Rachel (1887 British Edition)/Chapter 15
ZENITH.
Rachel's great reputation was made in five or six rôles of the ancient classic drama of France. She created thirteen modern rôles in the course of her theatrical career, and undertook six modern rôles that had already been acted by others: Fredegonde, Jeanne d'Arc, Lucrèce, Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, Angelo, Louise de Lignerolles. Of the thirteen written expressly for her, Adrienne Lecouvreur alone has kept the stage.
From the pen of Madame de Girardin Rachel made the great mistake of accepting three plays: Judith, Cléorâtre, and Lady Tartuffe. While the young actress ruled the dramatic world of Paris, Madame Émile de Girardin, daughter of Sophie Gay, ruled the social and literary one. Napoleon I., who detested clever women, once met Sophie Gay in the drawing-room of the Princess Borghese. "Has my sister told you I detest les femmes d'esprit!" "Yes, Sire," was the ready answer; "but I did not believe her." The Emperor, annoyed at her aplomb, determined to disconcert her, and added insolently, "Vous écrivez vous? Qu'est ce que vous avez fait depuis que vous êtes dans ce pays ce?" "Trois enfants, Sire." The Emperor, who expected a list of her literary works, smiled and passed on. Madame Émile de Girardin worthy daughter of her witty mother, was one of these children. Clever and fascinating, what wonder that her drawing-room in the coquettish hôtel of the Rue Chaillot was looked upon as the centre of all that was brilliant and cultured in the Paris of her day. "Est-elle heureuse, cette Madame Gay?" a fashionable lady once said. "Elle fait tout bien, les enfants, les livres, et les confitures"—and certainly Madame de Girardin was a daughter of whom any mother might have been proud, with her genius and her beauty. She, however, could not boast the versatility of her mother, as she had no children, and, in spite of frequent attempts, never wrote either a good drama or a good novel. Her tragedy of Judith, read by the lovely hostess, with her melodious voice and inspired manner, in her own drawing-room, received the approbation of half the eminent poets and literary men of Paris, but was a complete failure before the calm impartial audience of the Théâtre Français. The subject was a disagreeable one, and even Rachel's grace and beauty was insufficient to infuse any vitality into "that Judas kiss in three acts," as Janin designated the play in his feuilleton.
One of those incidents, also, which often have sufficed to seal the fate of a better drama than Judith, took place the first night. At the most pathetic moment, in the opening scene, when the Hebrews were praying to Heaven to help them in their distress, a small grey cat crossed the stage. The audience broke into peals of laughter, and, in spite of the all-powerful presence of Rachel, it was impossible to restrain the merriment, which infected the actors and actresses themselves. The next dramatic attempt of Madame de Girardin was Cléopâtre; but not all the efforts of the Rue de Chaillot clique were sufficient to breathe a temporary vitality into its high-sounding, artificial verses. Rachel wrote to Madame de Girardin on the 13th December 1847:—
No, I am not actually ill, but, unfortunately, not as strong as I could wish. It is not true that I do not intend to act any more; but, as I cannot act what I would like to, I would rather leave the stage than appear in any other rule than Cléopâtre, and I am sure, dear Madame de Girardin, you do not doubt my word when I tell you that I have not energy enough to give your fine rôle as it ought to be given. As to all the small intrigues of the theatre, you and I (permit me to associate my name with yours) ought to place ourselves far above them. Do not write to M. Buloz, and, perhaps, in time we may be able to prove to the public that a really beautiful and fine work can always triumph over the small intrigues that seek to drag it down.
Thus Cléopâtre was abandoned after fourteen representations.
In spite of these repeated failures, Rachel accepted another piece from Madame de Girardin, and appeared in the part of Lady Tartuffe at the Français on the 14th February 1853. The authoress of La Joie fait peur had found a more fitting field for her talent in this drama, representing the social life of the day, than in her endeavour to treat tragic subjects. Rachel never liked the part, although she is said to have been better in it than in any other attempted by her in modern drama. The rôle of the Duke d'Estigny was played by her old teacher Samson, and "their perfect understanding, long habit of studying together, and knowledge of each other's powers, produced," we are told, "a result nearly amounting to perfection." The first night, the capricious young actress acted it so coldly that Madame de Girardin could hardly bring herself to be civil to her.
"She has played wretchedly! she will destroy the piece!" exclaimed the indignant authoress, in her box; but when face to face with the actress, on whom she knew depended all the future of her piece, the diplomatic woman of the world merely said, "N'importe; with you I shall hope even yet to succeed."
Rachel acted Lady Tartuffe in England. "She was graceful, ladylike, and diabolical," Mr. Lewes tells us; but that the play had no merit beyond what Rachel gave it was made apparent when it was revived at the Comédie Française in 1857. In spite of Madame Plessy's refined and charming talent, it only ran for six nights. Rachel appeared in it thirty-five times.
There is a curious analogy between the story of Adrienne and the story of Rachel. A poor straw-plaiter came from the depths of La Champagne to Paris to make bread to fill his own and his children's mouths. His young daughter watched with eager awe, from the window of their wretched lodging opposite the Théâtre Français, the exits and entrances of the actors and actresses, and at last herself essayed her powers, with some young companions, on an amateur stage at a grocer's shop in the Rue Férou. The rehearsals excited considerable curiosity in the neighbourhood, and were honoured by the presence of several persons of distinction. Above all, the audience were delighted with the talent of the girl Adrienne, who to the most favourable personal gifts united originality, deep feeling, and a voice capable of expressing every gradation of emotion. She soon rose to the top of her profession, and accompanied by her father, who encouraged and cultivated her taste by his judicious advice, she spent some years acting in the country towns of France, finally obtaining an engagement at the Théâtre Français. For years the beautiful actress kept the Parisian public at her feet, counting among her adorers Voltaire and Maurice de Saxe. The love of the latter, which was fully reciprocated, cost the unfortunate young actress, it is said, her life. One of the beauties of the day, the Duchess de Bouillon, jealous of Maurice's love, as the story goes, sent Adrienne a poisoned bouquet. Death came to her at the moment that happiness seemed within her grasp, for Maurice had that day promised to make her his wife. "Vous qui m'aimez tant, sauvez moi, secourez moi . . . je ne veux pas mourir! À present je ne veux pas mourir." It was of no avail, however; young, beautiful, and beloved, Adrienne was torn from life, and from those who loved her. Voltaire celebrated her memory in one of the finest elegies ever written, and Maurice de Saxe died with her talisman on his heart at Fontenoy. Out of such elements one of the finest modern dramas has been evolved, and, after the first hesitation, Rachel appreciated the pathos and interest of the part, and identified herself with it as no actress since has been able to do. "What! you are not dead?" said a friend to her one evening, as she came off the stage laden with crowns and flowers. "You have stolen those flowers from your own tomb." His words bore a strange significance; for Rachel acted Adrienne when struck to death at Charleston, the last time she ever appeared on any stage.
In the spring of 1849, in the midst of political convulsions and popular excitement, Rachel first appeared in Le Moineau de Lesbie, a dramatic idyl in one act. Reputations are sometimes made by the merest accident. Armand Barthet is an example of this. No one in France read the Moineau de Lesbie, but everyone knew it and its author. He was a young student-at-law, who lived beyond the Seine, attended the balls at the Chaumière, and thought himself a poet. He wrote sonnets, madrigals, and, having finished a drama, went with it to the Théâtre Français. Such hardihood was unheard of; he was even rebuffed by the door-keeper. At the Odéon he fared no better. The young author sighed, threw his MS. in a drawer, and thought no more of conquering a place upon the boards of Paris. In due season he took his degree, lived modestly, and, in the autumn seasons, was wont to relieve his vacation with shooting expeditions near his native town of Besançon. He had not, however, entirely laid aside his pen, and delighted the provincials from time to time with a sentimental romance, in the columns of the Impartial, the chief journal of Besançon. One week he changed his programme, and, with apologies for the omission, sent to the provincial editor a little drama which he had written years before, and which he trusted was not wholly without merit.
This little drama was the rejected one of the Moineau de Leslie. Emboldened by seeing himself in print, Barthet carried with him a copy of the Impartial to Paris. When there he ventured to enclose it, with "the hope it might have perusal," to the veteran feuilletonist, Jules Janin. For weeks he heard nothing of it; but one day the Journal des Débats and Jules Janin made him famous. The critic congratulated him upon his success; he urged him personally to present it to the Director of the Théâtre Français. Barthet was doubtful. "We are your sponsors," said Janin. It was presented, received unanimously, and Rachel played Lesbie. Never had she been so enchanting or so fascinating—"suis je belle?" as she says in the first scene, when she looks at herself decked out in her rival's jewels. After the representation of the Moineau de Lesbie, the public was obliged to confess that Rachel was not only a great actress but a graceful and beautiful woman. She knew this, and always loved le petit Moineau. The plot was of the slightest. Catullus, the Latin poet, about to be married, intended renouncing all the joys of his youth, including the beautiful Lesbia, who till now had reigned absolute mistress of his heart. He invited the friends of his bachelorhood to a banquet to celebrate his change of state. While they were taunting him with the liberty he was giving up, a message came from Sexta, the bride-elect. She had dreamed a dream of ill omen, and wanted to see her betrothed, to receive the assurance from his lips that it was of no significance. He obeyed the summons, as in duty bound, and during his absence Lesbia, unconscious as yet of her lover's disloyalty, entered. She was dressed in a soft clinging drapery, held at the waist by a gold belt; a myrtle crown encircled her small Greek head, while her dark brown hair fell in long coils down her back. In the midst of the story she related of the death of the bird, pet and plaything of their happier days, her lover returned, and she recalled to his memory how, in the calends of the April of the year before, they had found it fallen out of its nest:—
Et comme il voletait de mon doigt sur le tien,
Tu t'approchais de moi toujours plus prés—si bien
Qu'au bout de peu d'instants je sentis ton haleine,
Courir comme du feu dans les fleurs de verveine,
Qui couronnaient ma tête, et que bientôt ma main,
Tressaillit de plaisir sous tes baisers sans frein!
Catullus, as he saw his mistress's tears and listened to her tale, forgot all but his former love, and, taking Lesbia in his arms, implored her to forgive his temporary infidelity. The play ended with a song:—
Vivons, Mignonne, vivons
Et suivons,
Les ébats qu'amour nous donne,
Sans que de vieux rechignés,
Refrognés,
Le sot babil nous étonne.
Rachel's first appearance in the Moineau de Lesbie was made after one of her innumerable quarrels with the Théâtre Français, in consequence of which she had retired from the stage for three months; the public, therefore, were not inclined to look with favourable eyes on the young actress who had dared to deprive them of one of their amusements. It was the night of Mademoiselle Anais' benefit also, and the Moineau was the last piece on the programme. Midnight had struck before it began. The audience was nearly asleep; but Rachel was determined to charm them out of their lethargy. Never had she played with such perfection. A murmur ran through the theatre after her first speech, which, before the end, broke out into raptures of delight. The spoiled child was received back into favour again, and all her sins forgotten and forgiven.
It is needless to go into the details of Rachel's acceptance and ultimate rejection of Medea, M. Legouvé's piece, which was destined to exercise a more potent influence on her future than she herself could at first have foreseen. Her capricious and inconsistent behaviour turned public opinion against her, and this, combined with Ristori's acceptance and great success in the part, determined the young actress to seek a less critical and more enthusiastic audience in the New World. After the undoubted success of Adrienne Lecouvreur and the succès de vogue of Louise de Lignerolles, Rachel urged the author to write another piece for her. He selected the subject of Medea, one which, as he said himself, he had always thought admirably suited to her classic genius. Without letting her know the title or subject of his tragedy, Legouvé, on the completion of his work, wrote to the actress, asking her when she could hear it read. Rachel fixed a day, telling him she was un peu patraque from over-exertion in Belgium, but that, if he would come to her villa at Montmorency, she was prepared to listen to what she hoped might be her winter success.
"The impression produced on her," the author tells us in his Conférences Parisiennes, "was not favourable. The title seemed distasteful. She had hoped for a modern rôle, and, when she had heard to the end, an eloquent silence reigned between us for a few moments, which said plainer than words, "Your piece is detestable." Ceding to the explanations and persuasions of Legouvé, however, with whom she read over each scene word by word, she accepted—or seemed to accept—the tragedy definitely. Her opinion was ratified by the sociétaires of the Comédie Française, who, in conclave, after recommending some corrections, gave their consent to the representation of the piece.
The repetitions began at the theatre on the 2nd September 1853. Legouvé thought there was no longer any chance of a frustration of his hopes. He little knew the changeable, fantastic nature with which he had to deal. On the 17th September he received a letter from a friend of Mademoiselle Rachel, who sometimes acted as her secretary, to the effect that the repetitions could not be proceeded with, owing to the actress's state of health; but that there was no need for hastening matters, as the theatre was occupied by the representation of a drama by M. Dumas. This letter was virtually a recantation of all her promises, as nothing would induce her to recommence the rehearsals; and shortly after she accepted an engagement in Russia, and started on the 15th October. On the eve of her departure she wrote the following characteristic letter:—
I have made up my mind to go, and have summoned to my aid all the courage I can boast of to enable me to face the cold and cruel winter I must encounter. I beg you, Monsieur, not to add to my troubles—of which I have already so many—by being angry with me. I keep Medea, and hope to find her still a virgin on my return; but, whatever happens, I like her well enough to rescue her from whoever may have taken possession of her. Forgive the suggestion. You have often told me you were my friend. This is the moment to prove it to me.
Rachel.
The author's feelings can be imagined. He had been hoaxed! Rachel had actually arranged the terms of her engagement at St. Petersburg while declaring to him she was so ill she could not rehearse, and now she seemed even to infer that another might act in it before she did.
"I rushed off to see her," relates M. Legouvé. "'Madame is out.' I was prepared for this, and returned the same evening. 'Madame is ill.' I was prepared for this also. But a day or two after she played Polyeucte. The piece over, she found me in her loge when she left the stage." The interview that followed was a violent one, and strange details, we believe, have been given by Legouvé himself in a pamphlet published after her death. An open declaration of war ensued between them; but Rachel went to Russia, and for a time nothing more was said. On her return, Legouvé wrote to her to Warsaw, and her answer was equivalent to a refusal.
She told him she had sent in her resignation to the Théâtre Français (which she had not done), and that, therefore, as she had only six months to act there, she did not see her way to creating a new part. Legouvé's answer was a lawyer's letter, which she received the day after her return. Poor Rachel! other thoughts filled her heart and brain. Her sister Rebecca was dying of consumption in the South of France, and she had received an imperative call to her bedside. She still held out to the unfortunate author a hope of acting Medea; but, crushed to the earth as she was with sorrow, she could not face the idea of attempting a new rôle. If Rebecca were saved, then, she declared, as a thanksgiving offering she would devote nights and days to the proper representation of the piece:—
I wish with all my heart I had been able to study Medea during the six weeks I passed by the bedside of my poor sister! I am most anxious to reappear at the Théâtre Français on the 30th May, but have not even been able to go over Phèdre. The very thought of fulfilling my engagements at the theatre frightens me. I remain shut up at home, my grief continually revived by thinking and speaking of poor Rebecca. All my trust is in God, dear friend. If He spare us this dear child, be sure that I will soon make up for lost time, and not rest until your piece is put upon the stage.
The impression produced on the excitable temperament of the young actress by the death of her sister was overwhelming. On her return from Russia she had hastened to Eaux Bonnes, in the Pyrenees, to visit the dying girl. As soon as her congé expired she was obliged to resume her duties at the Théâtre Français. She continued, however, her watchful care of her sister, and, while acting continuously, managed to perform the journey to and fro thrice in as many weeks. During one of these flying visits, the disease, as so often happens in consumption, appeared to take a favourable turn; the alarming symptoms vanished, and hope revived in the hearts of the watchers. Rachel took the opportunity to go and see Sarah, who was confined by some temporary indisposition to her own lodgings. Several friends were assembled in the room, and all, feeling the tension of the last few days relaxed, began to chat and laugh, the fun, as usual, being led by Rachel. "In the midst of their gaiety, Rose, the maid, rushed into the room. A fit of coughing had supervened; the patient was in great danger; the doctor desired Mademoiselle Rachel's immediate presence." Rising with the bound of a wounded tigress, the young girl seemed to seek, bewildered, some cause for the blow that fell thus unexpectedly. Her eye lighted on a rosary blessed by the Pope, which she had worn as a bracelet ever since her visit to Rome. She had attached a talismanic virtue to the beads. Now she tore them from her arm, and dashed them to the ground, saying frantically, "It is this fatal gift that has entailed this curse upon me!" and rushed from the room. Hardly was she in time to find her sister alive. On the 23rd June the body was brought back to Paris.
There is a rite among the Jews denominated the "pardon." Before the dead are buried, the relatives, one after the other, enter the room where the corpse lies, and, going up to it, call out the name several times, and invoke forgiveness for any injustice or wrong they may have been guilty of towards the deceased when living, ending with the repetition three times of the word, "Pardon! pardon! pardon!" When it came to Sarah's turn, the consciousness of her many shortcomings rushed over her with such force, that she threw herself on the ground shrieking the name of her sister, and calling, with sobs and tears, for forgiveness. The actor Laferrière and a lady, who were present, raised her and led her away. When they returned, Madame Félix said to them, "It is Rachel's turn now. For God's sake, go! Do not look at her; do not stop." Dinah, who was also present, added her entreaties to her mother's. They all knew Rachel's reserved, peculiar disposition, and submitted without hesitation to her will and withdrew; but not before they caught a glimpse of her, led by her father, approaching, with brows deeply gathered, while all the other members of the family stood aside, evidently dreading one of her paroxysms of passion.
The next communication M. Legouvé received on the subject of his play was conclusive. It was dated the 20th September, three months after Rebecca's death, and was addressed to a friend of Rachel, Madame de S, who enclosed it to the unfortunate author. In it Rachel begged her "dear Louise" to undertake, for her sake, the disagreeable task of informing M. Legouvé that she has decided never to act Medea. She acknowledged the commission to be an ungrateful one, but relied on her friend's affection to perform it. She confessed she had done all in her power, even learnt the first act, but that she was certain she would have no success in a character that was odious and unnatural. The author, she acknowledged, had every right to feel indignant; therefore, not feeling sufficiently restored to health to hear his reproaches, she conveyed her expression of regret through a third person.
In all this affair, for which Rachel was so much blamed, we cannot but admire the self-restraint and artistic appreciation which induced her, in spite of many difficulties, to persist in her refusal of the part. Her style of acting was unsuited to the representation of quick or violent movement. "I have read your two last acts," she said to Legouvé. "I see my rôle is full of sharp, sudden movements; I rush at my children, carry them about, struggle with the crowd for their possession. This physical agitation does not suit me. All that I can express by physiognomy, attitude, by solemn, measured gesture, I can do; but where energetic pantomime begins my powers fail utterly." It would be well if some of our actors now-a-days would lay the following words to heart: "Medea may murder her children, poison her father-in-law: I feel unable to follow her example, even if I wished to. Holding the respect for the public that I do, and bearing a name entirely created by its favour and applause, I cannot allow myself to be made the accomplice and instrument of theatrical favouritism."
It is probable that, after the second or third reading, she had come to the conclusion that Medea would not suit her; but it would have been better if she had bravely and loyally said so, instead of keeping the author in suspense for two years, and then cruelly blighting his hopes, and finding herself and the Comédie Française entangled in troublesome law-suits, in the second of which the actress and the theatre were condemned to pay 12,000 francs damages—a poor consolation to Legouvé, who had fought so persistently for the representation of his piece. Another than Rachel ultimately acted the rôle, and made it one of her greatest triumphs.