Page:Rachel (1887 Nina H. Kennard).djvu/71

 up to it—a woman devoured by grief and love—would not have a chest like Madame Paradol. It would be utterly inconsistent to expect it. I have read the rôle ten times in the last eight days. I do not know how I will act it, but I can tell you how I feel it. The critics, the newspapers, the public, no one shall make me give it up. Instead of encouraging me and helping me, they invent things to injure and annoy me. Yes, I have read sincere and conscientious articles; there is nothing better for the artist, but there are others who kill one's soul with pin-pricks. I should like to poison them."

The Mother.—"My dear, you have done nothing but talk all day. You were up at six, and you played this evening. You will be ill."

Rachel (quickly).—"No: leave me alone. I tell you it gives me new life. (Turning towards me)—Shall I go and fetch the book? We will read the piece together."

I.—"Certainly, nothing could be more delightful."

She rose and went, shortly returning with the volume of Racine in her hand. There was something solemn and religious in her walk—like a priestess carrying the sacred vessels to the altar. She sat down beside me and snuffed the candle. The mother went to sleep smiling. Rachel opened the book almost with awe, and bending over it said, "How I delight in this man! When once I put my nose into this book, I could willingly remain without food or drink for days." We began to read Phèdre, the book lying on the table between us. At first she recited in a monotonous tone like a litany. By degrees she became more animated. We exchanged remarks, ideas, on every passage. At last we reached the great scene. She stretched out her right arm on the table, her head resting on her left hand, and gave herself up to her emotion. Still she only spoke in an undertone. Fatigue, excitement, the lateness of the hour, an almost feverish agitation that coloured the little cheeks, surrounded by the night-cap, red and white by turns, some charm that emanated from her, those brilliant eyes challenging my criticism, a childish smile that irradiated her features, the table covered with dishes, the flickering flame of the candle, the mother asleep close to us—all made a picture worthy of Rembrandt, a chapter of romance worthy of Wilhelm Meister, and a memory of my artistic life which I shall never forget.

At last half-past twelve struck. Her father came in from the opera where he had gone to see Mademoiselle Nathan make her first appearance in La Juive. He addressed one or two irritable sentences to his daughter, telling her to stop reading. Rachel shut the book, saying, under her breath, "It is disgusting. I will buy a candle and read alone in my bed." I looked at her, great tears stood in her eyes. It was indeed disgusting to see such a creature treated