Rachel (1887 British Edition)/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.
Jules Janin tells us how—"Some years afterwards, one winter evening, Rachel, then very ill, was lying on the sofa in her entresol of the Chaussée D'Antin; the rain was beating outside, the thunder rolling, the wind blowing. The guests in the darkened room were sitting silent, everyone depressed by the sadness of the young actress, over whom the shadow of death had even then fallen. Suddenly, with her deep yet sonorous voice, she began singing this couplet, and made them shiver by the expression she gave to the words—
Une ville inconnue, immense,
Paris! . . .
Vas y seule—à pied—car c'est là
Que tu pourras sauver ton père.
Her voice died away in a sob, and she burst into tears."
Poor, eloquent, unhappy Rachel, with her passionate heart and erratic genius! It was the Marseillaise of her past misery and approaching death that she sang that evening. Unaided and on foot she had wandered to the scene of her triumph, to the goal of her fame, and felt the prize turning to dust and ashes in her hand.
Already in the Vendéene the young actress showed that strict attention to all details of dress and appearance that distinguished her during her artistic career. There was no girlish attempt to enhance her beauty, or hide natural defects of which none more than she was conscious. She only thought of her part and how best to personify it. She did not attempt to appear other than the peasant girl in rough shoes and coarse dress; but there was something heroic in her very walk, something infinitely pathetic in the voice "that seemed too big for the fragile body"; something tragically passionate under the calm quiet dignity of the unpropitiating appearance. Many are the proofs, both in print and on hearsay, we have of the effect she produced on appreciative critics from the first.
Janin thus describes her, in the weekly feuilleton of his paper: "The author of La Vendéene has not only wished to write a drama, but also to bring forward a little girl, a child of barely fifteen, called Rachel. This child is no phenomenon, and will never, thank goodness, be a prodigy. Mademoiselle Rachel acts with much feeling, enthusiasm, and intelligence, but with very little skill. She intuitively understands the part given to her; she has no need of lessons or counsel from anyone. There is no effort, no exaggeration, no cries, no strained attitudes, and above all no coquetry; on the contrary, she is extremely quiet and dignified, and makes no attempt to move or propitiate her audience by airs and graces. The child's voice is rough and hoarse, like the voice of a child; her hands are red, like a child's hands; her foot, like her hand, is hardly formed; she is not pretty, but pleasing: in a word, there is a great future in store for this young genius, and she receives a tribute of tears, emotion, and interest from the as yet small audience that come to do her honour."
Edwin Forrest, the well-known American actor, was asked to go to the theatre and give his opinion of an actor of whom the manager had great hopes. Forrest attended the performance, and told the manager afterwards that the actor could never rise above respectable mediocrity. "But that Jewish-looking girl," he added, "that little bag of bones, with the marble face and the flaming eyes—there is demoniacal power in her. If she live, and does not burn out too soon, she will become something wonderful."
Bouffé, who was present at the rehearsal, is said to have exclaimed, "What an odd little girl! There is certainly something in her; but her place is not here."
Of this fact Rachel herself and the manager of the Gymnase soon became aware. The Vendéene was played sixty times, but without lucrative result. The audience was principally composed of Jews, coreligionists of the Félix family, who occupied the pit and gallery, while the stalls and boxes were empty. Her appearance and style of acting were not suited to the species of light comedy usually given at the theatre; and after attempting, without success, under Madame Volny's tuition, to undertake the rôle of Suzanne in the Marriage de Raison, she once more, on her own initiative, endeavoured to open negotiations with the Comédie Française through her old master. Saint Aulaire, and wrote the following letter to Védel:—
Monsieur, 16 Dec. 1837.
M. Saint Aulaire has informed you of my wish to present myself to the Comédie Française; you told him that I might have an interview with you on the subject. I beg you to let me know when you will grant me this favour.
Rachel Félix, of the Gymnase,
Rue Beauregard 18
This letter, Védel confessed, remained unanswered. Rachel then made up her mind to ask Samson, who had taught her at the Conservatoire, to take her again as pupil in tragic parts. Samson, who had always a certain opinion of her powers, promised to help her as well as he could, and Rachel's career was from that moment decided. She now learnt to give movement and warmth to what hitherto had been conned as a task; every tone, every look, was studied and practised until it became a portion of her own personality, and the expression of her own individuality. That industry and energy which, as M. Legouvé tells us, made her study one short sentence in his play of Louise de Lignerolles three hours, reading it over and over with different intonations and expressions—that industry which Choron pronounced her to be deficient in—seemed now awakened, and in three months she presented herself again to the Comédie Française the most accomplished and marvellous actress the world has ever seen.
It will be interesting here to give Samson's account, as told in his Memoirs, of the beginning of his celebrated pupil's career, and of the state of dramatic art when she first appeared:—
Talma when he died, in 1826, seemed to have carried classic tragedy away with him. The elder generation mourned the loss; but their children not only did not share their regrets, but longed for the total destruction of the past. While the political horizon was dark with storm clouds, a literary revolution was taking place, one to a certain extent being caused by the other. The author of Hernani had gained the day. Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire were played at distant intervals to empty houses, and these rare representations only showed more effectually how indifferent was the public to this kind of representation. After two centuries of triumph and success, the classic drama was banished to the silence and dust of library shelves. But suddenly, in 1838, twelve years after the death of our great tragedian, an unexpected event took place; a reaction, which astonished even those who wished for it, brought back crowds to that theatre in the Rue Richelieu which had lately been entirely deserted. Already the name of the actress who performed this miracle is on your lips. It was Rachel.
This young girl had been for some time acting in tragic parts in a small theatre in the Rue Saint Martin, where on Sunday, at certain hours, dramatic representations were given. The director was Saint Aulaire, who, although a member of the Comédie Française, only occupied a subordinate position. He made his pupils act, and gave them tickets, which they were allowed to sell, instead of receiving payment themselves. The plays in which Rachel acted were the most lucrative. She often appeared, therefore, and was applauded and admired by the inhabitants of the quarter. Some of my pupils, astonished by her talent, spoke to me about her, and made me anxious to judge for myself. I went to hear her one day, when she was acting in Corneille's Don Sancho. I confess that she surprised me by her performance of Isabella, Queen of Castile. I was struck by the tragic pathos she displayed. The divine spark animated this young and fragile creature. She was then so small that she was obliged to raise her head to speak to the actors on the stage with her; yet by her air of queenly dignity she gave you the impression of looking down on them. They were great gawky lads, unaccustomed to the stage; her ease made them appear still more awkward. There were, however, if I can so express myself, "lacunaæ" of intelligence. The rôle was imperfectly understood here and there, but she had caught the sentiment and tragedy, and one could foresee the great future in store for this marvellous child. I went behind the scenes between the acts to compliment her. She had already dressed in male attire to act in the comedy that was to follow. She and her comrades were playing some game, I know not what, in which it was necessary to hop on one foot, and it was in this attitude I surprised the ex-Queen of Spain. She listened to my compliments with one leg in the air, thanked me with much courtesy, and began hopping again directly I had done.
Some time after she presented herself at the Conservatoire, where the assembled professors were favourably impressed. She soon left the Conservatoire for the Gymnase Theatre. She made her first appearance there in a piece called The Vendéene, in which she produced a favourable impression. The director, however, soon recognised that her talent was not suited to his theatre; he advised her to study for the Comédie Française. Then it was that she came to see me again. I had often thought of her during the space that intervened, and was delighted to welcome her back. I became her master, and eight months afterwards she appeared on the stage of the Théâtre Français in the part of Camille in Les Horaces.
In a diary Samson kept during his professional career we find the following entry:—
I have persuaded Védel to engage Mademoiselle Rachel Félix; she is to receive 4,000 francs. As, owing to the poverty of her parents, she is extremely ignorant, I have told her father to let her have Madame Bronzet, my children's governess, to teach her history and grammar; he is to pay her only twenty francs a month. As for myself, I have undertaken to continue my lessons gratis.
Before closing this chapter we must give a letter of Poirson's, the manager of the Gymnase, written to Rachel when she had become famous. It was found carefully laid away among Rachel's papers after her death. The expressions of affection show the feeling he cherished for the young girl whose genius he had been the first to recognise.
I thank my good little Rachel, now so great, for her kind remembrance of me. I regret deeply that the state of my health prevents my going to tell her how deeply I am touched, and how proud I am of having been the first to discover that genius which, having found its legitimate development, was sure, sooner or later, to assert its power over the public. But what delights me still more is that in the midst of all this success the great actress has remained what the humble débutante was, good-hearted and simple, which proves that she merits these honours and usurps nothing, thus showing the rare union of genius and amiability.
I can wish nothing more for her than what she has already obtained, but I renew the assurance of my affectionate devotion.