THE STORY OF RACHEL
Outside of the English-speaking peoples the nineteenth centurywitnessed the rise and triumphant progress of three great tragicactresses. The first two of these--Rachel Felix and SarahBernhardt--were of Jewish extraction; the third, Eleanor Duse, isItalian. All of them made their way from pauperism to fame; but perhapsthe rise of Rachel was the most striking.
In the winter of 1821 a wretched peddler named Abraham--or Jacob--Felixsought shelter at a dilapidated inn at Mumpf, a village in Switzerland,not far from Basel. It was at the close of a stormy day, and his smallfamily had been toiling through the snow and sleet. The inn was thelowest sort of hovel, and yet its proprietor felt that it was too goodfor these vagabonds. He consented to receive them only when he learnedthat the peddler's wife was to be delivered of a child. That very nightshe became the mother of a girl, who was at first called Elise. Sounimportant was the advent of this little waif into the world that theburgomaster of Mumpf thought it necessary to make an entry only of thefact that a peddler's wife had given birth to a female child. There wasno mention of family or religion, nor was the record anything more thana memorandum.
Under such circumstances was born a child who was destined to excitethe wonder of European courts--to startle and thrill and utterly amazegreat audiences by her dramatic genius. But for ten years thefamily--which grew until it consisted of one son and fivedaughters--kept on its wanderings through Switzerland and Germany.Finally, they settled down in Lyons, where the mother opened a littleshop for the sale of second-hand clothing. The husband gave lessons inGerman whenever he could find a pupil. The eldest daughter went aboutthe cafes in the evening, singing the songs that were then popular,while her small sister, Rachel, collected coppers from those who hadcoppers to spare.
Although the family was barely able to sustain existence, the fatherand mother were by no means as ignorant as their squalor would imply.The peddler Felix had studied Hebrew theology in the hope of becoming arabbi. Failing this, he was always much interested in declamation,public reading, and the recitation of poetry. He was, in his way, nomean critic of actors and actresses. Long before she was ten years ofage little Rachel--who had changed her name from Elise--could renderwith much feeling and neatness of eloquence bits from the best-knownFrench plays of the classic stage.
The children's mother, on her side, was sharp and practical to a highdegree. She saved and scrimped all through her period of adversity.Later she was the banker of her family, and would never lend any of herchildren a sou except on excellent security. However, this was all tohappen in after years.
When the child who was destined to be famous had reached her tenth yearshe and her sisters made their way to Paris. For four years thesecond-hand clothing-shop was continued; the father still taughtGerman; and the elder sister, Sarah, who had a golden voice, made therounds of the cafes in the lowest quarters of the capital, while Rachelpassed the wooden plate for coppers.
One evening in the year 1834 a gentleman named Morin, having been takenout of his usual course by a matter of business, entered a BRASSERIEfor a cup of coffee. There he noted two girls, one of them singing withremarkable sweetness, and the other silently following with the woodenplate. M. Morin called to him the girl who sang and asked her why shedid not make her voice more profitable than by haunting the cafes atnight, where she was sure to meet with insults of the grossest kind.
"Why," said Sarah, "I haven't anybody to advise me what to do."
M. Morin gave her his address and said that he would arrange to haveher meet a friend who would be of great service to her. On thefollowing day he sent the two girls to a M. Choron, who was the head ofthe Conservatory of Sacred Music. Choron had Sarah sing, and instantlyadmitted her as a pupil, which meant that she would soon be enrolledamong the regular choristers. The beauty of her voice made a deepimpression on him.
Then he happened to notice the puny, meager child who was standing nearher sister. Turning to her, he said:
"And what can you do, little one?"
"I can recite poetry," was the reply.
"Oh, can you?" said he. "Please let me hear you."
Rachel readily consented. She had a peculiarly harsh, grating voice, sothat any but a very competent judge would have turned her away. But M.Choron, whose experience was great, noted the correctness of her accentand the feeling which made itself felt in every line. He accepted heras well as her sister, but urged her to study elocution rather thanmusic.
She must, indeed, have had an extraordinary power even at the age offourteen, since not merely her voice but her whole appearance wasagainst her. She was dressed in a short calico frock of a pattern inwhich red was spotted with white. Her shoes were of coarse blackleather. Her hair was parted at the back of her head and hung down hershoulders in two braids, framing the long, childish, and yet gnome-likeface, which was unusual in its gravity.
At first she was little thought of; but there came a time when sheastonished both her teachers and her companions by a recital which shegave in public. The part was the narrative of Salema in the "Abufar" ofDucis. It describes the agony of a mother who gives birth to a childwhile dying of thirst amid the desert sands. Mme. de Barviera has lefta description of this recital, which it is worth while to quote:
While uttering the thrilling tale the thin face seemed to lengthen withhorror, the small, deep-set black eyes dilated with a fixed stare asthough she witnessed the harrowing scene; and the deep, guttural tones,despite a slight Jewish accent, awoke a nameless terror in every onewho listened, carrying him through the imaginary woe with a strangefeeling of reality, not to be shaken, off as long as the sounds lasted.
Even yet, however, the time had not come for any conspicuous success.The girl was still so puny in form, so monkey-like in face, and sogratingly unpleasant in her tones that it needed time for her to attainher full growth and to smooth away some of the discords in her peculiarvoice.
Three years later she appeared at the Gymnase in a regular debut; yeteven then only the experienced few appreciated her greatness. Amongthese, however, were the well-known critic Jules Janin, the poet andnovelist Gauthier, and the actress Mlle. Mars. They saw that this lean,raucous gutter-girl had within her gifts which would increase until shewould be first of all actresses on the French stage. Janin wrote somelines which explain the secret of her greatness:
All the talent in the world, especially when continually applied to thesame dramatic works, will not satisfy continually the hearer. Whatpleases in a great actor, as in all arts that appeal to theimagination, is the unforeseen. When I am utterly ignorant of what isto happen, when I do not know, when you yourself do not know what willbe your next gesture, your next look, what passion will possess yourheart, what outcry will burst from your terror-stricken soul, then,indeed, I am willing to see you daily, for each day you will be new tome. To-day I may blame, to-morrow praise. Yesterday you wereall-powerful; to-morrow, perhaps, you may hardly win from me a word ofadmiration. So much the better, then, if you draw from me unexpectedtears, if in my heart you strike an unknown fiber; but tell me not ofhearing night after night great artists who every time present theexact counterpart of what they were on the preceding one.
It was at the Theatre Francais that she won her final acceptance as thegreatest of all tragedians of her time. This was in her appearance inCorneille's famous play of "Horace." She had now, in 1838, blazed forthwith a power that shook her no, less than it stirred the emotions andthe passions of her hearers. The princes of the royal blood came insuccession to see her. King Louis Philippe himself was at last temptedby curiosity to be present. Gifts of money and jewels were showered onher, and through sheer natural genius rather than through artifice shewas able to master a great audience and bend it to her will.
She had no easy life, this girl of eighteen years, for other actressescarped at her, and she had had but little training. The sordid ways ofher old father excited a bitterness which was vented on the daughter.She was still under age, and therefore was treated a
s a gold-mine byher exacting parents. At the most she could play but twice a week. Herform was frail and reed-like. She was threatened with a complaint ofthe lungs; yet all this served to excite rather than to diminish publicinterest in her. The newspapers published daily bulletins of herhealth, and her door was besieged by anxious callers who wished to knowher condition. As for the greed of her parents, every one said she wasnot to blame for that. And so she passed from poverty to riches, fromsqualor to something like splendor, and from obscurity to fame.
Much has been written about her that is quite incorrect. She has beencredited with virtues which she never possessed; and, indeed, it may besaid with only too much truth that she possessed no virtues whatsoever.On the stage while the inspiration lasted she was magnificent. Off thestage she was sly, treacherous, capricious, greedy, ungrateful,ignorant, and unchaste. With such an ancestry as she had, with such anearly childhood as had been hers, what else could one expect from her?
She and her old mother wrangled over money like two pickpockets. Someof her best friends she treated shamefully. Her avarice was withoutbounds. Some one said that it was not really avarice, but only areaction from generosity; but this seems an exceedingly subtle theory.It is possible to give illustrations of it, however. She did, indeed,make many presents with a lavish hand; yet, having made a present, shecould not rest until she got it back. The fact was so well known thather associates took it for granted. The younger Dumas once received aring from her. Immediately he bowed low and returned it to her finger,saying:
"Permit me, mademoiselle, to present it to you in my turn so as to saveyou the embarrassment of asking for it."
Mr. Vandam relates among other anecdotes about her that one evening shedined at the house of Comte Duchatel. The table was loaded with themost magnificent flowers; but Rachel's keen eyes presently spied outthe great silver centerpiece. Immediately she began to admire thelatter; and the count, fascinated by her manners, said that he would beglad to present it to her. She accepted it at once, but was ratherfearful lest he should change his mind. She had come to dinner in acab, and mentioned the fact. The count offered to send her home in hiscarriage.
"Yes, that will do admirably," said she. "There will be no danger of mybeing robbed of your present, which I had better take with me."
"With pleasure, mademoiselle," replied the count. "But you will send meback my carriage, won't you?"
Rachel had a curious way of asking every one she met for presents andknickknacks, whether they were valuable or not. She knew how to makethem valuable.
Once in a studio she noticed a guitar hanging on the wall. She beggedfor it very earnestly. As it was an old and almost worthlessinstrument, it was given her. A little later it was reported that thedilapidated guitar had been purchased by a well-known gentleman for athousand francs. The explanation soon followed. Rachel had declaredthat it was the very guitar with which she used to earn her living as achild in the streets of Paris. As a memento its value sprang fromtwenty francs to a thousand.
It has always been a mystery what Rachel did with the great sums ofmoney which she made in various ways. She never was well dressed; andas for her costumes on the stage, they were furnished by the theater.When her effects were sold at public auction after her death herfurniture was worse than commonplace, and her pictures and ornamentswere worthless, except such as had been given her. She must have mademillions of francs, and yet she had very little to leave behind her.
Some say that her brother Raphael, who acted as her personal manager,was a spendthrift; but if so, there are many reasons for thinking thatit was not his sister's money that he spent. Others say that Rachelgambled in stocks, but there is no evidence of it. The only thing thatis certain is the fact that she was almost always in want of money. Hermother, in all probability, managed to get hold of most of her earnings.
Much may have been lost through her caprices. One instance may becited. She had received an offer of three hundred thousand francs toact at St. Petersburg, and was on her way there when she passed throughPotsdam, near Berlin. The King of Prussia was entertaining the RussianCzar. An invitation was sent to her in the shape of a royal command toappear before these monarchs and their guests. For some reason or otherRachel absolutely refused. She would listen to no arguments. She wouldgo on to St. Petersburg without delay.
"But," it was said to her, "if you refuse to appear before the Czar atPotsdam all the theaters in St. Petersburg will be closed against you,because you will have insulted the emperor. In this way you will be outthe expenses of your journey and also the three hundred thousandfrancs."
Rachel remained stubborn as before; but in about half an hour shesuddenly declared that she would recite before the two monarchs, whichshe subsequently did, to the satisfaction of everybody. Some one saidto her not long after:
"I knew that you would do it. You weren't going to give up the threehundred thousand francs and all your travelling expenses."
"You are quite wrong," returned Rachel, "though of course you will notbelieve me. I did not care at all about the money and was going back toFrance. It was something that I heard which made me change my mind. Doyou want to know what it was? Well, after all the arguments were oversome one informed me that the Czar Nicholas was the handsomest man inEurope; and so I made up my mind that I would stay in Potsdam longenough to see him."
This brings us to one phase of Rachel's nature which is rathersinister. She was absolutely hard. She seemed to have no emotionsexcept those which she exhibited on the stage or the impish perversitywhich irritated so many of those about her. She was in reality aproduct of the gutter, able to assume a demure and modest air, butwithin coarse, vulgar, and careless of decency. Yet the words of JulesJanin, which have been quoted above, explain how she could bepersonally very fascinating.
In all Rachel's career one can detect just a single strand of realromance. It is one that makes us sorry for her, because it tells usthat her love was given where it never could be openly requited.
During the reign of Louis Philippe the Comte Alexandre Walewski heldmany posts in the government. He was a son of the great Napoleon. Hismother was that Polish countess who had accepted Napoleon's lovebecause she hoped that he might set Poland free at her desire. ButNapoleon was never swerved from his well-calculated plans by the wishof any woman, and after a time the Countess Walewska came to love himfor himself. It was she to whom he confided secrets which he would notreveal to his own brothers. It was she who followed him to Elba indisguise. It was her son who was Napoleon's son, and who afterward,under the Second Empire, was made minister of fine arts, minister offoreign affairs, and, finally, an imperial duke. Unlike the thirdNapoleon's natural half-brother, the Duc de Moray, Walewski was agentleman of honor and fine feeling. He never used his relationship tosecure advantages for himself. He tried to live in a manner worthy ofthe great warrior who was his father.
As minister of fine arts he had much to do with the subsidizedtheaters; and in time he came to know Rachel. He was the son of one ofthe greatest men who ever lived. She was the child of roving peddlerswhose early training had been in the slums of cities and amid the smokeof bar-rooms and cafes. She was tainted in a thousand ways, while hewas a man of breeding and right principle. She was a wandering actress;he was a great minister of state. What could there be between these two?
George Sand gave the explanation in an epigram which, like mostepigrams, is only partly true. She said:
"The count's company must prove very restful to Rachel."
What she meant was, of course, that Walewski's breeding, his dignityand uprightness, might be regarded only as a temporary repose for theimpish, harsh-voiced, infinitely clever actress. Of course, it was allthis, but we should not take it in a mocking sense. Rachel looked upout of her depths and gave her heart to this high-minded nobleman. Helooked down and lifted her, as it were, so that she could forget forthe time all the baseness and the brutality that she had known, thatshe might put aside her forced vivacity and the self that was not inre
ality her own.
It is pitiful to think of these two, separated by a great abyss whichcould not be passed except at times and hours when each was free. Buttheirs was, none the less, a meeting of two souls, strangely differentin many ways, and yet appealing to each other with a sincerity andtruth which neither could show elsewhere.
The end of poor Rachel was one of disappointment. Tempted by the factthat Jenny Lind had made nearly two million francs by her visit to theUnited States, Rachel followed her, but with slight success, as was tobe expected. Music is enjoyed by human beings everywhere, while Frenchclassical plays, even though acted by a genius like Rachel, could berightly understood only by a French-speaking people. Thus it came aboutthat her visit to America was only moderately successful.
She returned to France, where the rising fame of Adelaide Ristori wasvery bitter to Rachel, who had passed the zenith of her power. She wentto Egypt, but received no benefit, and in 1858 she died near Cannes.The man who loved her, and whom she had loved in turn, heard of herdeath with great emotion. He himself lived ten years longer, and died alittle while before the fall of the Second Empire.
THE END
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