Elizabeth Rachel Felix

AN EVENING WITH RACHEL.

IT was the evening of May 29, 1839, when this supper occurred, of which the reader, after the lapse of thirty-eight years, is invited to partake. Mademoiselle Rachel had performed in Voltaire's tragedy of "Tancrède" to a crowded and enraptured audience, for she was then in the flush of her first celebrity, only eleven months having elapsed since her first appearance iii classic tragedy.

The real name of this "sublime child," as the French poets love to style her, was Elizabeth Rachel Felix, and she was born in Switzerland, the daughter of a Jewish peddler. In her early days she used to sing in the cafes of Paris, accompanying herself on an old guitar. She was about eleven years of age when her voice caught the ear of one of the founders of the Royal Conservatory of Music, who placed her in one of its classes, and agreed to defray the expenses of her education. Her voice not proving to be as promising as her benefactor imagined, he procured an admission for her into a declamation class, where her wonderful talent was trained and developed.

She made her first appearance at the Theatre Francais, in September, 1838, and she was speedily accepted as the first actress of the age. The fortunes of the theater, which had been at the lowest ebb, were restored, and her father demanded for her, and in time obtained, a revenue of eighty thousand francs per annum.

It was a night, as I have just said, of Voltaire's " Tancrède," in which she played the part of the heroine, Amenaide, the beloved of Tancrède, a part in which she produced thrilling effects. In the audience, on that occasion, sat Alfred de Musset, one of the most admired of recent French poets, who had been for some time a friend of the new actress and of her family, as well as one of the warmest appreciators of her genius. At the end of an act he went behind the scenes to compliment her upon the beauty and fitness of her costume. Toward the close of the play she was to read a letter from her lover, mortally wounded upon the field of battle, who was dying under the impression that she had betrayed him. The letter runs thus :

"I could not survive your perfidy. I die on the battle-field, but I die of wounds inflicted by you. I wished, cruel woman, in exposing myself for you, to save at once your glory and your life."

Never before had she read this letter with such tender pathos ; and she said afterwards that she had been moved to such a degree herself, that she could scarcely go on with the part. At ten o'clock the play ended, for a French tragedy only lasts about an hour and a half. De Musset on leaving the theater met her by chance in the street, going home with one of her friends, and followed by a crowd of her special admirers, members of the press, artists, and others. The poet saluted her, and she responded by saying:

"Come home to supper with us."

She reappeared, " as pretty as an angel," carrying a dish in which were three beefsteaks cooked by herself. She placed the dish in the middle of the table, and gaily said: " Regale!"

She then went hack to the kitchen and returned with a tureen of smoking soup in one hand, and in the other a saucepan full of spinach. That was the supper. No plates, no spoons; for the servant had carried away the keys of the cupboard. Rachel opened the sideboard, found a salad dish full of salad, discovered one plate, took some salad with the wooden salad spoon, sat down and began to eat.

"But," cried her mother, who was very hungry, " there are some brass platters in the kitchen."

Rachel dutifully brought them and distributed them among the guests; and while they were eating, as best they could, the following conversation took place :

Mother—My dear, your steaks are overdone.

Rachel—It is true ; they are as hard as wood. When I did our housekeeping I was a better cook. It is one talent the less. No matter ; I have lost on one side, but I have gained on the other. You don't eat, Sarah.

Sarah—No, I cannot eat from brass plates.

Rachel—Oh! It is since I bought a dozen silver plates with my savings that you can no longer endure brass ! If I become richer, you will want one servant behind your chair and another before it. Never will I turn those old platters out of our house. They have served us too long for that. Haven't they, mother ?

Mother (her mouth full)—What do you say, child ?

Rachel (to the poet)—Just think ; when I played at the Theater Molière, I had only two pairs of stockings, and every morning

here Sarah began to gabble German, in order to prevent her sister from going on with her story.

Rachel—No German here! There is nothing to be ashamed of ! I had, I say, only two pairs of stockings, and I was obliged to wash one pair every morning to wear on the stage. That pair was hanging in my room upon a clothes horse, while I wore the other pair.

The Poet—And you did the housekeeping ?

Rachel—I was up at six every morning, and by eight all the beds were made. Then I went to market to buy our dinner.

The Poet—And did you keep a little change out of the market money ?

Rachel—No. I was a very honest cook. Was I not, mother ?

Mother (still stuffing)—O, yes ; that you were indeed.

Rachel—Once only I was a thief for a month. When I bought four sous' worth, I called it five, and when I paid ten sous I put it down twelve. At the end of the month I found myself mistress of three francs.

The Poet (in a severe tone)—Mademoiselle, what did you do with those three francs ?

Rachel was silent.

Mother—She bought the works of Molière with them. The Poet—Did you, really ?

Rachel—Yes, indeed. I had already a Corneille and a Racine ; I had to have a Molière. I bought it with my three francs, and then I confessed my crimes.

At this point of the conversation some of the company rose to go, and soon all the guests departed, except De Massa, and two or three intimate friends. The servant returned from the theater and placed upon the table some brilliant rings, two magnificent bracelets and a golden coronet. many thousand francs' worth of jewelry, all glittering in the midst of the brass plates and the remains of the supper. The poet, meanwhile, startled at the idea of her keeping house, working in the kitchen, making beds, and undergoing the fatigues incident to poverty, looked at her hands, fearing to find them ugly or spoiled. He observed, on the contrary, that they were small, white, and plump, with the slenderest fingers. She had the hands of a princess.

Her sister Sarah, who did not eat, continued to scold in German. That morning, indeed, she had been guilty of some escapade a little too far from the maternal wing, and she had obtained her pardon and her place at the table only in consequence of her sister's entreaties.

Rachel (replying to the German growls)—You plague me ! For my part, I like to recall my youth. I remember that one day I wanted to make some punch in one of these very brass plates. 1 held my plate over a candle, and it melted in my hand. Speaking of that, Sophie, bring me some cherry brandy. Let us have some punch. There ! I have had enough. I have done my supper.

The maid returned, bringing a bottle.

Mother—Sophie has made a mistake. That is a bottle of absinthe.

The Poet—Give me a little of it.

Rachel—0, how glad I should be to have you take some-thing in our house.

Mother—They say that absinthe is very wholesome. The Poet—Not at all. It is pernicious and detestable. Sarah—Then why do you ask for some ?

The Poet—In order to have it to say that I took something here.

Rachel—I wish to drink a little of it.

So saying, she poured some absinthe into a glass of water and drank it. They brought her a silver bowl, into which she put sugar and cherry brandy, after which she set lire to her punch, and made it blaze.

Rachel—I love that blue flame.

The Poet—It is much prettier when there is no light in the room.

Rachel—Sophie, take away the candles.

Mother—Not at all ; not at all ! What an idea!

Rachel (aside)—This is unsupportable ! Pardon, dear mother ; you are good, you are charming (kissing her) ; but I want Sophie to carry away the candles.

Upon this, the poet himself took the two candles and put them under the table, which produced the effect of twilight. The mother, by turns green and blue from the glimmer of the blazing punch, leveled her eyes upon Dc Musset, and watched all his movements. He put the candles back upon the table.

A Flatterer—Mademoiselle Rabat was not beautiful this evening.

The Poet—You are hard to please. I thought her pretty enough.

Another Flatterer—She has no intelligence. Rachel—Why do you say that ? She is not so stupid as many others; and, besides, she is a good girl. Let her alone. I do not like to have my comrades spoken of in that way.

The punch was ready. Rachel filled the glasses and handed them about to the company. She poured the rest of the punch into a soup plate, and began to drink it with a spoon. Then she took the poet's cane, drew the sword from it, and picked her teeth with the point.

Here ended, for that evening, all common talk and child's play. A single word sufficed to change the character of the scene, and to convert this unformed child into an artist.

The Poet—How you read that letter, this evening ! You were really moved.

Rachel—Yes; it seemed to me as if something within me was going to give way. But it is no matter ; I do not like that piece much. It is false.

The Poet-Do you prefer the plays of Corneille and Racine ?

Rachel—I like Corneille very much ; and yet, he is sometimes trivial, sometimes bombastic. He comes short of the truth.

The Poet—0 ! gently, mademoiselle!

Rachel—Let us see. When in Horace, for example, Sabine says: " One can change a lover, but not a husband ; " well, I don't like it. It is gross.

The Poet-You will confess, at least, that it is true. Rachel—Yes ; but is it worthy of Corneille ? Talk to me of Racine ! There is a man I adore ! All that he says is so beautiful, so true, so noble.

The Poet—Speaking of Racine, do you remember receiving some time ago an anonymous letter which gave you advice respecting the last scene in "Mithridate"?

Rachel—Perfectly; I followed the advice given me, and ever since I have always been applauded in that scene. Do you know the person that wrote to me ?

The Poet—Very well ; she is the woman in all Paris who has the greatest mind and the smallest foot. What part are you studying now ?

Rachel—We are going to play this summer, " Marie Stuart," and afterwards, " Polyeucte," and, perhaps Poet—Well ?

Rachel (striking the table) — Well, I wish to play Phedre! They tell me I am too young, that I am too thin, and a hundred other follies. I simply reply : It is the most beautiful role of Racine ; I aspire to play it.

Sarah—My dear, perhaps you are wrong.

Rachel—Never mind ! If people think that I am too young, and that the part is not suitable to me, what then, parbleu! There were many who thought the same when I played Roxane; and what harm did it do me ? If they say I am too thin, I maintain that it is a betise. A woman who has an infamous passion, but dies rather than yield to it; a woman who has been dried up in the fires of affliction, such a woman cannot have a chest like Madam Paradol. It would be a contradiction in nature. 1 have read the part ten times in the last eight days. How I shall play it I do not know; but I tell you that I feel it. In vain the newspapers object ; they will not disgust me with the part. The newspapers, instead of helping me and encouraging me, exhaust their ingenuity in injuring me. But 1 will play that part if only four persons come to see me! Yes (turning to De Musset), I have read certain articles full of candor and of conscience, and I know nothing better or more useful ; but there are people who use their weapons only to lie, to destroy! They are worse than thieves or assassins. They kill the soul with pin pricks ! 0, it seems to me that I could poison them.

Mother—My dear, you do nothing but talk ; you tire yourself out. This morning you were up at six o'clock ; I do not know what your legs are made of. After talking all day you played this evening. You will make yourself sick.

Rachel (eagerly)—No; let me alone! I tell you, no !

It is that which keeps me alive. Would you like me (turning to De Musset) to go and get the book ? We will read the piece together.

The Poet—Would I like it ! You could propose nothing more agreeable to me.

Sarah—But, my dear, it is half-past eleven.

Rachel—Very well; who hinders you from going to bed?

Sarah went to bed. Rachel rose and left the room, returning in a moment carrying the volume of Racine in her hands, with something in her air and step which seemed to the poet to savor of the solemn and religious. It was the manner of a celebrant approaching the altar bearing the sacred vessels. She took a seat next De Musset, and snuffed the candles. Her mother fell into a doze.

Rachel (opening the book in a manner expressive of pro-found respect, and bending over it)—How I love this man ! When I put my nose into this book, I could remain two days without eating or drinking.

The poet and the actress then began to read that " Phèdre" which French critics, from Voltaire to Sainte Beuve, unite in thinking the supreme product of the French drama. The book lay open between them. The rest of the company, one after the other, took their leave, Rachel nodding a slight farewell as each withdrew, and continuing to read. At first she repeated the lines in a monotonous tone, as though she was saying a litany. Gradually she kindled. They exchanged remarks and ideas upon each passage. She came at last to the declaration. She extended one arm straight upon the table, and with her forehead leaning upon her left hand she abandoned herself entirely to the reading. Nevertheless, she still spoke only in half voice. Suddenly her eyes sparkled. The genius of Racine lighted up her countenance. She grew pale and red by turns. Never had her companion seen anything so beautiful, so moving ; at the theater she had never produced such an effect upon him. All the circumstances concurred to deepen the impression ; her fatigue, a slight hoarseness, the evident stimulus of the punch, the lateness of the hour, the almost feverish animation of that little face with the pretty night cap over it, the brilliancy of her eyes, a certain infantile smile which occasionally flitted across her countenance—even the disordered table, the unsnuffed candle, the dozing mother—all made up a picture worthy of Rembrandt, a chapter that might figure in Wilhelm Meister, and a reminiscence of artist life never to be effaced.

Half-past twelve arrived. The father of the family came in from the opera. As soon as he was seated he ordered his daughter, in tones which seemed brutal to the poet, to stop her reading. Rachel closed the book, and said in a low tone, "This is revolting ; I will buy a book-holder and read in bed." Dc Musset looked at her and saw large tears rolling from her eyes. It was to him, indeed, most revolting to hear this wonderful creature addressed in such a manner; and he took his leave full of admiration, respect, and emotion.

Brutal as may have been the father's manner, we are obliged to confess that he was substantially right; and if this gifted girl had taken his advice, only so far as to go to bed when her work was done, she would not have died at the age of thirty-seven, when, in the course of nature, she would not have reached the full development of her powers. Alfred De Musset began soon after to write a play for her which he did not live to complete ; for he, too, was one of the brilliant people who burn the candle of life at both ends, and live in disregard of those physical conditions of welfare which no man or woman can violate with impunity.

In Paris, that night, there were a thousand suppers more sumptuous and splendid. The chance presence of a sympathetic reporter, by preserving a record of this one, reveals to us the sublime child herself and the atmosphere in which she lived. Strange that our cherished apparatus of education should give us mediocrity, while genius is generated under the rudest conditions, and develops itself, not merely without help, but in spite of the harshest hindrance.
   

Related:

• Bridgman Surname Genealogy Resources
• Search for Ancestors
• Biographies Online

Daughters of Genius