Rachel (1887 British Edition)/Chapter 13
PHÈDRE.
"I will act Phèdre! They tell me I am too young, that I am too thin, and a thousand other absurdities. I answer, it is Racine's finest rôle: I am determined to act it!" Rachel spoke these words to Alfred de Musset on the 29th May 1839. On the 24th January 1843 the young actress appeared in this her greatest part. It was those three years that matured Rachel's powers. She would not have acted Phèdre so effectively in 1839 as in 1843. The scene with Hipolyte in the fourth act was the outcry of her own quivering and betrayed heart.
A theatrical critic tells us that "tragic intensity is nothing more than the perfection of art," and to prove it he says that he remembers being behind the scenes in a theatre when Rachel was thrilling an audience before the curtain. When she came off she was perfectly cool and collected. "I asked her whether she really had felt what she had been portraying. Her reply was to parody the scene."
No doubt sometimes, when the flash of inspiration is absent, the greatest actor supplies its place with simulative art, it is impossible to expect him always to feel the passion he portrays with the same intensity; but he must have conceived at the beginning their effects, or he never could have conveyed their expression to his audience. The great danger, however, of trusting to art and not to true inspiration is that after a time the representation becomes rigid and cold: this was the determining cause of the deterioration in Rachel's genius towards the end of her career, the soul had gone out of her impersonations; instead of being instinct with life, they became hard and formal. She felt this herself when she said to her sister Sarah on her death-bed, "In studying, take my word for it, declamation and gesture are of little avail. You have to think to weep."
These three years of suffering and obloquy were also three years of energetic and unintermittent study. Amidst all the instability and excitable restlessness of her nature, Rachel had the persistence of purpose which is the test of true genius. Once she felt assured of her capacity to act a part, no influence deterred her from doing so—no exterior inducement was allowed to interfere with her calm determination to master the subject. Intense as was the emotion she felt, she set about the work with mechanical steadiness, using the emotion as a tool to be made use of when needed.
This fragile young girl had an iron will when she wished to rise to the level of an exalted ideal. She was one of the most remarkable examples of natural genius that ever existed, but, at the same time, an example of how hard-working genius ever is. There was no hesitation, no faltering; the more difficult was the rôle of Phèdre, the more indefatigably she worked at it. Not one of the effects that delighted and electrified her audience but was studied and tried with the most astounding perseverance. She played Phèdre every evening for two years, and Jules Janin declared she always played it differently in certain scenes. It was only when she returned from St. Petersburg, in 1846, that she had reached the extreme perfection of conception and execution which placed her indisputably in the foremost rank of her profession. "I have studied my sobs (in the fourth act of Phèdre)," she wrote to her old teacher, Samson. "I do not dare to boast for the second representation; but I am sure they are coming. Not having seen you behind the scenes, I will make a point of looking at you as I come on, and will soon see if you are pleased."
Those were the sobs which seemed to everyone that heard them to proceed from the depths of some divine despair, as she exclaimed, "Misérable et je vis!"
Phèdre was incomparably Rachel's greatest inspiration. In it she touched heights that had never been touched before. This woman, devoured by unlawful passion, became, interpreted by her, so pathetic, so grand, that the audience were forced to attribute her wickedness and treachery, as did the ancient Greeks, to a curse of the gods, and not to her own wrong-doing.
Phèdre, the culminating point of French tragedy, has ever been looked on as a test play for all great actresses. The whole range of human feelings, love, fear, grief, jealousy, revenge, repentance, all that can move and excite an audience, are represented in three stages of development by one central figure; and yet, though a prey to all these passions, the daughter of Pasiphæ, both in Euripides' and Racine's tragedy, remains an elevated person, victim of the persecutions of Aphrodite. Being thus absolved from moral responsibility, she is likewise saved from moral obliquity. Racine seldom allows himself thus to adopt a Greek myth, and it is hardly necessary to show how enormously the complex idea of the interference of the gods increases the difficulty of giving an idea of the character to a modern audience; for, although a woman in her weakness and her sin, Phèdre must be almost divine in her sorrow and her love. And it was from this point of view that Rachel so immeasurably surpassed all other actresses. Sarah Bernhardt, who in this role has most nearly approached her, is weak, unequal, passionate. We see all the viciousness of Phèdre, and none of her grandeur. She breaks herself to pieces against the huge difficulties of the conception, and does not succeed in moving us. In the second scene, where Phèdre, thinking her husband is dead, confesses her incestuous passion to the object of it, Sarah Bernhardt never rises above the level of an Aventurière or a Frou-Frou. Rachel was the mouth-piece of the gods; no longer a free agent, she poured forth every epithet of adoration that Aphrodite could suggest, clambering up higher and higher in the intensity of her emotion, whilst her audience hung breathless, riveted on every word, and only dared to burst forth in thunders of applause after she had vanished from their sight.
When Racine was blamed by Arnauld for departing from the simplicity of the ancient Greek fable by introducing the character of Aricie, he is said to have replied, "Mais qu'auraient dit nos petits-maîtres?" An interesting comparison might be made between the drama as understood by Racine and the drama as understood by Euripides, typifying thereby the difference 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 still more my inability to go to you, as I lose the prospect not only of pleasant society, but also of listening to fine verses well declaimed, and I confess I have a weakness for both. I devote myself every day to Judith. I should like to repeat some portions at my house one Thursday. Let me know if you authorise me to do so. Should you have the least objection, do not scruple to say so.
On the 21st June of this year she wrote to Madame de Girardin from Marseilles:—
The Marseillais are charming. If their enthusiasm were a little less noisy I should be quite in love with them. They do not take out my horses, certainly, but they prevent my carriage from moving. It takes me an hour and a half to advance a hundred steps on my return home in the evening. The last time I acted, hoping to escape more easily on foot, I begged M. Méry to give me his arm. Hardly had we reached the door than we were recognised, and crushed, smothered, pushed by an increasing crowd. The eloquence of my companion was unavailing against the enthusiasm of the good Marseillais. We had to take refuge in a hatter's shop, whose door was soon besieged. The Commissary of Police came to offer his assistance and the protection of about twenty soldiers. We, however, disdainfully rejected his suggestion, and, confident in the good nature of the crowd, we showed ourselves and begged them to let us pass. A thunder of applause was their only answer, and, amidst acclamations and expressions of good-will, I made a triumphal entry into my hôtel. Flattered as I felt, I was nearly dead with fatigue, and determined they should not catch me again.
Les Horaces has been the great success, the bye-play being particularly admired. Sincerely, I did not expect so much from the people of Marseilles. They show their affection, too, in a most substantial manner. The receipts have reached an unprecedented sum—8,200 francs. I am very proud, especially as they tell me those of Talma never exceeded 5,500. Certainly times have changed.
I cannot finish my letter without telling you of a piece of audacity, which frightens me when I recall it in cold blood. In the middle of one of the most stirring scenes of Bajazet, someone took it into his head to throw me a wreath. I took no notice, wishing to keep in the part (rester en situation), while the audience shouted, "The wreath! the wreath!" Atalide, thinking more of the public than of her rôle, picked up the wreath and offered it to me. Indignant at the vandalism of the proceeding, worthy of an opera audience, I took the unlucky wreath, and, throwing it brusquely on one side, went on with Roxane. Fortune favours the brave. Never was there a stronger proof of this axiom. Three salvos of applause greeted this unpremeditated act.
To her mother she wrote:—
This is the sixth day of my stay at Marseilles, and I have not seen a street, except the one leading from the hôtel to the theatre, from the theatre to the hôtel. I will confess to you, however, that, although I arrived alone in this town, I have not been dull for a moment. Certainly nothing could have been more flattering than my reception. Mademoiselle Rose [her faithfully-attached servant, who nursed and tended her on her death-bed] begs to be remembered to all of you. She finds the coffee in the south very bad, and is in despair. I do not complain, as everything is so cheap. On my return to Paris I will make you laugh by an account of the difficulty I had in finding a place to put up at. All the hôtels, inns, cabarets, wished to take possession of me. Each puffed his own place. One cried when I ventured to leave him; the other tore his hair; a third threatened to commit suicide, "because," as he said, "my hôtel is the best, the largest, and I and my house will be dishonoured if the greatest artist of France and Navarre does not stop with me." After much discussion, to clinch the matter he at last said, "I will not ask you to pay anything." I was touched by this unexpected and sublime effort of despair, and I finished by doing a good action and accepting the offer of the one who was most unhappy and most anxious. Miserable man! Little did he recognise his position. The first day I nearly ate him out of house and home, and my companions wanted for nothing. In the middle of the night I was seized with indigestion. Providence punished me for my greed. I made up my mind next morning. I sent for the mistress of the hôtel, and said to her, with one of my tragic looks, "Madame, after what has happened to-night, I can no longer remain without payment in your hôtel. I was tempted to eat too much. You must, therefore, accept some money. You will be permitted to take as little as possible."
We came to terms. My lodging, salon, bedroom, dining-room, room for keeping my clothes, two servants' rooms, ten francs; very well. Dinner at home, four francs; perfect! Breakfast, one franc; delightful! Servants' keep for two, six francs. I have nothing to say. And that day I only ate exactly what they gave me. I could not wait until my return to tell you this story, which I consider historical; but, remember, if I have laid on my colours too thickly, it is to make you, papa, and the dear little ones laugh. Ah! I am tired of holding my pen; it will fall from my hands. Not wishing to make an ugly blot, I embrace you a thousand times.
This is not one of Rachel's most amusing letters; but we give it because it shows her happy in her work, proud of popularity honestly won, and full of confidence in the affection of those to whom she wrote. In the beginning of July she went on to Lyons, the city where her mother had kept an old-clothes shop, where her younger sister Rebecca was born, and where she and her sister Sarah had wandered about the streets singing, to try and obtain a few coppers from the charity of passers-by. "Cette ville de Lyon que me rapelle toute mon enfance," as she wrote to her father. Now she was received with acclamations, treated like a queen, surrounded with every luxury that money and affection could procure for her.
That "sensibility" that Talma declared to be one of the principal requisites for a great actor was not—at this time, certainly—absent from Rachel's heart. A story is told of her hearing of a Jewish family that was reduced to the lowest stages of want. Having ascertained all necessary details of the case, she repaired on the following day to the sixth floor of a house in one of the poorest quarters of the town. Here she found a workman, his wife, and six children, without bread, clothes, or shoes. The gift of 300 francs which the visitor had brought for their relief called forth a torrent of blessings and fervent thanks. Not content with this munificent donation, the young actress stopped at a shoemaker's on her way home and ordered eight pairs of shoes to be sent to them.
We must give in its entirety a very interesting letter written by the young tragedian to her brother Raphaël. She places before us plainly enough what she considered the honourable views and aims of a dramatic student. Raphaël, four years older than Rebecca, was born in 1825. He made his first appearance at the Odéon in November 1843 at the same time as his younger sister. We can imagine how inexperienced he must have been, since Rachel, in the preceding month of July, does not know whether he has definitely decided on a theatrical career or not.
My dear Little Big Raphaël,
The motive which prevented you from writing to me sooner is too praiseworthy to allow me to be the least offended. I am not astonished at your sympathy for poor Victor, and now I regret sincerely that I did not listen to him when he described his position, which I could hardly believe to be so desperate; but now I am a little consoled since the charity he required has come from the family. Thanks for him and thanks for myself.
Now, dear little brother, tell me what are your pursuits and intentions for the future?—for you have no time to lose. You will soon be a man, and you ought to know that the frock does not make the monk (que l'habit ne fait pas le moine). If, as I foresee, your vocation is for the theatre, try at least to elevate the art; make a conscientious business of it, not to achieve a position, as a young girl out of a convent is married that she may be able to dance six times at a ball instead of three, but because you love it, and have a passion for those works that feed the mind and guide the heart aright. My dear little brother, you have just rendered so great a service to a young man that I must express my approbation by proffering advice to you.
A woman can achieve an honourable position without, perhaps, having that polish the world justly calls education. Why? you will ask. Because a woman does not lose any of her charm, but on the contrary, by observing an extreme reserve of manner and demeanour. A woman answers questions, she does not ask them; she never opens a discussion, she listens. Her natural desire to please makes her wish to educate herself. She retains what she learns, and, without a solid foundation, she thus acquires that superficial culture which often passes for real culture. But a man—what a difference! All that a woman cannot know is all-important to a man. By culture he increases his pleasures, diminishes his sufferings, varies his joys, and passes, besides, for un homme d'esprit. Meditate on this, and if at first it seems hard to you, remember that you have a sister who will be proud, happy in your success, a sister who will love you with all her heart. I hope this letter will not have wearied you, but that, on the contrary, you will sometimes employ your leisure time reading it.
I embrace you tenderly.
This year, 1843, was the climax of Rachel's artistic career. By cultivating her love for "those works that feed the mind and guide the heart aright," she had climbed from height to height, ever aspiring, ever striving, until the ultimate goal was reached. The rest was but a descent, an anti-climax. Weary, broken down in health, she travelled over the world, computing her art only at its money value, while the brother whom she addressed in this elevated strain became nothing more nor less than his sister's showman during her disastrous tour in America.
Aided by her influence and his own handsome person, he appeared at the Comédie Française three years later in the rôle of Curiace in Les Horaces. He had no great talent, and soon gave up the stage, and became manager and organizer of theatrical tours abroad. In 1872 he undertook the direction of the Porte Saint Martin Theatre, and died in the same year when on a journey to London. Poor Raphaël! We wonder if he ever "employed his leisure time" reading his sister's letter, and meditating upon the way in which he and she had fallen away from the ideal of those early days.
Yet one or two more letters from this marvellous year, 1843, the last in which we shall see the actress indulging in that light-hearted fun which at the beginning of her career was one of her great attractions. On the 12th August she wrote from Interlaken to Madame Samson:—
Dear Madame Samson,
Your daughters have gone. You must be very lonely; perhaps a letter from me will cheer you up. I have need of a stimulus to write, for I am in a state of health that makes me unfit for anything. For the last month I have been suffering from internal inflammation. My appetite has disappeared, and with it my gaiety and strength. I am at Interlaken, where I take baths of skimmed milk. I have benefited from them, I think, and begin to eat a little more. Unfortunately we leave this directly, to return by slow stages to Paris and I am afraid that my irritation may begin again, and I may be obliged to go to bed as soon as I arrive. That would neither suit me nor the theatre. By remaining five or six days longer I, most likely, should have been perfectly well. But what would Messieurs les Sociétaires say if I were not home by the 25th? What conjectures, what statements, what gossip! I am determined, therefore, to start. I began my journey by Geneva, thence to Chamounix. I ascended from Montanvert to see the Mer de Glace. Imagine a stormy sea on the top of the mountains struck motionless by divine power. Nothing can be imagined finer or more striking than this sight. Ill as I was, it enchanted me.
After the great drama comes the vaudeville. In the inn at the top of Montanvert a party of real Parisians, quite hot from the passage de l'Opéra, was stopping. A large man, probably a stockbroker, habitué of the Variétés or the Café Anglais; three young women, whose travelling dresses were copied with the greatest exactness from the Journal des Modes; and two young collegians, travelling evidently to finish their education. One of the ladies thought she recognised me. "How like Rachel she is!" "But it is Rachel herself!" answered one of the collegians. "I saw her quite lately in Phèdre. Her face has remained imprinted on my memory." "Come, come," answered the old habitué of the Café Anglais; "Rachel is not nearly as pretty as this charming person." I will spare you any more of the discussion, which, becoming heated, reached the point of either a free-fight or a bet. The latter carried the day; but you will never guess the prize. A leg of mutton! The ingenious youth undertook to solve the mystery. We had left the inn, and, aided by the guides, we ventured, not without fear and trembling, on the mer de glace. Crossing a crevasse, I found myself face to face with the individual whom I had heard make the bet. He was slightly embarrassed at first; then, turning his head a little, he gave expression to the following sentiment: "Nature and art—all are admirable!" He had said to himself "If it is Rachel, she will be flattered by the exquisite delicacy of this insinuating compliment, and will not be able to conceal her satisfaction." But, much more occupied with the slippery ground on which I stood than with the gentleman's flattering words, I passed calmly along. Upon which he turns to his party and cries out, "You see, it is not Rachel: I have gained my bet!" Not wishing, however, to be the innocent cause of so considerable a loss as a leg of mutton, having returned to the inn before the Parisians, I wrote in my best handwriting in the visitors'-book, "Pay the leg of mutton. Sir; I am Rachel!" I kiss you, my dear Madame Samson, as I love you, and that is with my whole heart.
This journey to Switzerland was one of the few undertaken by Rachel simply for amusement and repose. Already we see the cloud of ill-health on the horizon, that was destined to overshadow her life. She wrote to her father from Lyons on the 10th July:—
My dear Father,
I arrived here on the 5th. I was so fatigued with rehearsals and representations at Marseilles that I have only been able to act once in Lyons. To-day I give Andromaque for my second representation. I have had an acute pain in my back for the last ten days. Thinking it would pass away, I said nothing; but now I am painfully aware that it is becoming chronic. I felt it first of all after writing for some time; now I feel it continually, unless when lying down. The pain is on the left side, between the shoulders. I can carry nothing with the left arm without feeling the ache. Damp, I am sure, aggravates it. It has been continuously wet and cold since my arrival. My spirits are depressed, and, as you know, the view from the Hôtel du Nord is not calculated to make one cheerful. It is only when I find myself face to face with an approving public, like the one I meet here for the second time in this town of Lyons, which recalls all my childhood, that I forget my pain and suffering. When I think that I have still eleven representations to give I am frightened at the fatigue. I can only try to find at home the calm and repose each representation robs me of. I make a great effort to write to you, for, as I told you, I suffer a great deal more when I write. Therefore, dear father, as what I have to do to-night is anything but repose, I leave you. hoping that you, mamma, and the children are well. A thousand kisses.