Page:Rachel (1887 Nina H. Kennard).djvu/211

 to say; "crown me for what I really am, or dethrone me. It is easy to rave and rage. Here I am, without accessory of scene or company—alone, upon a bare stage, declaiming verse in an unknown tongue—verse which you have been accustomed to consider absurd and stilted. But you show that you have right to sit in judgment on the thing itself and you shall do so."

So simply she began. The artist and the audience were mutually worthy. Her action was symmetrical throughout. No one part was more perfectly done than another; but the varied importance of the parts made the differing excellence of the acting. The applause was as discriminating. It shifted from sensation to murmur, and ran all along the line of feeling until it exploded in enthusiasm. In the extreme moment of hearing her lover's fate, Camille sinks fainting in the chair, after a pantomime of fluctuating emotion, which is the very height of her art. Just then some bewildered poet flung a huge bouquet upon the stage, which fell, shattered like a cabbage, at the very feet of the Roman who was declaiming. Perplexed for a moment—uncertain whether the laws of our theatre might not require some notice to be taken of the bouquet—unwilling, upon the first night, to do anything contrary to courtesy, the Roman faltered and paused, made a halting step towards the flowers, raised them doubtfully, and turned towards Rachel, when a sudden "No!" rang through the house like a gust, and the dismayed Thespian dropped the bouquet like a hot cannon-ball, and proceeded with his part.

For an hour and a half the curtain was up, and the eyes of the audience were riveted upon Rachel. For an hour and a half there was the constant increase of passionate intensity, until love and despair culminated in the famous denunciation; the house hung breathless upon that wild whirl of tragic force—and Camille lay dead, and the curtain was down, before that rapt and amazed silence was conscious of itself.

Then came the judgment—the verdict which was worth having after such a trial—the crown, and the garland, and the pæan. The curtain rose, and there, wan and wavering, stood the ghost of Camille, the woman Rachel. She had risen in her flowing drapery just where she had fallen, and seemed to be the spirit of herself. But pale and trembling, she flickered in the tempest of applause. The audience stood and waved hats and handkerchiefs, and flowers fell in pyramids; and that quick, earnest, meaning "Brava!" was undisturbed by any discordant sound. It was a great triumph. It was too much for the excited and exhausted Rachel. She knew that the news would instantly fly across the sea—that Paris would hear of her victory over a new continent—that, perhaps, Ristori's foot would be