Rachel (1887 British Edition)/Chapter 9
THE FÉLIX FAMILY.
It is now time for us to speak of Rachel's family, that "Félix tribe," of whom such hard things were said and believed. Strict Jews, professing the religion and adhering to the traditions of their race, they inherited some of its weaknesses. Open-handed and generous to one another, they were rapacious and greedy in their dealings with the public. Attached by the strongest ties of affection and clanship, the family peace was sometimes disturbed by dissensions, which hardly entitled them, as their enemies said, to the name of "Félix." Rachel's father was a man of superior intellect and education for his station in life. He showed good sense and judgment in many difficult transactions in which he was called upon to act for his daughter. Rapacious as the public declared him to be, he had a certain sense of justice in his money dealings. He might extort the pound of flesh, but, Shylock-like, "only for use of that which was his own." Calm, slow, and methodical in the ordinary conduct of life, he was sometimes seized with fits of ungovernable rage, during which his family fled in terror, not daring to contradict or withstand him. We have read Védel's description of his behaviour when he declared his daughter should not act Bajazet.
Fortunately, these occurrences were rare. The same sense of justice that influenced him in his money affairs influenced him in his treatment of his children. Proud as he was of his marvellous daughter, he never allowed himself to bestow undeserving or exaggerated praise. He had a natural instinct on the subject of dramatic art, and often gave Rachel advice, of which she was not slow to see the wisdom, and by which, in many instances, she profited largely. He was frequently present at the lessons she took from Samson, and the following amusing account of his interference, quoted from one of the Parisian papers of the time, is given by Madame de B (?):—
The word "Toujours" is to be spoken in Mademoiselle Rachel's rôle. M. Samson advises his pupil to utter it with head erect, loud voice, and firm, resolute tone.
"Thus, raising your head, say, 'Toujours.'"
M. Félix who is present, interposes.
"No, that 's not the way; you must say it mildly, with great feeling; thus, casting your eyes to heaven, 'Tou-jours!'"
M. Samson (annoyed).—"It must be said authoritatively."
M. Félix (getting obstinate).—"It must be spoken tenderly, pathetically."
M. Samson (waxing testy).—"I am her teacher, and must not be interfered with."
M. Félix (furious).—"I am her father, and must be obeyed."
Mademoiselle Rachel, quite bewildered, says the fatal word "toujours" no matter how. M. Samson thinks he discovers the intonation suggested by father Félix, and becomes indignant.
"You are an ungrateful pupil. You are indebted to me for success, and this is how you behave. I've done with you; adieu!"
Mademoiselle Rachel, dismayed at having offended her professor, without whose assistance she can do nothing, says "toujours" as he wishes. There is no mistaking her this time, and father Félix, in his turn, flies into a passion.
"You unnatural child! you rebellious daughter!"
Mademoiselle Rachel bursts into tears, and the lesson ends here, for the pupil's sobs prevent her saying "toujours" in any way.Samson and Félix never agreed. The first open rupture occurred when, the autumn following Rachel's first appearance at the Français, her father demanded what the management considered extortionate terms. It was half what they gave her later, and the whole of that winter the average receipts, every time the young actress played, were 6,000 francs. The Comédie, however, including Samson, were highly indignant, and the story goes that, when Rachel went to take her usual lesson of the old professor, he asked if it were true that she and her father had made the demands stated. She answered in the affirmative, and added that, according to the "Code Civil," she, being a minor, was legally entitled to cancel her engagement and ask for better terms.
"You need no further lessons of me, then," replied the choleric old man. "I teach declamation, not chicanery, and I am not in the habit of associating with those who shape their course by the guidance of the 'Code Civil.' Your talent," he added, dashing to the ground a little statuette of Rachel, "will be destroyed and shattered like that. Go! I never want to see you again."
Abraham Félix, who had waited down below to escort his daughter home, was highly indignant when he heard the account of the interview. The breach between the two was never healed, and we read that, so far was the resentment carried that, a few days before Rachel's funeral, M. Empis, manager of the Comédie Française, received a letter from M. Félix, in which he expressed a hope that someone would speak in the name of the Comédie Française over his daughter's grave; at the same time stating his distinct wish that it should not be Monsieur Samson. The sociétaires resented this insult to their comrade, and no one would take the place of him whom they knew Rachel had loved so well, in spite of the differences that now and then occurred between them.
"Maman Félix," as Rachel always called ner mother, was a true daughter of Israel in her stern and unbending virtue, and in her submission to her irascible and rapacious husband. She bore him many children, and spent many years of her life striving to earn enough to keep the wolf from the door. Rachel ever cherished the deepest affection and respect for her mother. Reverence for parents is one of the traditions of the Jewish race, and in the Félix family it was carried to an almost extreme extent. Even in the full tide of her popularity and fame the great actress remained equally submissive and humble to her parents. Mademoiselle Avenel, one of the "company" who went with Rachel to Germany, recounts an incident that occurred in Berlin. Rachel, wishing to present some souvenir of her gratitude to the Princess Charlotte of Prussia, concluded that the present most likely to gratify her was a copy of Emile Angier's Diane, a unique copy presented to Rachel by the author, and containing on the fly-leaf some complimentary verses addressed to herself. A note had to be written to accompany this offering, and to assist in inditing this Mademoiselle Avenel was called into council. While thus engaged, Rachel requested her mother to ring the bell for the servant. The old lady rose to do so, but not as quickly as her impatient daughter thought necessary, and she reiterated rather peremptorily, "Mais sonnez donc, ma mère." The old lady stopped short, and altering her course towards the door, left the room, saying with the offended dignity of a duchess, "Sonnez vous même, ma fille." Rachel made no reply, but, when the note was despatched, hastened to her mother's room to apologise, and entreat forgiveness for her imperious behaviour.
Rachel's letters to her family are all charming, but those to her mother are more especially so.
"On ne remercie pas une mère des ennuis, des fatigues qu'on lui cause; on l'aime, et jamais on ne s'acquitte envers elle et voilà!" she wrote a few months before her death.
In her relations with her family, Rachel shows at her best. She might be selfish, heartless, grasping to others, but to them she showed all her affection, kindness, and generosity. Both father and mother died some years after her, and both left considerable fortunes, which had been bestowed upon them by their daughter. In 1841 she gave them a luxuriously-furnished apartment, and took a country house for them in the Vallée de Montmorency, where they lived the greater part of the year. Her great delight was to retire there for a time, surrounded by father, mother, brother, and sisters. Jules Janin relates how,
one summer evening, the actress, in all the brilliancy of her youth and beauty, was seated in her garden contemplating the scene with delight. Applauded, admired, worshipped, she was the pride and joy of Paris. The evening before M. de Chateaubriand had conducted her on his arm to the theatre; that morning her carriage had been stopped by a crowd of all that was noble and distinguished in Paris, that they might inquire after her health. On her table lay a letter from Victor Hugo, rendering homage to the young muse who had for the moment dethroned him and his romantic following. There she was, at twenty-five, in the zenith of her power and popularity. Up above sang the nightingales. A little way off her brothers and sisters played and laughed, while close by sat her father and mother. Her happiness was complete.
Suddenly, one of the company present [evidently Janin himself] turned to the young girl and said: "What have you done with your red velvet bonnet of the month of July 1838?" Rachel, waking out of the dreamland where she had been wandering, smiled and answered, "What a memory you have! I should think I did remember my red bonnet. Maman made it," and she smiled across at her mother; "it was intended to be a summer and winter bonnet—the velvet for winter, the yellow rose in front for summer. I can recall the making of that bonnet so well, the satisfaction of my mother, the pride of my father, the astonishment of my younger sisters. I wore it during the first six months of my début. I used to put it on for rehearsal in the morning, put it on to go to my work in the evening, and naturally I put it on when sometimes my mother took me to the play. On one occasion Mademoiselle Mars was acting (I had appeared in Hermione the evening before and the receipts had amounted to 700 francs), and I was given a free ticket for the gallery. Imagine my delight. I presented myself with my red bonnet. Despair I they stopped me as I was going in. 'Where are you going dressed like that?' cried out one of the men at the box office, and all I could succeed in obtaining was a place among the gods against a column. And I now remember," she added, with a serious look, "that an old gentlemen, seeing how rudely I had been treated, stopped me as I was ascending the stairs to the third gallery. 'Ah! Mademoiselle,' he said, with a sweeping bow, 'there are people who ought to regret one day their want of respect for your bonnet, and I know some, beginning with an old fellow like myself, who would proudly carry your yellow rose in his button-hole.' He spoke, bowed, and disappeared, and mamma and I and the yellow rose ascended to the top."
Receiving, morning and evening, as she was at this time, more flowers than she could take away, and possessing more jewels and gowns than she could wear, she could afford to joke about the red velvet bonnet with the yellow rose, strong in that philosophy taught by sudden changes of fortune. She would turn from the adulation and luxury of her years of success, and seek repose in intimate familiarity with her family and friends, loving to recall the thoughtless days and poetic hopes of her youth and poverty. She wrote on the 7th June 1814, to her mother:—
My dear Mother,
Although my last letter was from Raphaël and Rebecca, I answer to you to let you know how well I am. Although I have had a very fatiguing week, I do not feel in the least the worse for it. Catherine twice, and Horace for Corneille's anniversary, have been the parts I have acted. Thank goodness my work is over. The theatre is satisfied with my devotion, the public has expressed its opinion by continued applause, and I am content and happy. After work comes play; I have arranged, therefore, a picnic out-of-doors, in the woods, such as we used to have several years ago, in less happy times, and I invite you to come. I will lay the table, fry the potatoes, and wait at table. You shall make the soup.
Her sister Sarah was Rachel's principal correspondent, and many of the letters quoted in M. Heylli's book, even when not bearing her name, are evidently addressed to her. Though not bound to Sarah by the ties of almost maternal affection she felt for Rebecca, Rachel was deeply and sincerely attached to her. Whenever she was ill, Sarah was the one sent for to nurse her back to health again. Whenever she was in any difficulty or wanted any business done, it was into Sarah's sympathetic ear that she poured all her troubles and difficulties. Sarah's unsensitive and rather vulgar nature was a good conductor to receive the electricity and fire of her passionate sister, and many a storm thus diverted passed off harmlessly, not without hard words on both sides; for Sarah, undaunted by the proud reserve that made Rachel respected and feared in her family, often told her wholesome truths; but every fight ended with kisses and tears.
Being more nearly of an age, the greater part of their youth was passed together. Rachel's first representations for money, singing comic songs in the Parisian streets, had been given with her. Sarah remembered some of them, and would rehearse them later with great effect to a limited audience.
It was to the elder sister Rachel wrote when, after acting for three months at the Théâtre Français, she found she had aroused the ill-will of her comrades, begging her to return and give her courage, not to face the spectators, who were kindness itself, but to face the ladies and gentlemen of the theatre, who treated her "like a wild beast."
It is to her ear alone she confided if she were wounded in her professional pride, if a new role had been a failure, or a tour in the provinces or abroad had not been so successful as anticipated. It is to her she is found confiding the passions, numerous and violent, which she inspired, sometimes in the outside public, sometimes in members of her own company:—
My dear Sarah,
No doubt you will be astonished to see my handwriting so often; but, ma foi, the letter that I have this moment received from X seems so surprising that I send it to you, as a master-piece of the passion with which I inspired him. Mercifully, my real Michonnet[1] (the theatre) is there to console me in case I utterly despair.
Then, when the end came, and, as a last resource, she was ordered to La Cannet in the autumn of 1857, it was Sarah who accompanied her and who never left her bedside until her eyes were closed in death. Through good report and evil report, these two, in spite of violent quarrels and many separations, remained loyal to one another.
Sarah, of all the sisters, had the least dramatic gift. Although not without intelligence, she had no refinement or perception of the delicate shades of difference in expressing emotion. Rachel was much blamed for using her influence to obtain Sarah's admission into the Comédie Française, where she appeared for the first time on the 24th May 1849, as Célimène in the Misanthrope. The Parisian public shrugged their shoulders and said, "Going to the Théâtre Français was like going to the synagogue." Rachel's influence was not strong enough to stem the condemnation universally bestowed upon Sarah by the critics, and she was obliged to accept an engagement at the Odéon, where, in November 1851, she created the rôle of Caroline de Lussan in the Droits de l'homme, by Premaray. This was the only piece in which Sarah ever was successful. The Théâtre Français, in consequence, re-engaged her, but her stay was limited, and she soon made up her mind to definitely quit the theatre. She found a more lucrative pursuit in the manufacture of toilet washes, and made a fortune by the sale of her celebrated "eau des fées," which bears her name and is still extensively patronised. She died at Paris on the 12th January 1877.
Rachel's other sisters all enjoyed a considerable reputation on the stage. Rebecca, indeed, who was nine years younger than Rachel, was at one time looked upon as a most promising recruit in the ranks of the Comédie Française. Rachel devoted herself to the cultivation of her younger sister's talent; she smoothed the difficulties of her profession for her as much as she could, and from Rebecca's earliest years took her under her protection. One of the first letters in the series published by M. Heylli, is a charming one from Rachel to her mother on the subject of the little sister.
Dear Mother,
Alas! poor Rebecca fell and tore her dress. She was inconsolable, and I understood the depths of her misery. I comforted her by telling her I would intercede in her favour, and that, to make forgiveness more sure, I would present her with my silk dress. She smiled; she is saved. Good-bye.
In 1842, during her triumphant visit to England, she sent Rebecca a most homely present, but one proving that in the midst of her brilliant triumphs she had a tender thought for those she loved at home.
I send you, by the messenger, a dozen pairs of English stockings; I have marked them with my own white hand. As to the petticoats, they are better, they tell me, in Saxony; I will send you some from Dresden. I hope you and the family are well: we are enjoying robust health. These are the news of the day.
A thousand kisses.
Rachel made the child work under her own superintendence when preparing for her approaching appearance in public, urging her to study both classic and romantic rôles; amongst other things, teaching her to spell—this great tragedian who spelt so badly herself!
My dear little Duke of York,
Learn your part properly or take care! On my return, if you do not repeat it correctly, I will be a Gloucester or a Tyrrel for you; but if the Duke of York is good, I will be his brother Edward, with something in my pocket for him.
I am pleased with your writing; it is like mine—when I take pains, of course.
I hope, dear Duke, that you have not two hearts, that would be very wrong. The s that I find at the end of a word, written by your own little pen, made me for a moment afraid of this. Reassure me on this point, for I prefer one good heart to two passable ones.
I embrace your Royal Highness on both cheeks, with the respect due to you, dear Duke.
On the 14th November 1843, when only fourteen years of age, Rebecca appeared at the Odéon, in the rôle of Chimène in the Cid, in which her brother Raphaël, aged eighteen, played with her (also his first appearance), in the character of Rodrigue. Rachel afterwards obtained her an engagement at the Français, where, on the 1st July 1845, she appeared in the rôle of Palmyre in Mahomet. Rachel made her act with her in her classic parts first, and then, a little later, she took her as partner in Angelo, where the young girl appeared at her best. She was blonde and rather below the middle height; without being pretty, she had a pleasing expression, and her voice was agreeable, although wanting in power. She formed a good contrast to her "great sister."
The following is a letter Rachel wrote to her, when absent, preparing her for a performance of Bajazet, in which they were to act together:—
My dear little Friend and Sister,
I must say you do fulfil your duty of love; I am very much touched by your attention, because I love you so much; I am delighted at your progress, and hope—(wait, I am coming!)—that when I return we will march forward with gigantic strides, and that we will surpass all past and future débutantes. I am bringing a very pretty "canezou" from Nancy for my little comrade, and two pairs of warm cuffs.
Be sure you are ready for your rôle in Athalie. I intend shortly to act Bajazet; we will study it together, and it is in that I like to think of the progress you have made. You have plenty of intelligence, my child, but you want confidence in yourself. Come, my comrade, be courageous and hopeful! the future will justify all my predictions.
The future! Alas, poor Rachel! could she but have torn aside the veil that hid it from her sight, she would have seen Rebecca dying by inches of that cruel disease that carried her off also in turn. A fortnight after the above letter to her little sister from Marseilles, she had written to her father, as we have seen, complaining of the aching pain between the shoulders, that never left her, sure precursor and sign of consumption. Both were already doomed: the career of the one was cut off in the full plenitude of her power and genius; the other only appeared before the public a pale and graceful phantom, pathetic and touching in her youth and tenderness, beside the grandeur and strength of her sister, and then vanished, taking with her all the joy and gladness and the best and purest affection Rachel ever knew.
We have already alluded to her brother Raphaël. She seems to have been attached to him and to have depended on his good sense for the management of her affairs; but she knew his faults, and often had a sly hit at him.
In the letter addressed to M. Jules Lecomte, she makes fun of the company Raphaël had got together to accompany her in 1849, during her tour in the south of France:—
I remember having read in an article of yours this observation, full of rare and deep wisdom, "Les voyages qui forment la jeunesse déforment les cartons à chapeaux." Never has the truth of this maxim been more brought home to me than since I left Paris. I lost a trunk at Mouliers. I saw the box in which my old Rose had packed the "peplum" of the Moineau de Lesbie fly from the top of an imperial to the ground, with a rapidity which ought to excite the emulation of the company got together by Raphaël!
From Liège, however, in June 1847, she wrote to Sarah in enthusiastic terms:—
I have not written to you before, because I can only speak of one subject, and that is so sad a one that I am afraid of taking up my pen. But so as not to fail utterly (for I owe myself rather to others than to myself), I will summon all my courage, and only speak of my success in Holland. But I suddenly remember; I gave all details to my mother, it is useless, therefore, to repeat them. I will tell you then of Raphaël, of this dear boy, who seems to have been sent to comfort me for all my sorrow. I cannot tell you the good his presence has done me, or how much his devotion touches me. He sees my troubles, and when he does not see them he guesses them. And it is wonderful what he does to prevent me dwelling on them. It is not a youth who is by me, but a man with heart and intelligence. His character is gentle, pliable, and amiable; his behaviour excellent; indeed, his disposition is perfect. He leaves me very seldom, and only goes for a walk sometimes when I am in a bad temper. It would be impossible to forward our interests with more practical good sense. How, indeed, express it? He is my father, my child, my friend, and my protector. The only thing is, he is impressed with the belief that everyone is trying to cheat me; the consequence is he is like a cat watching a mouse.
Rachel always indulged in extremes of praise or blame. At one time Raphaël was an angel of goodness, at another she would roundly accuse him for being parsimonious, and not arranging things properly for her. It is only fair to say, however, that during the disastrous tour in America, which was entirely organised and carried out by Raphaël, we never in one of her letters home read a word of blame; although it was his want of management and foresight that, in a great measure, caused the shipwreck of the whole expedition.
- ↑ Michonnet is the faithful friend who counsels and helps Adrienne Lecouvreur, in the drama of that name.