young Frenchman, against whose presence she shuddered so that she seemed to shake the stage, fully carried out the idea that the power of the goddess must have been supreme, for no woman in her senses could have fallen in love with him. Rachel never seemed to walk, and in Phèdre she gave the idea that a serpent was hidden under her long robe, on whose undulations she was moved along irrespective of her own volition. Her eyes were half closed, and her whole face, expressive of baleful passion which her nobler self hated, was the most beautiful, painful thing possible. Her voice was the very soul of music. She did not seem to know that an audience was present. Her absorption in her part was so perfect that I was full of pity for her, and wondered if she would live until the end of the play. When it was ended I found myself paralyzed and unable to rise for some moments. It was the most powerful of all artistic emotions that I have experienced in a long life of theatre-going.
I afterwards saw her in all her best parts — Adrienne Lecouvreur, Camille, in which she was emphatically beautiful, in a classic Greek dress with scarlet fillet in her hair; and again in a charming comedy, Le Moineau de Lesbie, in which her rare smile and playfulness were most conspicuous. I remember even the beauty of her robe in this play.
The wonder of Rachel's playing was the wonder of all genius. You did not see her, or her art; you saw the real creature whom her art portrayed. In this respect Salvini was nearest to her of any artist I have seen. Her sister, Sarah Félix, was an admirable artiste, and so was her brother, Raphael; but they played on the stage, while Rachel floated in an ether over it. When the two sisters played Elizabeth and Mary in the great drama of
