PARIS, _January 3, 1843_.
Hurrah! this is what I call talking! You are so amiable when you wish to
be. Why is it that you are so often unpleasant? No, indeed, written
thanks are of no value; and after all my diplomacy in securing such
cordial letters of introduction for your brother, I certainly deserve a
few words of kindness from you. I will forgive you cheerfully for all
your ridicule concerning balloons and the Academy, about which I think
much less than you suppose. If I ever become an Academician, I shall be
no harder than a rock. By that time I shall be perhaps somewhat
shrivelled and mummified, but for all that I shall be a devilish good
fellow.
The only way in which I can have Persiani for my David is to go to hear
her every Thursday. As for Mademoiselle Rachel, I am not gifted with the
faculty for enjoying poetry as often as music, and this--Rachel, not
music--reminds me that I promised you a story. Shall I tell you now, or
shall I reserve it until I see you? I am going to write it, for I shall
have something else, no doubt, to tell you then.
Well, then, about two weeks ago I dined with Rachel at the home of an
Academician. It was to introduce Béranger to her. There were any number
of great men present. She arrived late, and I did not like her entrance.
The men said so many silly things to her, and the women did so many
silly things, that I remained in my corner. Besides, I had not spoken to
her for a year.
After dinner, Béranger, with the kindness and common sense habitual to
him, told her that it was a great pity to fritter away her talents in
the salon, and that there was but one audience worthy of her, that of
the Theater Français, and so on. Mademoiselle Rachel seemed to approve
cordially of the lecture, and, as a proof that she had profited thereby,
she played the first act of _Esther_. An assistant was needed to read
the other parts, and she had a copy of Racine brought to me most
ceremoniously by an Academician who was performing the functions of a
_cicisbeo_. I replied churlishly that I did not understand poetry, and
that there were people in the room who, being in that business, could
scan it much better than I. Hugo asked to be excused on account of his
eyes, some one else for another reason. The host made a sacrifice of
himself.
Imagine to yourself Rachel, dressed in black, standing between a piano
and a tea-table, with a door at her back, assuming her theatrical
expression. This visible transformation scene was highly amusing and
very pretty; it lasted about two minutes, then she began:
“Is it thou, dear Elise?” ... The confidante, in the midst of her reply,
dropped her glasses and her book; ten minutes passed before she had
recovered her place in the book, and her eyes. It is evident to the
audience that Esther is losing her temper. She continues. The door
behind her opens; a servant enters. Some one makes a sign for him to
retire. He hastens out, and can not succeed in closing the door. The
said door, unlatched, swings back and forth, accompanying Rachel with a
melodious creaking which is extremely diverting. As this noise did not
cease, Mademoiselle Rachel laid her hand upon her heart as if she were
ill, but in the manner of one accustomed to expiring in public. This
created an opportunity for several persons to come to her assistance.
During the intermission Hugo and M. Thiers began to dispute on the
subject of Racine, Hugo contending that Racine had a small mind and
Corneille a great one. “You say this,” replied Thiers, “because you
yourself have a great mind. You are the Corneille of an age in which
Casimir Delavigne is the Racine.” At this Hugo shook his head with
assumed humility. I leave you to judge if modesty was in evidence.
By this time, however, she had recovered from her swoon, and the act was
concluded, but _fiascheggiando_. Some one who is well acquainted with
Mademoiselle Rachel remarked, as we left the house, “How she must have
sworn to-night, after going home!” The words gave me food for thought.
This is my story. All I ask of you is, not to compromise me by repeating
it to any Academician.
I did not recognise you Sunday until I was quite near. My first impulse
was to join you, but seeing you with so many others, I went on my way. I
did well, I think. It seems to me that heretofore I have always seen you
with pale cheeks, from which I concluded Sunday that they appeared rosy
in comparison with the solemnity of the day.
Good-night, or rather good-morning. Monday, or rather Tuesday, for it is
three o’clock in the morning.