Rachel (1887 British Edition)

Front matter

Eminent Women Series

EDITED BY JOHN H. INGRAM

RACHEL

Note on Portraits

Many portraits of Rachel were attempted by contemporary artists. Horace Vernet, struck by the Oriental picturesqueness of the type, attempted to perpetuate it; but she only consented to sit once to him, so that in finishing the likeness he lost the individuality and made it a replica of the innumerable Rebeccas and Esthers in his studio. Geffroy introduced her into both his celebrated pictures, representing the Comédie Française in 1840 and in 1852. "I would like you," she writes to a friend, "to see the portrait that my colleague Geffroy has done of your tragédienne in her ermine robes as La Czarina." The portrait will last longer than the play, than the woman, or than the memory of either. A sketch of Rachel, after death, made by Madame O'Connell, was given by Sarah Félix to Émile de Girardin, who in turn gave it to Sarah Bernhardt. The best portrait, however, that was done of her is by Müller, now belonging to her son Alexander Walewski. The whole history of the woman is written in the deep sadness of the eyes, the waxen pallor of the brow and cheeks, which seem worn with the passions and exertions that every night tore the fragile body to pieces, while the tender softness of the expression round the mouth bespeak the mother who wrote: "Come into my heart, dear little one, and find there all the tenderness of which there is an unlimited supply for my sons. It is riches without end that God gives mothers who love their children."

N. H. K.

Chapter 1

CHILDHOOD.

On the 24th March 1821 Élisa Rachel Félix was born in the Soleil d'Or, principal inn of the small village of Munf, in the canton of Aarau, Switzerland.

The only record still existing of the event is an entry made by the burgomaster of Aarau, to the effect that the wife of a pedlar (la femme d'un homme qui colportait) had been confined of a female child in the village of Munf. The entry bears no mention of family or nationality, and is not recorded in any civil or religious register.

The Félix family came originally from Germany, but Rachel's father, born in Metz, had been naturalised a Frenchman. Abraham Félix was superior in intellect to his station, and had studied in his youth with the intention of becoming a rabbi; subsequently, urged by the necessity of earning a livelihood, he forsook the Church and became a travelling commission agent and merchant. Business affairs did not prosper with him, however, and he gradually sank into a position not much better than that of a travelling pedlar. Accom- panied by his wife, Esther Haya, he wandered from town to town, and from fair to fair, pursuing, like the majority of itinerant Jews, a variety of avocations, selling whatever suited the market for the time being. They had only arrived in Munf a few days before Rachel's birth, and left it a few days after, helped on their road by the charitable contributions of some of the Israelite inhabitants of the village.

In consequence of this nomad existence each child of the Félix family was native of a different place, and each in turn was looked upon as a burden by the mother and an expense by the father. Several died in childhood; six only lived to grow up—Sarah, Rachel, Raphaël, Leah, Dinah, and Rebecca. Sarah, the eldest, was born in Germany, in the midst of the old customs and traditions of the nationality to which she belonged, and ever remained the most thoroughly Jewish member of the family. Raphaël was born in Macon, Rebecca (known for some years as Rosalie) was born in Lyons, and Dinah (known as Emilia) in Paris.

For ten successive years the family wandered through Switzerland and Germany, until at last, aided by the energy and industry of his wife, Abraham was able to take a small lodging in Lyons, where Esther sold and mended old theatrical dresses, and he gave lessons in German. The children were obliged to help towards paying the expenses of the household. Sarah, the eldest, went through the streets singing, accompanied by her younger sister, Rachel, who collected the few pence they were able to obtain from the charity of the passers-by. They often trundled a third child in a little cart between them, thus adding to the interest they excited, and relieving their mother of the care of the baby for a short time.

Rachel would relate with great glee in later days, how, once or twice, when their exchequer was very low, and they were ashamed to go home with so little, she had pretended to faint, hoping thus to work on the pity of the audience. One day the performance was so good that the proprietor of the café, opposite to which they had been singing, took her up in his arms and carried her inside, where they warmed her, fed her, and gave her a glass of wine. A hat was then sent round among the customers, and as much as ten francs collected. Already the theatrical instinct had begun to show itself: unconsciously she was preparing for the great fainting scene in Les Horaces, with which later, in this very town of Lyons, she electrified the populace. "Cette ville de Lyon me rappelle toute mon enfance," she whites to her father ten years later, when enjoying one of the greatest triumphs of her brilliant career.

The "Lyonnais," who refused a few sous to the little beggar girl, were then only too anxious to draw her carriage through the streets, and present her with gold crowns, amply rewarded by a smile or nod from the great tragedian. It is said that during that celebrated visit in 1843, escaping one night from the crowd that came to do her honour, she wandered off to visit the different parts of the city she had been in the habit of frequenting with her sister. On arriving at a small café near the Théâtre des Celestins, she seated herselt at one of the tables and ordered some refreshments; but she who, as a little girl, would have eaten voraciously of brioches à un sou la pièce, now turned away contemptuously from what was set before her. The people round also began to recognise the idol of the moment, and she was obliged to hasten away from their importunity. She had won all she had ever hoped for in her most ambitious dreams. Fame, riches, applause—all were hers in abundance; and yet, perhaps, she could not help feeling with regret that the light-hearted irresponsibility of those childish days of poverty and suffering was gone never to return.

Towards 1830 the Félix family found their way to Paris, where they continued the same struggle for existence as in Lyons. The early details of a career that begins in obscurity and rises into sudden notoriety are almost always contradictory and misleading, but most of those we give here concerning Rachel are taken from her own lips: she was fond of talking of her childhood to her intimate friends. Monsieur Arséne Houssaye was one of them, and has given us in his sketch entitled La Comédienne a description of both the sisters as they went about the streets of Paris in those days when, as she would say later, "she had learnt the actress's best art, of being only sad at home." "Is it any wonder," she remarked to someone on another occasion, "I should be so fond of money, considering the suffering I went through in my youth to earn a few sous." For to this proud, sensitive young Bohemian, imbued already with a certain artistic appreciation, it must have been intense suffering thus to exhibit herself to a careless, unappreciative crowd. On the other hand, Sarah, the elder by some years, liked the vulgar applause and admiration that her beauty and youth excited.

The two sisters formed in every way a remarkable contrast: the one with her rosy cheeks, fair hair, and self-confident expression; the other pale, subdued, with head bent forward under the wreath of artificial flowers that encircled it. Rachel would relate, Hous- saye tells us, how, one day, when singing in the Place Royale, a benevolent-looking man, with kindly eyes, stopped as he went by, and, attracted by the look of intelligence in the younger girl's face, put a five-franc piece into her hand. She took the piece of silver, and watched the receding figure, while close beside her she heard a voice say, "That is Victor Hugo." Little did the great poet think the pale-faced child was one day destined to effect a complete revolution in that world of art of which he was then the head.

A much more important meeting than this, so far as the young tragedian's future was concerned, was the one with Étienne Choron, teacher of a class of sacred music that held its meetings in the Rue Vaugirard. The story goes that one day, walking along the Boulevards, he heard the sisters sing, and pressed through the crowd that had gathered round them. He saw a little girl of ten or twelve, thinly clad, standing in the snow, the very picture of misery. With her benumbed fingers she held out a wooden bowl for a sou. Choron dropped a silver coin into it. His heart was touched, and the deepest feeling of interest for the child was awakened. "Who taught you to sing so well?" he asked. "Nobody, Sir," was the answer; "I have learnt as I could." "But where did you hear those airs you sang just now?" "I picked them up here and there; when I go about the streets, I listen under the windows to those ladies and gentlemen who sing, and try to catch the tune and the words, and afterwards arrange them the best way I can." "You are cold and hungry. Come both of you with me; I will provide for you." Choron led them away, and little Rachel and her sister never appeared on the Boulevards again.

After attending the School of Sacred Music for some time, the master came to the conclusion that the metallic and harsh tones of Rachel's voice made his pupil more suited to declamation than singing; he also found her less apt, and less easy to teach, than her sister Sarah. In a letter addressed to the girl's parents, quoted by M. Jules Lecomte in the Figaro newspaper, he says:—

Élisa takes up much more of my time than her sister, for she has not so good a memory, is less industrious and has not nearly her facility.

So much for academic opinions. Sarah, to the last day that she appeared on the stage, sang hopelessly out of tune, and never rose beyond mediocrity as an actress. It seems difficult to reconcile the statement regarding Rachel's want of industry with the energy displayed by her later: as yet the impetus of enthusiasm for her art had evidently not been given.

In the following letter, which was enclosed in the one from Choron quoted above, she seems anxious already to disarm her father's and mother's displeasure. Having been written at the early age of twelve, it is both badly spelt and expressed, not indeed that at any time of her life was the great actress careful as to her orthography:—

Dear Parents,

I am unable to express my great joy in receiving your letter. I was afraid something had happened to you, so long a time had passed without my hearing. I am delighted at the idea of seeing you soon and showing you the progress I have made. M. Choron is very pleased and is so good to me. I can only show my gratitude by working hard. Good-bye dear father and mother. Receive the assurance of my deep respect. Your obedient daughter sends you a kiss, as well as to my little brother Raphaël and my sister Rebec.

Élisa.

Another letter, written about this time, should be quoted; the spelling and method of expression are almost as eccentric:—

My Dear Mother,

Forgive me for not having sent a letter sooner, but, as my sister is older than me, I thought it better for her to tell you all the news. I will only tell you that everyone is still satisfied with me, and continues to love me, especially Mademoiselle Alexandrine. I am always called Pierrot (Sparrow), and I must say I deserve it, for I am as giddy as a real Pierrot. I am working to deserve the kisses you will give me when you come. Be sure you execute the commission I give you, and that is to embrace thirty millions of times my dear papa, the little girl that loses her shoes, and my little Rosalie.

Your obedient and submissive daughter,

Pierrot Élisabeth Félix.

Élisa, as she was still called, often annoyed her master by her gipsy-like love of wandering. She called her brother Raphaël "the Wandering Jew," but she had a great deal of the same restlessness even in those early years. Caged in the class-room, she was like the sparrow whose name they had given her, and whenever she could she escaped to the neighbouring Bois de Boulogne, to sit for hours in the sunshine, singing and gathering flowers. One day, we are told, Choron, while walking through the woods, heard voices singing the hymns he taught. He was astonished; he never had succeeded in inducing his pupils to perform so well in school. Approaching nearer, what was his amusement to see the little Rachel, standing in the midst of a circle, filling his position as conductor, armed with a stick with which she beat time with the greatest solemnity and energy.

The following is a letter of excuse, written on one of these occasions. For the sake of the archness and freshness of expression, we give this one in its original French:—

Mon bon Maître,

Vous m'excuserai si je ne viens pas prendre ma leçon parce que je vais au Bois de Boulogne. Mais j'étais très fatigué. Maman, m'a amenè au baint, et aprés je suis rentré à la maison j'ai dejeuné, et me suis couché. Ah ne me grondez pas, car je ne pouvez pas sortir!

Élisa.

In spite of differences of opinion between master and pupil, however, Rachel always cherished a feeling of affection for Choron. We find her, in 1840, when the little girl who was "neither apt nor industrious" had risen to the zenith of her fame, and was making Europe thrill with her name, writing thus to M. Laurentie:—

Sir,

9th February 1840.

I have only for the first time to-day read a work that you published in 1838, entitled Fragments de Morale et de Littérature. I very much regret not having seen it before, but I have only lately eared for study or devoted myself to reading. I cannot delay, Monsieur, telling you of the delight your Chapter on M. Choron caused me. He was my first master, and his memory is very dear to me. You have described him exactly. His numerous pupils, who all remember him with affection, owe you a great debt of gratitude. I hope you will at least allow me to pay mine, and accept my most respectful thanks.

Chapter 2

GIRLHOOD.

In December 1834, Rachel definitely left the school in the Rue Vaugirard. As the months went on, she showed less capacity for singing and more for declamation. Choron had hoped to develop a contralto voice, but hers exceeded the ordinary contralto compass. He determined, therefore, to persuade his friend Pagnon Saint Aulaire, who educated pupils for the stage independently of the Conservatoire, to take her into his class. Like Choron, Saint Aulaire recognised the girl's dramatic genius, and for four years devoted himself to the task of developing it. Not only did he teach her declamation, but he made her read the best French authors, and endeavoured to improve her style of expression in writing and speaking, which, as we have seen, was entirely uncultured. The rôles of Hermione, Iphigenia, and Marie Stuart, were imprinted by him in his pupil's memory, word by word, line by line, intonation by intonation. Master and pupil discussed and fought over every detail. She preferred to study the part of Dorinne in Tartuffe, Philaminte in Les Femmes Savantes, or Lisette in Les Folies Amoureuses. She laughed at those who declared that her voice and appearance were only suited for tragedy, and it was with the greatest difficulty that her master could persuade her of the justice of the decision. It is noteworthy that to the last day she occupied the stage Rachel retained her love of comic parts, in which none of her best dramatic qualities appeared. On the 1st of July 1844, she ventured to act Mariette on the boards where she had just enchanted her Parisian audience with Phêdre, and is said to have affirmed that her representation of the soubrettes part was better than that of the Greek Queen.

Now and then Saint Aulaire received the reward of his trouble by a flash of genius and comprehension that startled him. He had hired the Salle Molière, and allowed his pupils to act there once a week. The arrangements relating to these performances were unique in their way. A list of the pieces to be played being hung up, anyone by selecting his part and paying for it—the amount charged being in proportion to the importance of the character—could strut his brief hour upon the stage; the amount expended in acting was returned in tickets, so that the aspiring amateurs were always sure of an audience. Here one day Rachel recited the narrative of Salema in l'Abufar of Ducis, describing the anguish of the mother who, while dying of thirst in the desert, gives birth to her child. While uttering the thrilling story, the thin face seemed to lengthen with horror, the small deep-set black eyes dilated with a fixed stare, as though she witnessed the harrowing scene, and the deep guttural tones, despite a slight Jewish accent, awoke a nameless terror in the hearer, carry- ing him through the imaginary woe with a strange feeling of reality not to be shaken off, as long as the sounds lasted. The audience listened with rapt attention, and the sigh of pent-up agitation with which they greeted her at the end, expressed their emotion better than the loudest applause. Still she had to cope with grave disadvantages. The voice, afterwards Rachel's greatest charm, was then harsh and unmusical; the figure, afterwards so graceful, was then stunted and thin; the face, afterwards so expressive and mobile, was then pale and ugly.

Her appearance at this time is thus graphically described by one, an intimate friend in later years, who saw her for the first time in 1834:—

It was a cold grey November morning. Rachel was dressed in a short calico frock, the pattern of which was the common one of a red ground spotted with white; the trousers were of the same material; the boots of coarse black leather, laced in front, but scrupulously polished. Her hair was parted at the back of the head, and hung down her shoulders in two plaits. Everything about the child was of the cheapest and plainest description, but the "ensemble" conveyed an idea of neatness and even precision—characteristics for which she was always noted. With those older than herself [he goes on to say] little Rachel was punctiliously polite; grave and simple beyond her years, every feature of the long childish face bore the impress of modesty and even dignity, with which education had little to do.

M. Villemont, the correspondent of the Indépendance Belge, also describes Rachel at this period of her life:—

It was at the Salle Molière, where Saint Aulaire made his pupils act, that I first saw her in 1835. One of my friends, a young man of good family, who was possessed with the passion for private theatricals, invited me to witness his performance of the part of Danville in the École des Vieillards. As we entered the theatre, my friend stopped and spoke to a thin half-starved-looking little girl, who leant against a column, under a smoky lamp. "Élisa, would you rather have a bun or fried potatoes?" he asked. "Fried potatoes," was the answer.

My friend, who from being accustomed to play the parts of kings and nobles, had acquired habits of reckless prodigality, handed her a two-sous piece. I followed his example. The child disappeared and returned almost immediately, bearing a paper horn of fried potatoes, temptingly hot and brown. She offered the "horn" to my friend and myself, and this was the only time I ever partook of a meal with Mademoiselle Rachel.

In 1836 Saint Aulaire applied to the then director of the Comédie Française, Jouslin de la Salle, on behalf of his pupil "La petite Diablesse," as he called her. Jouslin gives the following account of the interview:—

Saint Aulaire entered my office one morning and spoke with extreme animation about a poor Jewish girl, whom he described to me as the ideal of tragedy, and the only person capable of recalling the chefs d'ouvres of our tragic repertory. It was Rachel for whom the professor demanded an audience, which I granted on the spot. Mademoiselle Mars, myself, and Mademoiselle Anaïs were the only persons present. Saint Aulaire recited with the débutante, who was then very small. She had selected Hermione in Andromaque and Mariette in the Dépit Amoureux. She commenced with the latter, in which she showed no remarkable talent; but she had hardly finished in Andromaque the ironical passage "The Farewell to Orestes" than we uttered exclamations of surprise. For a very long time we had not heard the verses declaimed with so much precision or such energy. The performance over, Mademoiselle Mars kissed the young girl (who was quite moved by the success she had just achieved) and evinced great interest in her. Upon the remark that she was very short for the parts of queens and great heroines, the characters she had decided on playing, Mars reminded us that Mademoiselle Maillet, the great tragic actress, was still shorter. "Besides," she added, "it is a good fault, the child will grow."

What a scene for a picture! Mars—the beautiful and successful Mars—who had reigned a queen for so long, and who still retained a great deal of the grace and beauty that enchanted the France of the latter end of the preceding century, and the pale dark-faced Jewess, with the eyes of flame, who was destined to take the sceptre that was dropping from the elder woman's grasp. The result of this audience was that Rachel obtained an engagement at the Comédie Française to play children's parts at a salary of eight hundred francs a year. The rôle of her début was even decided on, Louison in La Fausse Agnès; she rehearsed; her dress was ordered, made, and tried on; and then, for some reason which has never been explained, and of which the theatre does not even possess a trace, this first engagement was never fulfilled, and Rachel went off to the Conservatoire.

Here she did not seem to obtain the notice she merited, and made little progress. Samson, then at the height of his reputation, saw her, but refrained from expressing an opinion as to her powers; Michelet declared her voice to be so unmusical as to unfit her for the stage; and Provost—the harsh and violent Provost—informed her in the most offensive manner, after one lesson, that she was only fit to do what she had done before—sell flowers in the streets. The story goes, that some months later, having played Hermione to a crowded house, and having been recalled with storms of applause to receive a perfect ovation of flowers, she bent down, picked up some, and, filling her Greek tunic with them, approached Provost, and with saucy grace held it out, saying, "I have followed your advice, M. Provost, I am selling bouquets, will you buy?"

Meantime, neglected and despised, the poor girl worked on until an insult was put upon her, by the professors, which she would not bear. Tartuffe had been announced for representation by the pupils; she was assigned the part of Flipote the servant-girl, who simply appears upon the scene in the first act, that her ears may be boxed by Madame Pernelle. Humiliation could no further go, and she left the Conservatoire in high dudgeon, only to suffer still further, for a severely inflamed throat necessitated the cutting of her tonsils; and for months she remained at home in enforced idleness.

Disheartened, but animated still oy one idea, one passion, as soon as she was able to speak again she went to her old friend Saint Aulaire, who promised to do what he could for her. Like all their nationality, Rachel's family were superstitious: Madame Félix told fortunes by cards. "I often cried as a child," Rachel would say in later years, "when my mother predicted ill-luck." This evening when she returned to the wretched garret they inhabited in the Rue des Lions-Saint Paul, she asked her mother to tell her fortune. It turned out a brilliant one, and the little girl went to bed full of hopes for the future. Next day she received a message that M. Poirson, manager of the Gymnase Theatre, wished to see her, on the recommendation of M. Saint Aulaire. She went, accompanied by her father, and gave such satisfaction by her acting of the part of Éryphile that Poirson immediately offered to engage her. The following account of the interview is given by M. de Mirecourt:—

"What salary do you expect, Mademoiselle?" asked Poirson.

The young girl looked at her father, who hastened to answer in his German-French patois, "Nous falons teux mille vrancs, gomme un liard."

"You are worth more than that," said Poirson; "I will give you three thousand, with an annual increase of a third of this sum, if you succeed at my theatre."

"Dres pien! che signe dout te suite!" cried old Félix, astonished at this good fortune.

"We must now decide what name Mademoiselle will adopt on the play-bill. Under no circumstances can I allow that of Élisa to appear."

"Do you like the name of Rachel better?" asked the young girl.

"I should think so. It is the very thing! Keep to that."

On the 1st May 1837 Mademoiselle Rachel Félix was announced to appear on the stage of the Gymnase Theatre in a new play in two acts called La Vendéene, written for her by Paul Duport.

Chapter 3

LA VENDÉENE.

"La Vendéene was one of those plays," Jules Janin tells us, "which the Gymnase has given hundreds of times and will give hundreds of times again. Ephemeral and slight, they are acted a few nights and then sink into oblivion."

This little drama would have shared the same fate had it not been for the young actress who appeared in the principal part. On her account, and on her account alone, it will be remembered as long as dramatic art exists.

The plot was borrowed to a certain extent from Sir Walter Scott's novel of the Heart of Midlothian. A poor girl, daughter of Thibaut, a peasant who has been condemned to death during the insurrection in La Vendée, travels alone and unprotected to Paris, for the sake of imploring Josephine, wife of the First Consul, to use her influence in saving her father's life. The plot is of the simplest. Fresnault has been sent to pacify La Vendée. The General, though a kindhearted man anxious to spare the Vendéens, is devoted heart and soul to the First Consul.

On one occasion he receives an order to arrest and try by court-martial a certain peasant called Thibaut. The command, equivalent to a sentence of death, is brought by Victor, a young captain, aide-de-camp of Bonaparte, cousin of Josephine, and a favourite at Malmaison. When he delivers it he is unconscious of the presence of a young girl, who stands behind, pale and shrinking. He hears her sob, turns, and is so moved by her grief as to forget duty and danger and burn the paper, thus giving Geneviève time to go to Josephine and implore her to save her father's life.

In the second act we are taken from the Vendéene cottage to the gardens at Malmaison, Victor has returned and confessed to Josephine that he has burnt Bonaparte's order, and that she must help him to save Thibaut's life.

Josephine is terrified. She reproaches her cousin for his imprudence, tells him it is a most unpropitious moment to endeavour to save a Vendéan, for a plot, hatched by them, to take the First Consul prisoner and send him to England, had just been discovered. As the young captain, crest-fallen and sad, turns to leave his cousin's presence, he is arrested by order of Bonaparte. Then comes the most touching scene, the one in which Rachel made her first theatrical success. Geneviève has arrived at Malmaison, weary and footsore. Hope and courage have failed her, and she sinks, half-fainting, in a corner of Josephine's drawing-room. When the Empress, proud and triumphant—for this is the first day of her imperial splendour—enters, she is startled by seeing the poorly clad, tearful peasant girl. In a moment Geneviève is at her feet; and so eloquently and well does she plead her cause, that Josephine induces the Emperor to pardon both Thibaut and Victor.

There were two stanzas in particular which the young actress chanted rather than sang:

Je croyais encore l'invoquer: Vers moi soudain elle s'avance, Et du doigt semble en indiquer Une Ville inconnue, immense. Un seul mot rompit le silence: Paris! Et puis elle ajouta, Comme en reponse à ma prière: Vas y seule, à pied—car c'est là Que tu pourras sauver ton père.