An Evening at Madame Rachel's

A NEWLY DISCOVERED LETTER OF ALFRED DE MUSSET

MY very best thanks, honored Madame and dear Godmother, for the letter of the amiable Paolita [Pauline Garcia] which you sent to me. This letter is both interesting and charming, but you, who never miss an opportunity to show those whom you love best some beautiful little attention, deserve the greatest praise. You are the only human being whom I have found to be so constituted.

A charitable act always finds its reward, and, thanks to your Desdemona letter, I shall now regale you with a supper at Madame Rachel’s, which will amuse you, providing we are still of the same opinion, and still share the same admiration for the divine artist. My little adventure is solely intended for you, because ‘ the noble child ’ detests indiscretions, and then also bebecause so much stupid talk and gossip circulate since I have been going to see her, that I have decided not even to mention it when I have been to see her at the Théâtre Français.

The evening here referred to she played Tancrède, and I went in the intermission to see her, to pay her a compliment about her charming costume. In the fifth act she read her letter with an expression which was especially sincere and touching. She told me herself that she had cried at this moment, and was so moved that she was afraid she might not be able to continue to speak. At ten o’clock, after the close of the theatre, we met by accident in the Colonnades of the Palais Royal. She was walking armin-arm with Felix Bonnaire, attended by a crowd of young people, among whom were Mademoiselle Rebut, Mademoiselle Dubois, of the Conservatory, and a few others. I bow to her; she says to me, ‘ Come with us.’

Here we are at her house; Bonnaire excuses himself as best he can, annoyed and furious about the meeting. Rachel smiles at his deplorable departure. We enter, we sit down. Each of the young ladies beside her friend, and I next to the dear Fanfan. After some conversation Rachel notices that she has forgot ten her rings and bracelets in the theatre. She sends her servant-girl to fetch them. There’s no girl here now to prepare supper! But Rachel rises, changes her dress, and goes into the kitchen. After a quarter of an hour she reënters, in house-dress and cap, beautiful as an angel, and holds in her hand a plate with three beefsteaks which she has just fried. She puts the plate in the middle of the table and says, ‘I hope it will taste good to you.’ Then she goes into the kitchen again and returns with a soup-bowl of boiling bouillon in the one hand and in the other a dish of spinach. That is the supper! No plates, no spoons, because the servant girl has taken the keys with her. Rachel opens the sideboard, finds a bowl of salad, takes the wooden fork, eventually discovers a plate, and begins to eat alone.

‘In the kitchen,’ says Mamma, who is hungry, ‘are the pewter knives and forks.’

Rachel rises, fetches them, and distributes them among those present. Now the following conversation takes place, in which you will notice that I have not changed anything.

The Mother: Dear Rachel, the beefsteaks are too well done.

Rachel: You are right; they are as hard as stone. Formerly, when I still did the housekeeping, I certainly cooked much better. I am poorer now for forgetting about it. There is nothing to be done about it, and for that matter I have learned something else instead. Don’t you eat, Sarah? (To her sister).

Sarah: No; I do not eat with pewter knives and forks.

Rachel: Ah, just listen to that! Since I have bought from my savings a dozen silver knives and forks you cannot touch pewter any more. I suppose when I become richer you will have to have a liveried lackey behind your chair and one before. (Pointing to her fork.) I shall never part with these old knives and forks. They have done us service for too long. Is n’t it so, Mamma?

The Mother (with her mouth full): She is a perfect child!

Rachel (turning to me): Think of it, when I was playing in the Théâtre Molière I had only two pairs of stockings, and every morning — (Here the sister Sarah begins to speak German in order to prevent her sister from saying any more).

Rachel (continuing): Stop talking your German. That is no shame at all. Yes, I only had two pairs of stockings, and in order to be able to appear at night I had to wash one pair every morning. They hung in my room on a string while I wore the others.

I: And you did the housekeeping?

Rachel : I got up every morning at six o’clock, and at eight o’clock all the beds were made. Then I went to the Halles and bought the food.

I: And did n’t you let a little profit go into your own pocket?

Rachel: No, I was a very honest cook, was n’t I, Mamma?

The Mother (continuing to eat): Yes, that’s true.

Rachel: Only once I was a thief for a whole month. If I bought anything for four sous I charged five, and if I paid ten I charged twelve. At the end of the month I found that I was in possession of three francs.

I (severely): And what did you do with those three francs, Mademoiselle ?

The Mother (who sees that Rachel is silent): Monsieur de Musset, she bought the works of Molière for that money.

I: Really?

Rachel: Why, yes, certainly. I had Corneille and Racine, and so I had to have Molière, and I bought him for three francs; then I confessed all my sins. Why does Mademoiselle Rebut go? Good-night, Mademoiselle!

The largest part of the dull people follow the example of Mademoiselle Rebut. The servant-girl returns with the forgotten rings and bracelets. They are put on the table. The two bracelets are magnificent, worth at least four to five thousand francs. In addition to them there is a most costly golden tiara. All this is lying anywhere about the table, betwixt and between the salad, the pewter spoons, and the spinach.

The idea of keeping house, attending to the kitchen, making beds, and of all the cares of a poverty-stricken household, sets me thinking, and I look at Rachel’s hands, secretly fearing that they are ugly or ruined. They are graceful, dainty, white, and full, the fingers tapering. In reality, hands of a princess.

Sarah, who is not eating, does not cease scolding in German. It must be remarked that, on this certain day, in the forenoon, she had been up to some pranks, which, according to her mother’s opinion, had gone a bit too far, and it was only owing to the urgent interference of her sister that she had been forgiven and had been allowed to retain her place at the table.

Rachel (answering to her German scolding): Leave me in peace, I want to speak about my youth. I remember that one day I wanted to make punch in one of these pewter spoons. I held the spoon over the light, and it melted in my hand. By the way, Sophie, give me the kirsch ; we will make some punch. Ouf ... I have done; I have eaten enough. (The cook brings a bottle).

The Mother: Sophie is mistaken. That is a bottle of absinthe.

I: Give me a drop.

Rachel: Oh, how glad I would be if you would take something with us.

The Mother: Absinthe is supposed to be very healthy.

I: Not at all. It is unhealthy and detestable.

Sarah: Why do you want to drink some, then?

I: In order to be able to say that I have partaken of your hospitality.

Rachel: I want to drink also. (She pours out absinthe into a tumbler and drinks. A silver bowl is brought to her, in which she puts sugar and kirsch; then she lights her punch, and lets it flame up.) I love this blue flame.

I: It is much prettier if there is no candle burning.

Rachel: Sophie, take the candles away.

The Mother: What ideas you have! Nothing of the kind shall be done.

Rachel: It is unbearable . . . Pardon, me, Mamma, you dear good one . . . (She embraces her). But I would like to have Sophie take the candles away.

A gentleman takes both candles and puts them under the table — twilight effect. The mother, who in the light of the flames from the punch appears now green, now blue, fixes her eyes upon me, and watches every one of my movements. The candles are brought up again.

A Flatterer: Mademoiselle Rebut did not look well this evening.

I: You demand a great deal. I think she is very pretty.

A second Flatterer: She lacks esprit.

Rachel: Why do you talk like that? She is not stupid, like many others, and besides, she has a good heart. Leave her in peace. I do not want my colleagues to be talked about in this manner.

The punch is ready. Rachel fills the glasses, and distributes them. The remainder of the punch she pours into a soup plate and begins to eat it with a spoon. Then she takes my cane, pulls out the dagger which is in it, and commences to pick her teeth with the point of it.

Now there is an end to this gossip and this childish talk. A word is sufficient to change the whole atmosphere of the evening, and what follows is consecrated with the power of art.

I: When you read the letter this evening you were very much moved.

Rachel: Yes, I felt as if something were breaking within me, and in spite of all I do not like that play [Tancrède] very much. It is untrue.

I: You prefer the plays of Corneille and Racine?

Rachel: I like Corneille well enough, although he is flat occasionally, and sometimes too pompous. All that is not truth.

I: Eh, eh! Mademoiselle, slowly, slowly!

Rachel: For instance, see, when, in Horace, Sabine says, ‘One can change the lover, not the husband’ — Well, I don’t like that; that is common.

I: At least you will admit that that is true.

Rachel: Yes, but is it worthy of Corneille? There I prefer Racine. I adore him. Everything that he says is so beautiful, so true, so noble!

I: As we are just speaking about Racine, do you remember that some time ago you received an anonymous letter in which some hints were given to you in reference to the last scene of Mithridate ?

Rachel: Certainly. I followed the advice, and since then I have a tremendous amount of applause in this scene. Do you know the person who wrote me that?

I: Very well. It is a woman who is the happy possessor of the most brilliant mind and the smallest foot in Paris. Which rôle are you studying now ?

Rachel: This summer we shall play Maria Stuart, and then Polyeucte and may be —

I: What?

Rachel (beating the table with her fist): Listen, I want to play Phèdre. It is said that I am too young, that I am too thin, and a hundred other stupidities of that kind. But I answer, it is the most beautiful part by Racine, and I shall play it.

Sarah : That would probably not be right, Rachel.

Rachel: Leave me in peace! They think I am too young, the part is not appropriate. By Heaven, when I was playing Roxane I said quite different things, and what do I care about that? And if they say that I am too thin, then I consider that a stupidity. A woman who is filled with a criminal love, and who would rather die than submit to it, a woman who is consuming herself in the fire of her passion, of her tears, such a woman cannot have a bosom like the Paradol; that would be absurd. I have read the part ten times within the last eight days. I do not know how I am going to play it, but I can tell you this: I feel the part. The papers can write what they please. They will not spoil it for me. They do not know what to bring up against me, in order to harm me instead of helping and encouraging me; but if there is no other way out of it I shall play it to only four persons. (Turning to me.) Yes, I have read many candid and conscientious criticisms, and I know of nothing better, nothing more useful, but there are many people who are using their pen in order to lie, in order to destroy. They are worse than thieves and murderers. They kill the intellect with pin-pricks. Really, if I could I would poison them!

The Mother: Dear child, you never stop talking; you are making yourself tired. You were on your feet at six o’clock this morning; I don’t know what was the matter with you. You ’ve been gossiping all day. And then you played this evening. You will make yourself sick.

Rachel (full of liveliness): No, let me be. I tell you, no. I call this life. (Turning to me) Shall I fetch the book? We will read the play together.

I: There is no need of such a question. You cannot make me a pleasanter suggestion.

Sarah: But, dear Rachel, it is half past eleven.

Rachel: Who hinders you from going to sleep?

Sarah actually goes to bed; Rachel rises and goes out, and on returning holds in her hand the volume of Racine. Her expression and her walk have something festive and sacred. She walks like a priestess who, carrying the holy vessels, approaches the altar. She sits down next to me, and snuffs the candle; the mother falls asleep smilingly.

Rachel (opens the book with special reverence and leans over it): How I love this man! When I put my nose into this book I could forget to eat and to drink for two days and two nights.

Rachel and I begin to read Phèdre. The book lies open between us on the table. All t he others go away. Rachel bows to each one as they depart, with a slight nod of the head, and continues in her reading. At first she reads in a monotonous tone, as if it were a litany; by and by she becomes more animated; we exchange our ideas and our observations about each passage. Finally she arrives at the explanation. She stretches out her right arm on her table, resting it on her elbow, the forehead in her left hand. She lets herself be carried away by the contents of the passage; at the same time she speaks in a half-lowered voice. Suddenly her eyes flash, the genius of Racine lights up her features, she pales, she blushes. Never have I seen anything more beautiful, anything more moving; nor did she ever make such a deep impression on me in the theatre.

So the time passes until half past twelve. The father returns from the opera, where he had seen La Nathan appear for the first time in La Juive. No sooner had he sat down than he ordered his daughter in brusque words to stop her declamation. Rachel closes the book and says, —

‘It is revolting. I am going to buy myself a light, and will read alone in bed.’

I looked at her; big tears filled her eyes.

It was really shocking to see such a creature treated in this way. I rose to go, filled with admiration, respect, and sympathy.

Having reached home, I hurry to put down the details of this memorable evening for you with the faithfulness of a stenographer, in the expectation that you will keep it, and that one day it will be found.