head and hung down her
shoulders in two braids, framing the long, childish, and yet gnome-like
face, which was unusual in its gravity.

At first she was little thought of; but there came a time when she
astonished both her teachers and her companions by a recital which she
gave in public. The part was the narrative of Salema in the "Abufar" of
Ducis. It describes the agony of a mother who gives birth to a child
while dying of thirst amid the desert sands. Mme. de Barviera has left
a description of this recital, which it is worth while to quote:

While uttering the thrilling tale the thin face seemed to lengthen with
horror, the small, deep-set black eyes dilated with a fixed stare as
though she witnessed the harrowing scene; and the deep, guttural tones,
despite a slight Jewish accent, awoke a nameless terror in every one
who listened, carrying him through the imaginary woe with a strange
feeling of reality, not to be shaken, off as long as the sounds lasted.

Even yet, however, the time had not come for any conspicuous success.
The girl was still so puny in form, so monkey-like in face, and so
gratingly unpleasant in her tones that it needed time for her to attain
her full growth and to smooth away some of the discords in her peculiar
voice.

Three years later she appeared at the Gymnase in a regular debut; yet
even then only the experienced few appreciated her greatness. Among
these, however, were the well-known critic Jules Janin, the poet and
novelist Gauthier, and the actress Mlle. Mars. They saw that this lean,
raucous gutter-girl had within her gifts which would increase until she
would be first of all actresses on the French stage. Janin wrote some
lines which explain the secret of her greatness:

All the talent in the world, especially when continually applied to the
same dramatic works, will not satisfy continually the hearer. What
pleases in a great actor, as in all arts that appeal to the
imagination, is the unforeseen. When I am utterly ignorant of what is
to happen, when I do not know, when you yourself do not know what will
be your next gesture, your next look, what passion will possess your
heart, what outcry will burst from your terror-stricken soul, then,
indeed, I am willing to see you daily, for each day you will be new to
me. To-day I may blame, to-morrow praise. Yesterday you were
all-powerful; to-morrow, perhaps, you may hardly win from me a word of
admiration. So much the better, then, if yo