added, "are not often allowed the pleasure of meeting great artistes. Twice, however, in my life I have had that privilege. At Florence I heard Madame Malibran sing in a drawing-room, and I now owe to our hostess the pleasure of hearing Mademoiselle Rachel. To recite as I heard you when I entered, you must have felt deeply the pathos of the situation."
Mademoiselle Rachel made a graceful curtsey, and answered with downcast eyes, "Monseigneur, je crois!"
Nothing was talked of next day but the renunciation of the faith of her fathers which it was averred the young Jewess had made.
Madame Lenormand, in her Mémoires de Madame Recamier, describes Rachel as she was at this time:—
Whoever had not heard and seen Mademoiselle Rachel in a drawing-room can only form an incomplete idea of her feminine attractions, and of her talent as an actress. Her features, a little too delicate for the stage, gained much by being seen nearer. Her voice was a little hard, but her accent was enchanting, and she modulated it to suit the limits of a room with marvellous instinct. Her deportment was in irreproachable taste; and the ease and promptitude with which this young girl, without education or knowledge of good society, seized its manner and tone, was certainly the perfection of art. Deferential with dignity, modest, natural, and easy, she talked delightfully of her art and her studies. Her success in society was immense.
Rachel's private life at this time was in strange contrast to the brilliancy of her success. The Félix family were living at No. 27, Rue Traversière Saint Honoré, since named Rue de la Fontaine Molière. Nothing could be imagined more sordid than all the surroundings. A dining-room containing a table and a few chairs; the bed-room of the father and mother; and a kitchen, the superintendence of which fell to Rachel's share, she being the one who had always undertaken the cooking of the establishment. From the kitchen a steep staircase led to an attic in which were three small beds. In one of these slept Rebecca and Lia, in the other Raphäel, and in the third Rachel with her youngest sister Dinah, then three years old. When not employed in the preparation of the family meals, or in the education of her sister, the young girl spent her time in this attic lying on her little bed studying the masterpieces of Corneille and Racine.
We have a most amusing account of a visit paid by an intimate friend to the Rue Traversière. He found the young tragedian, who by her extraordinary genius had turned the heads of all Paris, in the little kitchen preparing the vegetables for the family pot-au-feu. At intervals she stopped peeling the potatoes and scraping the carrots, to reprove and silence the younger children who had been left in her charge during her mother's absence. When they were more than usually incorrigible she solemnly laid down the knife and potato and administered condign punishment to one of them. This done, she returned to her occupation and the subject she was discussing, as if nothing had happened.
We do not wish in any way to under-estimate the advantages Rachel derived from the dramatic training she obtained from Saint Aulaire and Samson, but there is little doubt that these hours spent studying what she was afterwards to personate, studying also at an age that is eminently receptive, and at which ideas and images are formed which remain unmodified and unchanged in after life, was one of the secrets of her unconventionality and originality. The intellect of youth is despotic and obstinate in its enthusiasms and views; so I see it, and so it shall be, is the usual attitude of the youthful mind; and if it have the second sight of sensibility, its instincts and impulses are better than any drilling, or teaching of ancient methods.
Rachel not only possessed this inner sensibility, she had also the power of observing external events, and fusing them into her ideal existence, thus collecting materials which, when they were welded into place and received her individual expression, became "points" with which she electrified her audience. In proof of this, the following incident is related as having suggested the by-play that is so effective in the rôle of Camille, when listening to the description of the combat between the Horatii and the Curiatii.
One morning, knocked up by her exertions of the evening before, the young actress had remained in bed. Hearing a caller down below, she rose and went to the door, to ascertain who it was; she recognised the voice as that of an acquaintance of the family, a young medical student. In answer to the question put by her mother and sisters, as to why he had been so long absent, he told a fearful story of some accident, while dissecting, that had necessitated the amputation of his hand. Rachel, already tired and over-excited, was so overcome with horror at this description, that she fainted. The noise of her fall brought the family to her assistance, and she soon recovered. It was then the idea occurred to her that if she, who was not particularly interested in this young man, had been so much impressed by the narrative of his accident, how terrible must be the shock on the nerves of a woman hearing of her lover's death. She told Samson that the next time she played Camille, she would introduce a new effect. She did so, and we know by hearsay how great was her success.
These early years of Rachel's success were undoubtedly the happiest of her life: years of privation and struggle and doubt, but years also of appreciation and success. The words she had conned over and studied with youthful reverence in the solitude of her garret room, she was now able to speak to hundreds every night, and to catch inspiration from their comprehension and applause. Under the dictation of none but her own genius, she had as a child selected the heroic masterpieces of the early French tragedians, as the mouth-piece of her genius, and in an age when Romanticism, extravagance, and rhodomontade were at their height, the young priestess stepped forth, and lit the sacred fire on altars grown dim and cold, bringing Frenchmen's hearts back to the worship of what is truest and best in their country's literature. Poor, ill-fed, ill-taught, she had never swerved from her great ideal; and now that she was the idol of the town, overwhelmed with admiration and homage, she did not allow herself to relax in her efforts. If the performance did not come up to her own standard, she tested and tried her effects over and over again, with different poses and gestures. For three years she studied Phèdre, and for those three years she never played it twice alike. Ever endeavouring to attain what she considered the highest goal, with a mind sensitively alive to beauty of expression and form, and a marvellous power of imparting that perception to others, she never appealed to the lower passions of her audience, but strove to exalt her audience to her own level. In reading the strange, sad history of this woman, shall all these years of honest endeavour and love of art for art's sake, count as nothing when weighed in the balance in which her detractors have meted out her merits and demerits so unmercifully?
George Sand, with her liberal mind and sympathetic heart, said of Rachel: "I was not personally acquainted with her, but I know that she ever worshipped and strove towards the great and true in Art, and what better religion can any of us profess than that?"