She must, indeed, have had an extraordinary power even at the age of fourteen, since not merely her voice but her whole appearance was against her.  She was dressed in a short calico frock of a pattern in which red was spotted with white.  Her shoes were of coarse black leather.  Her hair was parted at the back of her 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 he 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 you draw from me unexpected tears, if in my heart you strike an unknown fiber; but tell me not of hearing night after night great artists who every time present the exact counterpart of what they were on the preceding one.