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Marie Louise Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun
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Title: The Memoirs of Madame Vigée Lebrun
Author: Marie Louise Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun
Translator: Lionel Strachey
Release Date: April 10, 2010 [EBook #31934]
Language: English
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Memoirs of Madame Vigée Lebrun
Uniform with this volume:
MEMOIRS OF COUNTESS POTOCKA
_Illustrated._ Translated by Lionel Strachey
MEMOIRS OF A CONTEMPORARY
_Illustrated._ Translated by Lionel Strachey
[Illustration: MME. VIGÉE LEBRUN AND HER DAUGHTER.]
Memoirs of Madame Vigée Lebrun
Translated by Lionel Strachey
With Numerous Reproductions of Paintings by the Authoress
London
Grant Richards
1904
Copyright, 1903, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
Printed by Manhattan Press
New York. N. Y., U. S. A.
PREFATORY NOTE
Madame Lebrun brought out her Memoirs at the suggestion of her friend,
the Princess Dolgoruki, in 1835. The authoress was born in 1756, at
Paris, where she died in 1842. She was the daughter of Louis Vigée, an
obscure portrait painter. Her baptismal name was Marie Louise
Elisabeth. In 1776 Mademoiselle Vigée was married to Jean Baptiste
Pierre Lebrun, a notable picture dealer and critic, known also to his
contemporaries as an inveterate gambler.
This book forms a rendering of Madame Carette's edition of the Lebrun
Memoirs, slightly abridged for the sake of uniformity with the
"Memoirs of the Countess Potocka" and the "Memoirs of a Contemporary,"
issuing from the same hands as the present volume.
CONTENTS
Page
CHAPTER I. YOUTH.
Precocious Talents Manifested -- Mlle. Vigée's Father and
Mother -- Death of Her Father -- A Friend of Her Girlhood --
Her Mother Remarries -- Mlle. Vigée's First Portrait of Note
(Count Schouvaloff) -- Acquaintance with Mme. Geoffrin --
The Authoress's Puritanical Bringing-up -- Male Sitters
Attempt Flirtation -- Public Resorts of Paris Before the
Revolution 3
CHAPTER II. UP THE LADDER OF FAME.
Tedious Sojourn in the Country -- Social Amenities in Paris
-- Mlle. Vigée Becomes Mme. Lebrun -- Prognostications of
Unhappy Wedlock -- On the Ladder of Fame -- Singularities of
Oriental Taste -- Marie Antoinette as a Model -- Painting
the Royal Family -- How Louis XVIII. Sang -- The Princess de
Lamballe 16
CHAPTER III. WORK AND PLEASURE.
Impressions of Flanders -- The Authoress's Election to the
French Royal Academy of Painting -- Her Devotion to Work --
Social Pleasures -- A Tale of an Artist's Extravagance --
Calonne and Calumny -- M. Lebrun Allows His Wife Naught Per
Cent. of Her Earnings -- A Dramatic Constellation -- The
Incomparable Mme. Dugazon 32
CHAPTER IV. EXILE.
A Gallic Maecenas -- Anecdote Concerning Beaumarchais -- The
Duke de Nivernais -- Mme. Du Barry Sketched in Words -- And
Painted in Oils -- Rumblings of the Revolution -- Mme.
Lebrun's Fearsome Journey to Italy -- Renewed Artistic
Activity at Rome -- Easter Sunday at St. Peter's --
Fascination of the Eternal City -- Vanities and Violences of
Its People 47
CHAPTER V. NEAPOLITAN DAYS.
Naples -- A Sleepy Ambassadress -- The Remarkable Life of
Lady Hamilton -- Being the Story of a Frivolous Flirt Fond
of Beer -- More Royal Models -- Excursions to Posilippo --
Mlle. Lebrun Writes a Novel at the Age of Nine -- The Queen
of Naples Sits to the Authoress -- The Wedding of the Doge
of Venice with the Sea 63
CHAPTER VI. TURIN AND VIENNA.
A Queen Who Refused to Be Painted -- A Four-Course Dinner of
Frogs, Frogs, Frogs and Frogs -- Villeggiatura -- French
Refugees at Turin -- Their Heartrending Plight -- Vienna --
News of the "Awful Murder" of Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette -- Barefoot Princess Lichtenstein -- Inducements
to Visit Russia -- Journey Thither via Dresden -- The
Sistine Madonna 74
CHAPTER VII. SAINT PETERSBURG.
Arrival at St. Petersburg -- The Beautiful Grandduchess
Elisabeth -- Catherine II. Receives Mme. Lebrun -- And Is
Most Gracious -- Petty Court Intrigues -- A Visit to Count
Strogonoff -- Hospitality of the Russians -- An Ambassador
as Gardener -- Princess Dolgoruki and Her Hideous Admirer --
The Extravagances of Potemkin -- His End 83
CHAPTER VIII. LIFE IN RUSSIA.
Painting Russian Royalties -- Festivities at Court -- The
Pangs of Waiting for Dinner -- "To Keep Warm, Spend the
Winter in Russia" -- The Hardiness of Its Common People --
Who Are Well Suited with Serfdom -- And Remarkably Honest --
The Quaint Ceremonial of Blessing the Neva -- Various Social
Customs 96
CHAPTER IX. CATHERINE II.
Surroundings of St. Petersburg -- Patriarchal
Unconventionalities -- An Artillery Repast -- The Greatness
of the Second Catherine -- Who Lit Her Own Fire and Made Her
Own Coffee -- And Was Sworn at by a Chimney Sweeper -- Other
Domestic Amenities in the Career of an Empress -- The Suit
of Gustavus IV. -- Catherine's Death -- Humiliating Funeral
Incidents 109
CHAPTER X. THE EMPEROR PAUL.
Accession of the Emperor Paul -- His Arbitrary Rule -- His
Civility to the Authoress -- A Man Who Did Not Know the
Emperor's Address -- Paul's Kindness to Foreigners -- His
Fear of Assassination -- His Personal Appearance -- The
Empress Maria -- Vagaries of a Half-Mad Emperor -- A Noble
Prelate 119
CHAPTER XI. FAMILY AFFAIRS.
Poniatowski, Last King of Poland -- His Amiable Character --
The Authoress's Faculty of Presaging Death -- Poniatowski
the Nephew -- Mme. Lebrun Received as a Member of the St.
Petersburg Academy -- Her Daughter's Untoward Marriage --
Resulting in Estrangement Between Mother and Child 131
CHAPTER XII. MOSCOW.
Journey to Moscow -- A Bad Smell and Its Origin -- First
Impression of Moscow -- Another Impression, Oral and
Unpleasing -- The Kremlin -- Steam-and-Snow Bathing --
Society -- Luxurious Prince Kurakin -- An Impossible
Duologue -- Examples of Russian Cleverness -- Determination
to Return to France 142
CHAPTER XIII. GOOD-BY TO RUSSIA.
Departure from Moscow -- News of the Death of Paul --
Particulars of His Assassination -- Et tu Brute? -- Paul's
Presentiments of Peril -- His Successor Not an Accomplice in
the Crime -- Alexander I. a Popular Monarch -- An Order
from an Imperial Customer and Model -- Farewells to Friends
-- Among Them Czar and Czarina 154
CHAPTER XIV. HOMEWARD BOUND.
First Station, Narva -- The Cataract -- Riga -- Hardships of
Travel a Hundred Years Ago -- Obdurate Custom-House
Officials -- A Summons to Potsdam -- The Loveliest and
Sweetest of Queens -- Her Ugly Children -- An Ambitious Cook
-- The Journey Continued -- "Remember Your Jewel-Case" --
Modelling in Dirt for a Pastime -- Likewise Sewing -- Home
Again 164
CHAPTER XV. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.
Paris After the Revolution -- Renewing Old Acquaintances and
Forming New Ties -- Rival Beauties: Mme. Récamier and Mme.
Tallien -- Mme. Campan -- An Englishwoman's Slip of the
Tongue -- Some Distinguished Foreigners 173
CHAPTER XVI. UNMERRY ENGLAND.
London -- Its Historic Piles -- And Dull Sundays -- And
Taciturn People -- Pictures by Sir Joshua Reynolds -- His
Modesty -- How to Dry Pictures in a Damp Climate -- The
Artistic View of a Certain Popular Beauty -- The Prince of
Wales -- His Alleged Attentions to Mme. Lebrun -- The
Authoress Lectures an Unfriendly Critic -- News of One of
Napoleon's "Atrocious Crimes" 182
CHAPTER XVII. PERSONS AND PLACES IN BRITAIN.
English Palaces -- And Scenery -- Suburban Princes --
Richmond Terrace -- An Eccentric Margravine -- The Charm of
the Isle of Wight -- The Britons a Stolid Nation -- Their
Indifference to Rain 192
CHAPTER XVIII. BONAPARTES AND BOURBONS.
Back in Paris -- The Devotion of Mme. Grassini --
Capricious, Exacting Mme. Murat -- Aspects of Christian
Warfare -- "Kill All Those People!" -- Louis XVIII. Enters
the Capital -- The Barrenness of Napoleon's Victories --
His Successor's Attainments -- Bourbon Characteristics --
The Authoress Loses Her Husband, Daughter and Brother --
Conclusion 200
APPENDIX
List of Madame Vigée Lebrun's Paintings 215
INDEX 229
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN AND HER DAUGHTER _Frontispiece_
Facing Page
THE DUCHESS D'ANGOULÊME AND HER BROTHER, THE DAUPHIN 10
MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN 16
Marked: "Virginia Lebrun, St. Luke's Gallery, Rome"
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS 20
MARIE ANTOINETTE, DONE IN 1779 24
Madame Lebrun's First Portrait of the Queen, Destined for
Presentation to the Emperor Joseph II. Marie Antoinette
Ordered Two Copies, One for the Emperor of Russia and
One for Herself
PORTRAIT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER CHILDREN 28
Known as "The Royal Family," Exhibited at the Paris Salon
of 1788, the Year Before the Outbreak of the Revolution
MADAME ELISABETH, SISTER OF LOUIS XVI 30
THE DAUPHIN 32
Son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette
MADAME LEBRUN, THE AUTHORESS, NÉE ELISABETH VIGÉE 34
PEACE BRINGING BACK PLENTY 36
Exhibited by Madame Lebrun at the French Royal Academy
of Painting, on Her Election as a Member of That
Institution
MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN AND HER DAUGHTER 42
THE DAUPHIN OF FRANCE 50
THE BARONESS DE CRUSSOL 58
MARIE CAROLINE, WIFE OF FERDINAND IV. OF NAPLES 64
PRINCESS CHRISTINE, DAUGHTER OF FERDINAND IV. OF NAPLES 70
MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE 76
QUEEN MARIE ANTOINETTE 80
THE PRINCESS DE TALLEYRAND 90
ISABEL CZARTORYSKA 100
A Polish Noblewoman
THE DUCHESS DE POLIGNAC 112
QUEEN MARIE ANTOINETTE 126
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS 132
Painted for the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, Where the Picture
Now Hangs
PORTRAIT OF MME. LEBRUN'S DAUGHTER 138
In the Bologna Gallery
MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN 146
HUBERT ROBERT 154
A French Painter of Repute, Born 1733, Died 1808. One
of Madame Lebrun's Contemporaries
A MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER 162
"WOMAN PAINTING" 170
(Identity of sitter uncertain)
MADAME COURCELLES 176
"THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFF" 184
Madame Molé-Raymond, of the Comédie-Française
MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN 190
GENEVIEVE ADELAIDE HELVETIUS, COUNTESS D'ANDLOU 202
LOUISE MARIE ADELAIDE DE BOURBON 210
CHAPTER I
YOUTH
PRECOCIOUS TALENTS MANIFESTED -- MLLE. VIGÉE'S FATHER AND MOTHER
-- DEATH OF HER FATHER -- A FRIEND OF HER GIRLHOOD -- HER MOTHER
REMARRIES -- MLLE. VIGÉE'S FIRST PORTRAIT OF NOTE (COUNT
SCHOUVALOFF) -- ACQUAINTANCE WITH MME. GEOFFRIN -- THE
AUTHORESS'S PURITANICAL BRINGING-UP -- MALE SITTERS ATTEMPT
FLIRTATION -- PUBLIC RESORTS OF PARIS BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.
I will begin by speaking of my childhood, which is the symbol, so to
say, of my whole life, since my love for painting declared itself in
my earliest youth. I was sent to a boarding-school at the age of six,
and remained there until I was eleven. During that time I scrawled on
everything at all seasons; my copy-books, and even my schoolmates', I
decorated with marginal drawings of heads, some full-face, others in
profile; on the walls of the dormitory I drew faces and landscapes
with coloured chalks. So it may easily be imagined how often I was
condemned to bread and water. I made use of my leisure moments
outdoors in tracing any figures on the ground that happened to come
into my head. At seven or eight, I remember, I made a picture by
lamplight of a man with a beard, which I have kept until this very
day. When my father saw it he went into transports of joy, exclaiming,
"You will be a painter, child, if ever there was one!"
I mention these facts to show what an inborn passion for the art I
possessed. Nor has that passion ever diminished; it seems to me that
it has even gone on growing with time, for to-day I feel under the
spell of it as much as ever, and shall, I hope, until the hour of
death. It is, indeed, to this divine passion that I owe, not only my
fortune, but my felicity, because it has always been the means of
bringing me together with the most delightful and most distinguished
men and women in Europe. The recollection of all the notable people I
have known often cheers me in times of solitude.
As a schoolgirl my health was frail, and therefore my parents would
frequently come for me to take me to spend a few days with them. This,
of course, suited my taste exactly. My father, Louis Vigée, made very
good pastel drawings; he did some which would have been worthy of the
famous Latour. My father allowed me to do some heads in that style,
and, in fact, let me mess with his crayons all day. He was so wrapt up
in his art that he occasionally did queer things from sheer
absent-mindedness. I remember how, one day, after dressing for a
dinner in town, he went out and almost immediately came back, it
having occurred to him that he would like to touch up a picture
recently begun. He removed his wig, put on a nightcap, and went out
again in this headgear, with his gilt-frogged coat, his sword, etc.
Had not one of his neighbours stopped him, he would have exhibited
himself in this costume all through the town.
He was a very witty man. His natural good spirits infected every one,
and some came to be painted by him for the sake of his amusing
conversation. Once, when he was making a portrait of a rather pretty
woman, my father observed, while he worked at her mouth, that she made
all manner of grimaces in order to make that organ look smaller.
Falling out of patience with all this maneuvering, my father quietly
remarked:
"Please don't let me give you so much trouble. You have only to say
the word and I will paint you without a mouth."
My mother was an extremely handsome woman. This may be judged from the
pastel portrait made of her by my father, as well as from my own oil
painting of a much later date. She carried her goodness to austerity,
and my father worshipped her as though she had been divine. She was
very pious, and, in heart, I was so, too. We always heard high mass
together, and were regular attendants at the other church services.
Especially in Lent did we never omit any of the prescribed devotions,
evening prayer not excepted. I have always liked sacred singing, and
in those days organ music would often move me to tears.
My father was in the habit of inviting various artists and men of
letters to his house of an evening. At the head of them I must place
Doyen, the historical painter, my father's most intimate and my first
friend. Doyen was the nicest man in the world, so clever and so good;
his views on persons and things were always exceedingly just, and
moreover he talked about painting with such fervent enthusiasm that it
made my heart beat fast to listen to him. Poinsinet was very clever,
too, and gay. Perhaps his extraordinary credulity is generally known.
As a consequence of it he was continually made game of in the most
unheard-of ways. Some friends once told him that there was an office
called the King's Screen, and persuaded him to stand before a blazing
fire so hot that it nearly roasted his calves. When he attempted to
move away, he was told he must not stir, but that he must accustom
himself to intense heat or he would not get the post. Poinsinet was,
however, far from being a fool. Many of his works are still in favour,
and he is the only author who ever gained three dramatic successes in
one night: "Ermeline," at the Grand Opéra; "The Circle," at the
Théâtre Française; "Tom Jones," at the Opéra Comique. Some one put it
into his head that he had a taste for travel, so he began with Spain,
and was drowned while crossing the Guadalquivir.
I may also mention Davesne, painter and poet. He was rather mediocre
in both arts, but was bidden to my father's suppers because of his
witty conversation.
Though nothing more than a child, the jollity of these suppers was a
great source of pleasure to me. I was obliged to leave the table
before dessert, but from my room I heard the laughter and the joking
and the songs. These, I confess, I did not understand; nevertheless,
they helped to make my holidays delightful. At eleven I left the
boarding-school for good, after my first communion. Davesne, who
painted in oils, sent his wife for me to teach me how to mix colours.
Their poverty grieved me deeply. One day, when I wanted to finish a
head I had begun, they made me remain to dinner. The dinner consisted
of soup and baked apples.
I was overjoyed at not having to leave my parents again. My brother,
three years younger than I, was as lovely as an angel. I was not
nearly so lively as he, and far from being so clever or so pretty. In
fact, at that time of my life I was very plain. I had an enormous
forehead, and eyes far too deep-set; my nose was the only good feature
of my pale, skinny face. Besides, I was growing so fast that I could
not hold myself up straight, and I bent like a willow. These defects
were the despair of my mother. I fancy she had a weakness for my
brother. At any rate, she spoiled him and forgave him his youthful
sins, whereas she was very severe toward myself. To make up for it, my
father overwhelmed me with kindness and indulgence. His tender love
endeared him more and more to my heart; and so my good father is ever
present to me, and I believe I have not forgotten a word he uttered
in my hearing. How often, during 1789, did I think of something in
sort prophetic which he said. He had come home from a philosophers'
dinner where he had met Diderot, Helvetius and d'Alembert. He was so
thoroughly dejected that my mother asked him what the matter was. "All
I have heard to-night, my dear," he replied, "makes me believe that
the world will soon be turned upside down."
I had spent one happy year at home when my father fell ill. After two
months of suffering all hope of his recovery was abandoned. When he
felt his last moments approaching, he declared a wish to see my
brother and myself. We went close to his bedside, weeping bitterly.
His face was terribly altered; his eyes and his features, usually so
full of animation, were quite without expression, for the pallor and
the chill of death were already upon him. We took his icy hand and
covered it with kisses and tears. He made a last effort and sat up to
give us his blessing. "Be happy, my children," was all he said. An
hour later our poor father had ceased to live.
So heartbroken was I that it was long before I felt able to take to my
crayons again. Doyen came to see us sometimes, and as he had been my
father's best friend his visits were a great consolation. He it was
who urged me to resume the occupation I loved, and in which, to speak
truth, I found the only solace for my woe. It was then that I began to
paint from nature. I accomplished several portraits--pastels and oils.
I also drew from nature and from casts, often working by lamplight
with Mlle. Boquet, with whom I was closely acquainted. I went to her
house in the evenings; she lived in the Rue Saint Denis, where her
father had a bric-à-brac shop. It was a long way off, since we lodged
in the Rue de Cléry, opposite the Lubert mansion. My mother,
therefore, insisted on my being escorted whenever I went. We likewise
frequently repaired, Mlle. Boquet and I, to Briard's, a painter, who
lent us his etchings and his classical busts. Briard was but a
moderate painter, although he did some ceilings of rather unusual
conception. On the other hand, he could draw admirably, which was the
reason why several young people went to him for lessons. His rooms
were in the Louvre, and each of us brought her little dinner, carried
in a basket by a nurse, in order that we might make a long day of it.
Mlle. Boquet was fifteen years old and I fourteen. We were rival
beauties. I had changed completely and had become good looking. Her
artistic abilities were considerable; as for mine, I made such speedy
progress that I soon was talked about, and this resulted in my making
the gratifying acquaintance of Joseph Vernet. That famous painter gave
me cordial encouragement and much invaluable advice. I also got to
know the Abbé Arnault, of the French Academy. He was a man of strong
imaginative gifts, with a passion for literature and the arts. His
conversation enriched me with ideas, if I may thus express myself. He
would talk of music and painting with the most inspiring ardour. The
Abbé was a warm partisan of Gluck, and at a later date brought the
great composer to see me, for I, too, was passionately fond of music.
My mother was now proud of my face and figure; I was growing stouter,
and presented the fresh appearance proper to youth. On Sundays she
took me to the Tuileries. She was still handsome herself, and after
the lapse of all these years I am free to confess that the manner in
which we were so often followed by men embarrassed more than it
flattered me. Seeing me so irremediably affected by our cruel loss, my
mother deemed it best to take me out of myself by showing me pictures.
Thus we went to the Luxembourg Palace, the gallery of which then
contained some of Rubens's masterpieces, as well as numerous works by
the greatest painters. At present nothing is to be seen there but
pictures of the modern French school. I am the only painter of that
class not represented. The old masters have since been removed to the
Louvre. Rubens has lost much by the change: the difference between
well or badly lighted pictures is the same as between well or badly
played pieces of music.
We also saw some rich private collections, none of which, however,
equalled that of the Palais Royal, made by the Regent and containing a
conspicuous number of old Italian masters. As soon as I entered one of
these galleries I at once became exactly like a bee, so much useful
knowledge did I eagerly gather while intoxicated with bliss in the
contemplation of the great masters. Besides, in order to improve
myself, I copied some of the pictures of Rubens, some of Rembrandt's
and Van Dyck's heads, as well as several heads of girls by Greuze,
because these last were a good lesson to me in the demi-tints to be
found in delicate flesh colouring. Van Dyck shows them also, but more
finely. It is to these studies that I owe my improvement in the very
important science of degradation of light on the salient parts of a
head, so admirably done by Raphael, whose heads, it is true, combine
all the perfections. But it is only in Rome, under the bright Italian
sky, that Raphael can be properly judged. When, after years, I was
enabled to see some of his masterpieces, which had never left their
native home, I recognised Raphael to be above his high renown.
My father had left us penniless. But I was earning a deal of money, as
I was already painting many portraits. This, however, was insufficient
for household expenses, seeing that in addition I had to pay for my
brother's schooling, his clothes, his books, and so on. My mother,
therefore, saw herself obliged to remarry. She took a rich jeweller,
whom we never had suspected of avarice, but who directly after the
marriage displayed his stinginess by limiting us to the absolute
necessities of life, although I was good-natured enough to hand him
over everything I earned. Joseph Vernet was greatly enraged; he
counselled me to grant an annuity and to keep the rest for myself. But
I did not comply with this advice. I was afraid my mother might suffer
in consequence, with such a skinflint. I detested the man, the more as
he had appropriated my father's wardrobe and wore all the clothes just
as they were, without having them altered to fit him.
My young reputation attracted a number of strangers to our house.
Several distinguished personages came to see me, among them the
notorious Count Orloff, one of Peter the Third's assassins. Count
Orloff was a giant in stature, and I remember his wearing a diamond of
enormous size in a ring.
About this time I painted a portrait of Count Schouvaloff, Grand
Chamberlain, then, I believe, about sixty years old. He combined
amiability with perfect manners, and, as he was an excellent man, was
sought after by the best company.
One of my visitors of eminence was Mme. Geoffrin, the woman so famous
for her brilliant social life. Mme. Geoffrin gathered at her house all
the known men of talent in literature and the arts, all foreigners of
note and the grandest gentlemen attached to the court. Being neither
of good family nor endowed with unusual abilities, nor even possessing
much money, she had nevertheless made a position for herself in Paris
unique of its kind, and one that no woman could nowadays hope to
achieve. Having heard me spoken of, she came to see me one morning and
said the most flattering things about my person and my gifts. Although
she was not very old, I should have put her down for a hundred, for
not only was she rather bent, but her dress gave her an aged
appearance. She was clad in an iron-gray gown, and on her head wore
a large, winged cap, over which was a black shawl knotted under her
chin. At present, on the other hand, women of her years succeed in
making themselves look much younger by the care they bestow on their
toilet.
[Illustration: THE DUCHESS D'ANGOULÊME AND HER BROTHER, THE DAUPHIN.]
Immediately after my mother's marriage we went to live at my
stepfather's in the Rue Saint Honoré, opposite the terrace of the
Palais Royal, which terrace our windows overlooked. I often saw the
Duchess de Chartres walking in the garden with her ladies-in-waiting,
and soon observed that she noticed me with kindly interest. I had
recently finished a portrait of my mother which evoked a great deal of
discussion at the time. The Duchess sent for me to come and paint her.
She most obligingly commended my young talents to her friends, so that
it was not long before I received a visit from the stately, handsome
Countess de Brionne and her lovely daughter, the Princess de Lorraine,
who were followed by all the great ladies of the court and the
Faubourg Saint Germain.
Since I have acknowledged that I was stared at in the streets--the
same is true of the theatres and other public places--and that I was
the object of many attentions, it may readily be guessed that some
admirers of my face gave me commissions to paint theirs. They hoped to
get into my good graces in this way. But I was so absorbed in my art
that nothing could take me away from it. Then, besides, the moral and
religious principles my mother had instilled me with were a strong
protection against the seductions surrounding me. Happily I never as
yet had read a single novel. The first I read, "Clarissa Harlowe," was
only after my marriage, and it interested me prodigiously. Before my
marriage I read nothing but sacred literature, such as the moral
precepts of the Holy Fathers, which contained everything one needs to
know, and some of my brother's class-books.
To return to those gentlemen. As soon as I observed any intention on
their part of making sheep's eyes at me, I would paint them looking in
another direction than mine, and then, at the least movement of the
pupilla, would say, "I am doing the eyes now." This vexed them a
little, of course, but my mother, who was always present, and whom I
had taken into my confidence, was secretly amused.
On Sundays and saints' days, after hearing high mass, my mother and my
stepfather took me to the Palais Royal for a walk. The gardens were
then far more spacious and beautiful than they are now, strangled and
straightened by the houses enclosing them. There was a very broad and
long avenue on the left arched by gigantic trees, which formed a vault
impenetrable to the rays of the sun. There good society assembled in
its best clothes. The opera house was hard by the palace. In summer
the performance ended at half-past eight, and all elegant people left
even before it was over, in order to ramble in the garden. It was the
fashion for the women to wear huge nosegays, which, added to the
perfumed powder sprinkled in everybody's hair, really made the air one
breathed quite fragrant. Later, yet still before the Revolution, I
have known these assemblies to last until two in the morning. There
was music by moonlight, out in the open; artists and amateurs sang
songs; there was playing on the harp and the guitar; the celebrated
Saint Georges often executed pieces on his violin. Crowds flocked to
the spot.
We never entered this avenue, Mlle. Boquet and I, without attracting
lively attention. We both were then between sixteen and seventeen
years old, Mlle. Boquet being a great beauty. At nineteen she was
taken with the smallpox, which called forth such general interest that
numbers from all classes of society made anxious inquiries, and a
string of carriages was constantly drawn up outside her door.
She had a remarkable talent for painting, but she gave up the pursuit
almost immediately after her marriage with M. Filleul, when the Queen
made her Gatekeeper of the Castle of La Muette. Would that I could
speak of the dear creature without calling her dreadful end to mind.
Alas! how well I remember Mme. Filleul saying to me, on the eve of my
departure from France, when I was to escape from the horrors I
foresaw: "You are wrong to go. I intend to stay, because I believe in
the happiness the Revolution is to bring us." And that Revolution took
her to the scaffold! Before she quitted La Muette the Terror had
begun. Mme. Chalgrin, a daughter of Joseph Vernet, and Mme. Filleul's
bosom friend, came to the castle to celebrate her daughter's
wedding--quietly, as a matter of course. However, the next day the
Jacobins none the less proceeded to arrest Mme. Filleul and Mme.
Chalgrin, who, they said, had wasted the candles of the nation. A few
days later they were both guillotined.
Among the favourite walks were the Temple boulevards. Every day,
though especially on Thursdays, hundreds of vehicles drove or stood in
the roads where the cafés and shows still are. The young men on
horseback caracoled about the carriages, as they did at Longchamps,
for Longchamps was already in existence and even very brilliant. The
side paths were full of immense throngs of pedestrians, enjoying the
pastime of admiring or criticising all the lovely ladies, dressed in
their best, who passed in fine carriages. At a certain spot, where the
Café Turc now stands, a spectacle was to be seen which many a time
made me burst into loud laughter. It was a long row of old women
belonging to the Marais quarter, sitting gravely on chairs, their
faces so thickly rouged that they looked precisely like dolls. As at
that date the right to wear rouge was only conceded to women of high
rank, these worthy ladies thought they must take advantage of the
privilege to its full limit. One of our friends, who knew most of
them, told us that their only employment at home was to play lotto
from morning till night. He also said that one day, after he had
returned from Versailles, some of them had asked him the news, that he
had replied M. de La Pérouse was to make a journey round the world,
and that the hostess had thereupon exclaimed: "Gracious! What a lot of
time the man must have on his hands!"
Years later, long after my marriage, I saw various little shows on
this very boulevard. At one only did I attend often; that was Carlo
Perico's "Fantoccini," which amused me vastly. These marionettes were
so cleverly made, and their gestures were so natural, that the
delusion sometimes succeeded. My little girl, six years old almost,
did not at first suspect that the figures were not alive. I informed
her as to the truth, and when, soon after, I took her to the Comédie
Française, where my box was rather far from the stage, she asked me,
"And those, mamma, are they alive?"
The Coliseum was another highly fashionable resort. It was established
in one of the large squares of the Champs Élysées, in the form of a
vast rotunda. In the middle was a lake of clear water, on which
boatmen's races were held. You strolled round about in broad,
gravelled avenues lined with benches. At nightfall every one left the
garden to meet in a great hall where a full orchestra dispensed
excellent music. At this period there also was on the Temple boulevard
a place called the Summer Vauxhall, whose garden was simply a big
space for walking in, bordered by covered tiers of seats for the
convenience of good society. People gathered there before dark in warm
weather, and the diversions of the day closed with a grand display of
fireworks.
All these places were frequented much more than Tivoli is to-day. It
is surprising, too, that the Parisians, who have nothing but the
Tuileries and the Luxembourg, should have renounced those other
resorts, which were half urban and half rural, where you went in the
evening to get a breath of air and eat ices.
CHAPTER II
UP THE LADDER OF FAME
TEDIOUS SOJOURN IN THE COUNTRY -- SOCIAL AMENITIES IN PARIS --
MLLE. VIGÉE BECOMES MME. LEBRUN -- PROGNOSTICATIONS OF UNHAPPY
WEDLOCK -- ON THE LADDER OF FAME -- SINGULARITIES OF ORIENTAL
TASTE -- MARIE ANTOINETTE AS A MODEL -- PAINTING THE ROYAL FAMILY
-- HOW LOUIS XVIII. SANG -- THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE.
My detestable stepfather, annoyed no doubt by the public admiration
shown my mother, forbade us to go for any more walks, and informed us
that he was about to take a place in the country. At this announcement
my heart beat with joy, for I was passionately fond of the country. I
had been sleeping near the foot of my mother's bedstead, in a dark
corner where the light of day never penetrated. Every morning,
whatever the weather might be, my first care was to open the window
wide, such was my thirst for fresh air.
So my stepfather took a small cottage at Chaillot, and we went there
on Saturday, spent Sunday there, and returned to Paris on Monday
morning. Good heavens, what a country! Imagine a tiny vicarage garden,
without a tree, without any shelter from the blazing sun but a little
arbour, where my stepfather had planted some beans and nasturtium,
which refused to grow. At that we only occupied a quarter of this
delightful garden, for it was divided into four by slender railings,
and the three other sections were let out to shopboys, who came
every Sunday and amused themselves by shooting at the birds. The
incessant noise threw me into a desperate state of mind, besides which
I was terribly afraid of being killed by these marksmen, so inaccurate
was their aim. I could not understand why this stupid, ugly place, the
very recollection of which makes me yawn as I write, was "the
country." At last my good angel brought to my rescue a friend of my
mother's, who one day came to dine with us at Chaillot with her
husband. Both were sorry for me in my exile, and sometimes took me out
for a charming drive.
[Illustration: MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN
Marked: "Virginia Lebrun, St. Luke's Gallery, Rome".]
We went to Marly-le-Roi, and there I found a more beautiful spot than
any I had seen in my life. On each side of the magnificent palace were
six summer-houses communicating with one another by walks embowered
with jessamine and honeysuckle. Water fell in cascades from the top of
a hill behind the castle, and formed a large channel on which a number
of swans floated. The handsome trees, the carpets of green, the
flowers, the fountains, one of which spouted up so high that it was
lost from sight--it was all grand, all regal; it all spoke of Louis
XIV. One morning I met Queen Marie Antoinette walking in the park with
several of the ladies of her court. They were all in white dresses,
and so young and pretty that for a moment I thought I was in a dream.
I was with my mother, and was turning away when the Queen was kind
enough to stop me, and invited me to continue in any direction I might
prefer. Alas! when I returned to France in 1802 I hastened to see my
noble, smiling Marly. The palace, the trees, the cascades, and the
fountains had all disappeared; scarcely a stone was left.
I found it very hard to quit those lovely gardens and go back to our
hideous Chaillot. But we at last went back to Paris, and settled there
for the winter. The time left over from my work I now spent in a most
agreeable manner. From the age of fifteen I had been going out into
the best society; and I knew all the celebrated artists, so that I
received invitations from all sides. I very well remember the first
time I dined in town with the sculptor Le Moine, who was then enjoying
a great reputation. It was there I met the famous actor Lekain, who
struck terror into my heart because of his wild and sinister
appearance; his huge eyebrows only added to the fierce expression of
his face. He scarcely talked at all, and ate enormously. At Le Moine's
I made the acquaintance of Gerbier, the noted advocate, and of his
daughter Mme. de Roissy, who was very beautiful, and one of the first
women I made a portrait of. Grétry and Latour, an eminent pastellist,
often came to these dinners at Le Moine's, which were highly convivial
and amusing. It was then the custom to sing at dessert. When the turn
of the young ladies came--to whom, I must admit, this custom was
torture--they would turn pale and tremble all over, and consequently
often sing very much out of tune. In spite of these dissonances, the
dinners ended pleasantly, and we always rose from the table with
regret, although we did not immediately order our carriages, as the
fashion is to-day.
I cannot, however, speak of the dinners of the present day excepting
through hearsay, in view of the fact that soon after the time I have
just mentioned I stopped dining in town for good. A slight adventure I
had made me determine to go out only in the evening. I had accepted an
invitation to dine with Princess Rohan-Rochefort. All dressed and
ready to get into my carriage, I was seized with a sudden desire to
take a look at a portrait that I had begun that same morning. I had on
a white satin dress, which I was wearing for the first time. I sat
down on my chair opposite my easel without noticing that my palette
was lying on the chair. It may readily be conceived that the state of
my gown was such as to compel me to remain at home, and I resolved
thenceforth to accept no invitations excepting to supper.
The dinners of Princess Rohan-Rochefort were delightful. The nucleus
of the society was composed of the handsome Countess de Brionne and
her daughter the Princess Lorraine, the Duke de Choiseul, the Cardinal
de Rohan, and M. de Rulhières, the author of the "Disputes"; but the
most agreeable without question of all the guests was the Duke de
Lauzun; no one could possibly have been cleverer or more entertaining;
we were all fascinated by him. The evening was usually filled up with
playing and singing, and I often sang to my own accompaniment on the
guitar. Supper was at half-past ten; we were never more than ten or
twelve at table. We all vied with one another in sociability and wit.
As for me, I was only a humble listener, and, although too young to
appreciate the qualities of this conversation to the full, it spoiled
me for ordinary conversation.
My life as a young girl was very unusual. Not only did my
talent--feeble as it seemed to me when I thought of the great
masters--cause me to be sought after and welcomed by society, but I
sometimes was the object of attentions which I might call public, and
of which, I avow, I was very proud. For example, I had made portraits
of Cardinal Fleury and La Bruyère, copied from engravings of ancient
date. I made a gift of them to the French Academy, which sent me a
very flattering letter through the permanent secretary, d'Alembert. My
presentation of these two portraits to the Academy also secured me the
honour of a visit from d'Alembert, a dried up morsel of a man of
exquisitely polished manners. He stayed a long time and looked my
study all over, while he paid me a thousand compliments. After he had
gone, a fine lady, who happened to be visiting me at the same time,
asked me whether I had painted La Bruyère and Fleury from life. "I am
a little too young for that," I answered, unable to refrain from a
laugh, but very glad for the sake of the lady that the Academician had
left before she put her funny question.
My stepfather having retired from business, we took up residence at
the Lubert mansion, in the Rue de Cléry. M. Lebrun had just bought the
house and lived there himself, and as soon as we were settled in it I
began to examine the splendid masterpieces of all schools with which
his lodgings were filled. I was enchanted at an opportunity of
first-hand acquaintance with these works by great masters. M. Lebrun
was so obliging as to lend me, for purposes of copying, some of his
handsomest and most valuable paintings. Thus I owed him the best
lessons I could conceivably have obtained, when, after a lapse of six
months, he asked my hand in marriage. I was far from wishing to become
his wife, though he was very well built and had a pleasant face. I was
then twenty years old, and was living without anxiety as to the
future, since I was already earning a deal of money, so that I felt no
manner of inclination for matrimony. But my mother, who believed M.
Lebrun to be very rich, incessantly plied me with arguments in favour
of accepting such an advantageous match. At last I decided in the
affirmative, urged especially by the desire to escape from the torture
of living with my stepfather, whose bad temper had increased day by
day since he had relinquished active pursuits. So little, however, did
I feel inclined to sacrifice my liberty that, even on my way to
church, I kept saying to myself, "Shall I say yes, or shall I say no?"
Alas! I said yes, and in so doing exchanged present troubles for
others. Not that M. Lebrun was a cruel man: his character exhibited a
mixture of gentleness and liveliness; he was extremely obliging to
everybody, and, in a word, quite an agreeable person. But his furious
passion for gambling was at the bottom of the ruin of his fortune
and my own, of which he had the entire disposal, so that in 1789, when
I quitted France, I had not an income of twenty francs, although I had
earned more than a million. He had squandered it all.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS.]
My marriage was kept secret for some time. M. Lebrun, who was supposed
to marry the daughter of a Dutchman with whom he did a great business
in pictures, asked me to make no announcement until he had wound up
his affairs. To this I consented the more willingly that I did not
give up my maiden name without regret, particularly as I was so well
known by that name. But the keeping of the secret, which did not last
long, was nevertheless fraught with disastrous consequences for my
future. A number of people who simply believed that I was merely
considering a match with M. Lebrun came to advise me to commit no such
piece of folly. Auber, the crown jeweller, said to me in a friendly
spirit: "It would be better for you to tie a stone to your neck and
jump into the river than to marry Lebrun." Another day the Duchess
d'Aremberg, accompanied by Mme. de Canillas, and Mme. de Souza, the
Portuguese Ambassadress, all very young and pretty, came to offer
their belated counsels a fortnight after the knot had been tied. "For
heaven's sake," exclaimed the Countess, "on no account marry M.
Lebrun! You will be miserable if you do!" And then she told me a lot
of things which I was happy enough to disbelieve, but which only
proved too true afterward. The announcement of my marriage put an end
to these sad warnings, which, thanks to my dear painting, had little
effect on my usual good spirits. I could not meet the orders for
portraits that were showered upon me from every side. M. Lebrun soon
got into the habit of pocketing my fees. He also hit upon the idea of
making me give lessons in order to increase our revenues. I acceded to
his wishes without a moment's thought.
The number of portraits I painted at this time was really prodigious.
As I detested the female style of dress then in fashion, I bent all my
efforts upon rendering it a little more picturesque, and was delighted
when, after getting the confidence of my models, I was able to drape
them according to my fancy. Shawls were not yet worn, but I made an
arrangement with broad scarfs lightly intertwined round the body and
on the arms, which was an attempt to imitate the beautiful drapings of
Raphael and Domenichino. The picture of my daughter playing the guitar
is an example. Besides, I could not endure powder. I persuaded the
handsome Duchess de Grammont-Caderousse to put none on for her
sittings. Her hair was ebony black, and I divided it on the forehead,
disposing it in irregular curls. After the sitting, which ended at the
dinner hour, the Duchess would not change her head-dress, but go to
the theatre as she was. A woman of such good looks would, of course,
set a fashion: indeed, this mode of doing the hair soon found
imitators, and then gradually became general. This reminds me that in
1786, when I was painting the Queen, I begged her to use no powder,
and to part her hair on the forehead. "I should be the last to follow
that fashion," said the Queen, laughing; "I do not want people to say
that I adopted it to hide my large forehead."
As I said, I was overwhelmed with orders and was very much in vogue.
Soon after my marriage I was present at a meeting of the French
Academy at which La Harpe read his discourse on the talents of women.
When he arrived at certain lines of exaggerated praise, which I was
hearing for the first time, and in which he extolled my art and
likened my smile to that of Venus, the author of "Warwick" threw a
glance at me. At once the whole assembly, without excepting the
Duchess de Chartres and the King of Sweden--who both were witnessing
the ceremonies--rose up, turned in my direction, and applauded with
such enthusiasm that I almost fainted from confusion.
But these pleasures of gratified vanity were far from comparable with
the joy I experienced in looking forward to motherhood. I will not
attempt to describe the transports I felt when I heard the first cry
of my child. Every mother knows what those feelings are.
Not long before that event I painted the Duchess de Mazarin, who was
no longer young, but whose beauty had not yet faded. This Duchess de
Mazarin was said to have been endowed on her birth by three fairies,
Wealth, Duty and Ill-luck. Certain it is that the poor woman could
undertake nothing, not even so much as entertaining a party of
friends, without some mishap befalling. A number of tales of all sorts
of untoward happenings were current. Here is one of the least known:
One evening, having sixty people to supper, she conceived the plan of
putting on the table an enormous pie, in which were imprisoned a
hundred tiny living birds. At a sign from the Duchess the pie was
opened, and the whole fluttering flock beat their wings against the
faces of the guests and took refuge in the hair of the women, making
nests of their elaborately built-up head-dresses. It may be imagined
what consternation and excitement there was! It was impossible to get
rid of the unfortunate birds, and at last the company was obliged to
leave the table, while they blessed such a silly trick.
The Duchess de Mazarin was very stout; it took hours to lace her. One
day, while she was being laced, a visitor was announced. One of her
maids ran to the door and exclaimed: "You can't come in until we have
arranged her meat." I remember that this excessive corpulency evoked
the admiration of the Turkish Ambassadors. When asked at the opera to
point out the woman that pleased them most of all the occupants of the
boxes, they pointed without hesitation to the Duchess de
Mazarin--because she was the fattest.
While speaking of ambassadors, I must not forget to say how I once
painted two diplomats, who, though they were copper-coloured,
nevertheless had splendid heads. In 1788 some envoys were sent to
Paris by the Emperor Tippoo Sahib. I saw these Indians at the opera
and they appeared to me so remarkably picturesque that I thought I
should like to paint them. But as they communicated to their
interpreter that they would never allow themselves to be painted
unless the request came from the King, I managed to secure that favour
from His Majesty. I repaired to the hotel where the strangers were
lodging, for they wanted to be painted at home. On my arrival one of
them brought in a jar of rose-water, with which he sprinkled my hands;
then the tallest, whose name was Davich Kahn, gave me a sitting. I did
him standing, with his hand on his dagger. He threw himself into such
an easy, natural position of his own accord that I did not make him
change it. I let the paint dry in another room, and began on the
portrait of the old ambassador, whom I represented seated with his son
next to him. The father especially had a magnificent head. Both were
clad in flowing robes of white muslin worked with golden flowers, and
these robes, a sort of long tunic with wide, upturned sleeves, were
held in place by gorgeous belts.
Mme. de Bonneuil, to whom I had spoken of my artistic sittings, very
much wanted to see these ambassadors. They invited us both to dinner,
and we accepted from sheer curiosity. Upon entering the dining-room we
were rather surprised to see that the dinner was served on the floor,
which obliged us to assume an attitude that was very much like lying
down, following the example of our Oriental hosts. They helped us with
their hands to the contents of the dishes. In one of these was a
fricassee of sheep's feet with white sauce, highly spiced, and in
another some indescribable hash. Our meal was not exactly pleasant;
it was rather too much of a shock to us to see those brown hands used
as spoons. The ambassadors had brought a young man with them who spoke
a little French. During my sittings Mme. de Bonneuil taught him to
sing a popular ditty. When we went to make our farewells the young man
recited his song, and expressed his regret in parting from us by
adding: "Ah! my heart! how it weepeth!" which I found very Oriental
and very well put.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE, DONE IN 1779
Mme. Lebrun's First Portrait of the Queen, Destined for Presentation
to the Emperor Joseph II. Marie Antoinette Ordered Two Copies, One for
the Emperor of Russia and One for Herself.]
When Davich Kahn's portrait was dry I sent for it, but he had hidden
it behind his bed and would not give it up, asserting that the picture
still needed a soul. I could only obtain my painting by employing
strategy. When the ambassador could not find it he put the
responsibility on his valet, and threatened to kill him. The
interpreter had all the trouble in the world to explain that it was
not the custom to kill one's valet in Paris, and informed him,
moreover, that the King of France had asked for the portrait.
It was in the year 1779 that I painted the Queen for the first time;
she was then in the heyday of her youth and beauty. Marie Antoinette
was tall and admirably built, being somewhat stout, but not
excessively so. Her arms were superb, her hands small and perfectly
formed, and her feet charming. She had the best walk of any woman in
France, carrying her head erect with a dignity that stamped her queen
in the midst of her whole court, her majestic mien, however, not in
the least diminishing the sweetness and amiability of her face. To any
one who has not seen the Queen it is difficult to get an idea of all
the graces and all the nobility combined in her person. Her features
were not regular; she had inherited that long and narrow oval peculiar
to the Austrian nation. Her eyes were not large; in colour they were
almost blue, and they were at the same time merry and kind. Her nose
was slender and pretty, and her mouth not too large, though her lips
were rather thick. But the most remarkable thing about her face was
the splendour of her complexion. I never have seen one so brilliant,
and brilliant is the word, for her skin was so transparent that it
bore no umber in the painting. Neither could I render the real effect
of it as I wished. I had no colours to paint such freshness, such
delicate tints, which were hers alone, and which I had never seen in
any other woman.
At the first sitting the imposing air of the Queen at first frightened
me greatly, but Her Majesty spoke to me so graciously that my fear was
soon dissipated. It was on that occasion that I began the picture
representing her with a large basket, wearing a satin dress, and
holding a rose in her hand. This portrait was destined for her
brother, Emperor Joseph II., and the Queen ordered two copies
besides--one for the Empress of Russia, the other for her own
apartments at Versailles or Fontainebleau.
I painted various pictures of the Queen at different times. In one I
did her to the knees, in a pale orange-red dress, standing before a
table on which she was arranging some flowers in a vase. It may be
well imagined that I preferred to paint her in a plain gown and
especially without a wide hoopskirt. She usually gave these portraits
to her friends or to foreign diplomatic envoys. One of them shows her
with a straw hat on, and a white muslin dress, whose sleeves are
turned up, though quite neatly. When this work was exhibited at the
Salon, malignant folk did not fail to make the remark that the Queen
had been painted in her chemise, for we were then in 1786, and calumny
was already busy concerning her. Yet in spite of all this the
portraits were very successful.
Toward the end of the exhibition a little piece was given at the
Vaudeville Theatre, bearing the title, I think, "The Assembling of
the Arts." Brongniart, the architect, and his wife, whom the author
had taken into his confidence, had taken a box on the first tier, and
called for me on the day of the first performance. As I had no
suspicion of the surprise in store for me, judge of my emotion when
Painting appeared on the scene and I saw the actress representing that
art copy me in the act of painting a portrait of the Queen. The same
moment everybody in the parterre and the boxes turned toward me and
applauded to bring the roof down. I can hardly believe that any one
was ever more moved and more grateful than I was that evening.
I was so fortunate as to be on very pleasant terms with the Queen.
When she heard that I had something of a voice we rarely had a sitting
without singing some duets by Grétry together, for she was exceedingly
fond of music, although she did not sing very true. As for her
conversation, it would be difficult for me to convey all its charm,
all its affability. I do not think that Queen Marie Antoinette ever
missed an opportunity of saying something pleasant to those who had
the honour of being presented to her, and the kindness she always
bestowed upon me has ever been one of my sweetest memories.
One day I happened to miss the appointment she had given me for a
sitting; I had suddenly become unwell. The next day I hastened to
Versailles to offer my excuses. The Queen was not expecting me; she
had had her horses harnessed to go out driving, and her carriage was
the first thing I saw on entering the palace yard. I nevertheless went
upstairs to speak with the chamberlains on duty. One of them, M.
Campan, received me with a stiff and haughty manner, and bellowed at
me in his stentorian voice, "It was yesterday, madame, that Her
Majesty expected you, and I am very sure she is going out driving, and
I am very sure she will give you no sitting to-day!" Upon my reply
that I had simply come to take Her Majesty's orders for another day,
he went to the Queen, who at once had me conducted to her room. She
was finishing her toilet, and was holding a book in her hand, hearing
her daughter repeat a lesson. My heart was beating violently, for I
knew that I was in the wrong. But the Queen looked up at me and said
most amiably, "I was waiting for you all the morning yesterday; what
happened to you?"
"I am sorry to say, Your Majesty," I replied, "I was so ill that I was
unable to comply with Your Majesty's commands. I am here to receive
more now, and then I will immediately retire."
"No, no! Do not go!" exclaimed the Queen. "I do not want you to have
made your journey for nothing!" She revoked the order for her carriage
and gave me a sitting. I remember that, in my confusion and my
eagerness to make a fitting response to her kind words, I opened my
paint-box so excitedly that I spilled my brushes on the floor. I
stooped down to pick them up. "Never mind, never mind," said the
Queen, and, for aught I could say, she insisted on gathering them all
up herself.
When the Queen went for the last time to Fontainebleau, where the
court, according to custom, was to appear in full gala, I repaired
there to enjoy that spectacle. I saw the Queen in her grandest dress;
she was covered with diamonds, and as the brilliant sunshine fell upon
her she seemed to me nothing short of dazzling. Her head, erect on her
beautiful Greek neck, lent her as she walked such an imposing, such a
majestic air, that one seemed to see a goddess in the midst of her
nymphs. During the first sitting I had with Her Majesty after this
occasion I took the liberty of mentioning the impression she had made
upon me, and of saying to the Queen how the carriage of her head added
to the nobility of her bearing. She answered in a jesting tone, "If I
were not Queen they would say I looked insolent, would they not?"
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER CHILDREN
Known as "The Royal Family." Exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1788, the
Year Before the Outbreak of the Revolution.]
The Queen neglected nothing to impart to her children the courteous
and gracious manners which endeared her so to all her surroundings. I
once saw her make her six-year-old daughter dine with a little peasant
girl and attend to her wants. The Queen saw to it that the little
visitor was served first, saying to her daughter, "You must do the
honours."
The last sitting I had with Her Majesty was given me at Trianon, where
I did her hair for the large picture in which she appeared with her
children. After doing the Queen's hair, as well as separate studies of
the Dauphin, Madame Royale, and the Duke de Normandie, I busied myself
with my picture, to which I attached great importance, and I had it
ready for the Salon of 1788. The frame, which had been taken there
alone, was enough to evoke a thousand malicious remarks. "That's how
the money goes," they said, and a number of other things which seemed
to me the bitterest comments. At last I sent my picture, but I could
not muster up the courage to follow it and find out what its fate was
to be, so afraid was I that it would be badly received by the public.
In fact, I became quite ill with fright. I shut myself in my room, and
there I was, praying to the Lord for the success of my "Royal Family,"
when my brother and a host of friends burst in to tell me that my
picture had met with universal acclaim. After the Salon, the King,
having had the picture transferred to Versailles, M. d'Angevilliers,
then minister of the fine arts and director of royal residences,
presented me to His Majesty. Louis XVI. vouchsafed to talk to me at
some length and to tell me that he was very much pleased. Then he
added, still looking at my work, "I know nothing about painting, but
you make me like it."
The picture was placed in one of the rooms at Versailles, and the
Queen passed it going to mass and returning. After the death of the
Dauphin, which occurred early in the year 1789, the sight of this
picture reminded her so keenly of the cruel loss she had suffered that
she could not go through the room without shedding tears. She then
ordered M. d'Angevilliers to have the picture taken away, but with her
usual consideration she informed me of the fact as well, apprising me
of her motive for the removal. It is really to the Queen's
sensitiveness that I owed the preservation of my picture, for the
fishwives who soon afterward came to Versailles for Their Majesties
would certainly have destroyed it, as they did the Queen's bed, which
was ruthlessly torn apart.
I never had the felicity of setting eyes on Marie Antoinette after the
last court ball at Versailles. The ball was given in the theatre, and
the box where I was seated was so situated that I could hear what the
Queen said. I observed that she was very excited, asking the young men
of the court to dance with her, such as M. Lameth, whose family had
been overwhelmed with kindness by the Queen, and others, who all
refused, so that many of the dances had to be given up. The conduct of
these gentlemen seemed to me exceedingly improper; somehow their
refusal likened a sort of revolt--the prelude to revolts of a more
serious kind. The Revolution was drawing near; it was, in fact, to
burst out before long.
With the exception of the Count d'Artois, whose portrait I never did,
I successively painted the whole royal family--the royal children;
Monsieur, the King's brother, afterward Louis XVIII.; Madame Royale;
the Countess d'Artois; Madame Elisabeth. The features of this
last-named Princess were not regular, but her face expressed gentle
affability, and the freshness of her complexion was remarkable;
altogether, she had the charm of a pretty shepherdess. She was an
angel of goodness. Many a time have I been a witness to her deeds of
charity on behalf of the poor. All the virtues were in her heart:
she was indulgent, modest, compassionate, devoted. In the
Revolution she displayed heroic courage; she was seen going forward to
meet the cannibals who had come to murder the Queen, saying, "They
will mistake me for her!"
[Illustration: MADAME ELISABETH, SISTER OF LOUIS XVI.]
The portrait I made of Monsieur favoured me with the occasion to
become acquainted with a prince whose wit and learning one could extol
without flattery; it was impossible not to find pleasure in the
conversation of Louis XVIII., who talked on all subjects with equal
degrees of taste and understanding. However, for the sake of variety
no doubt, at some of our sittings he would sing to me, and he would
sing such common songs that I was unable to understand how these
trivial things had ever reached the court. He sang more out of tune
than any one in the whole world. "How do you think I sing?" he asked
me one day. "Like a prince, Your Highness," was my reply.
The Marquis de Montesquiou, equerry-in-chief to Monsieur, would send
me a fine carriage and six to bring me to Versailles and take me back
with my mother, who accompanied me at my request. All along the road
people stood at the windows to see me pass, and every one took their
hats off. This homage rendered to six horses and an outrider amused
me, for on returning to Paris I got into a cab, and nobody took the
slightest notice of me.
About this time I also painted the Princess de Lamballe. Without being
actually pretty, she appeared so at a little distance; she had small
features, complexion of dazzling freshness, superb blond locks, and
was generally elegant in person. The unhappy end of this unfortunate
Princess is sufficiently well known, and so is the devotion to which
she fell a victim. For in 1793, when she was at Turin, entirely out of
harm's way, she returned to France upon learning that the Queen was in
danger.
CHAPTER III
WORK AND PLEASURE
IMPRESSIONS OF FLANDERS -- THE AUTHORESS'S ELECTION TO THE FRENCH
ROYAL ACADEMY OF PAINTING -- HER DEVOTION TO WORK -- SOCIAL
PLEASURES -- A TALE OF AN ARTIST'S EXTRAVAGANCE -- CALONNE AND
CALUMNY -- M. LEBRUN ALLOWS HIS WIFE NOUGHT PER CENT. OF HER
EARNINGS -- A DRAMATIC CONSTELLATION -- THE INCOMPARABLE MME.
DUGAZON.
In 1782 M. Lebrun took me to Flanders, whither he was called by
affairs of business. A sale was then being held in Brussels of a
splendid collection of pictures belonging to Prince Charles, and we
went to view it. I found there several ladies of the court who met me
with great kindness, among them the Princess d'Aremberg, whom I had
frequently seen in Paris. But the acquaintance upon which I
congratulated myself most was that of the Prince de Ligne, whom I had
not known before, and who has left an historic reputation for wit and
hospitality. He invited us to visit his gallery, where I admired
various masterpieces, especially portraits by Van Dyck and heads by
Rubens, for he owned but few Italian pictures. He was also good enough
to receive us at his magnificent house at Bel-Oeil. I remember that he
made us ascend to an outlook, built on the top of a hill commanding
the whole of his estate and the whole of the country round about. The
perfect air we breathed up there, together with the delightful view,
was something enchanting. What was best of all in this lovely place
was the greetings of the master of the house, who for his graceful
mind and manners never had an equal.
[Illustration: THE DAUPHIN
Son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette.]
The town of Brussels seemed to me prosperous and lively. In high
society, for instance, people were so wrapped up in pleasure-seeking
that several friends of the Prince de Ligne sometimes left Brussels at
noon, arriving at the opera in Paris just in time to see the curtain
go up, and when the performance was over returned to Brussels,
travelling all night. That is what I call being fond of the opera!
We quitted Brussels to go to Holland. I was very much pleased with
Saardam and Maestricht; these two little towns are so clean and so
very well kept that one envies the lot of the inhabitants. The streets
being very narrow and provided with canals, one does not ride in
carriages, but on horseback, and small boats are used for the
transportation of merchandise. The houses, which are very low, have
two doors--the birth door, and the death door, through which one only
passes in a coffin. The roofs of these houses shine as if they were of
burnished steel, and everything is so scrupulously clean that I
remember seeing, outside a blacksmith's shop, a sort of lamp hanging
up, which was gilded and polished as though intended for a lady's
chamber. The women of the people in this part of Holland seemed to me
very handsome, but were so timid that the sight of a stranger made
them run away at once. I suppose, however, that the presence of the
French in their country may have tamed them.
We finally visited Amsterdam, and there I saw in the town hall the
magnificent painting by Van Loo representing the assembled aldermen. I
do not believe that in the whole realm of painting there is anything
finer, anything truer; it is nature itself. The aldermen are dressed
in black; faces, hands, draping--all done inimitably. These men are
alive; you think you are with them. I persuaded myself that this
picture must be the most perfect of its kind; I could not tear myself
away from it, and the impression it made on me was strong enough to
make it ever present in my mind.
We returned to Flanders to see the masterpieces of Rubens. They were
hung much more advantageously than they have been since in Paris, for
they all produce a wonderful effect in those Flemish churches. Other
works by the same master adorn some private galleries. In one of them,
at Antwerp, I found the famous "Straw Hat," which has lately been sold
to an Englishman for a large sum. This admirable picture represents a
woman by Rubens. It delighted and inspired me to such a degree that I
made a portrait of myself at Brussels, striving to obtain the same
effects. I painted myself with a straw hat on my head, a feather, and
a garland of wild flowers, holding my palette in my hand. And when the
portrait was exhibited at the Salon I feel free to confess that it
added considerably to my reputation. The celebrated Müller made an
engraving after it, but it must be understood that the dark shadows of
an engraving spoiled the whole effect of such a picture. Soon after my
return from Flanders, the portrait I had mentioned, and several other
works of mine, were the cause of Joseph Vernet's decision to propose
me as a member of the Royal Academy of Painting. M. Pierre, then first
Painter to the King, made strong opposition, not wishing, he said,
that women should be admitted, although Mme. Vallayer-Coster, who
painted flowers beautifully, had already been admitted, and I think
Mme. Vien had been, too. M. Pierre, a very mediocre painter, was a
clever man. Besides, he was rich, and this enabled him to entertain
artists luxuriously. Artists were not so well off in those days as
they are now. His opposition might have become fatal to me if all true
picture-lovers had not been associated with the Academy, and if
they had not formed a cabal, in my favour, against M. Pierre's. At
last I was admitted, and presented my picture "Peace Bringing Back
Plenty."
[Illustration: MME. LEBRUN, THE AUTHORESS, NÉE ELISABETH VIGÉE.]
I continued to paint furiously, sometimes taking three sittings in the
course of a single day. After-dinner sittings, which fatigued me
extremely, brought about a disorder of my stomach, so that I could
digest nothing and became wretchedly thin. My friends made me consult
a doctor, who ordered me to sleep every day after dinner. At first it
was some trouble to me to follow this habit, but by remaining in my
room with the blinds down I gradually succeeded. I am persuaded that I
owe my life to this rule. All I regret about that enforced rest is
that it deprived me for good and all of the amusement of dining in
town, and as I devoted the whole morning to painting I never was able
to see my friends until the evening. Then, it is true, none of the
pleasures of society were closed to me, for I spent my evenings in the
politest and most accomplished circles.
After my marriage I still lived in the Rue de Cléry, where M. Lebrun
had large, richly furnished apartments and kept his pictures by all
the great masters. As for myself, I was reduced to occupying a small
anteroom, and a bedroom, which also served for my drawing-room. This
was unpretentiously papered and furnished, and there I received my
visitors from town and court. Every one was eager to come to my
evening parties, which were sometimes so crowded that marshals of
France sat on the floor for want of chairs. I remember that the
Marshal de Noailles, who was very stout and very old, one evening had
the greatest difficulty in getting up again.
I was fond of flattering myself, of course, that all these grand
people came for my sake. But, as it always was in open houses, some
came to see the others, and most of them to enjoy the best music to be
heard in Paris. Such famous composers as Grétry, Sacchini, and
Martini often played pieces from their operas at my house before the
first performance. Our usual singers were Garat, Asvedo, Richer, and
Mme. Todi. My sister-in-law, who had a very fine voice and could sing
anything at sight, was very useful to us. Sometimes I sang myself, but
without much method, I confess. Garat may, perhaps, be mentioned as
the most extraordinary virtuoso who ever lived. Not only did no
difficulties exist for his flexible throat, but as to expression he
had no rival, and I think that no one has ever sung Gluck as well as
he. For instrumental music I had as a violinist Viotti, whose playing,
so full of grace, of force and expression, was ravishing. I also had
Jarnovick, Maestrino, and Prince Henry of Prussia, an excellent
amateur, who brought this first violinist besides. Salentin played the
hautboy, Hulmandel and Cramer the piano. Mme. de Montgerou came once,
soon after her marriage. Although she was very young then, she
nevertheless astonished my friends, who were very hard to please, by
her admirable execution, and especially by her expression; she really
made the instrument speak. Mme. Montgerou has since taken first rank
as a pianist, and distinguished herself as a composer.
At the time I gave my concerts people had taste and leisure for
amusement, and even some years later the love of music was so general
that it occasioned a serious quarrel between those who were called
Gluckists and Piccinists. All amateurs were divided into two opposing
factions. The usual field of battle was the garden of the Palais
Royal. There the partisans of Gluck and the partisans of Piccini went
at each other with such violence that there was more than one duel to
record. The women who were usually present comprised the Marquise de
Grollier, Mme. de Verdun, the Marquise de Sabran, who afterward
married the Chevalier de Boufflers, Mme. le Couteux du Molay--my
best friends, all four of them--the Marquise de Rougé, Mme. de Pezé,
her friend, whom I painted in the same picture with her, and a host of
other French ladies, whom, owing to the smallness of my rooms, I could
receive but rarely, and all sorts of distinguished foreign ladies. As
for men, the list would be too long to write it down.
[Illustration: PEACE BRINGING ABUNDANCE
Exhibited by Mme. Lebrun at the French Royal Academy of Painting On
Her Election as a Member of That Institution.]
From this crowd I selected the cleverest for invitation to my suppers,
which the Abbé Delille, the poet Lebrun, the Chevalier de Boufflers,
the Viscount de Ségur, and others contributed to make the most
entertaining in Paris. He can form no opinion of what society once was
in France who has not seen the time when, all of the day's business
absolved, a dozen or fifteen delightful people met at the house of a
hostess to finish their evening. The ease and the refined merriment
which reigned at these light evening repasts gave them a charm which
dinners can never have. A sort of confidence and intimacy prevailed
among the guests; it was by such suppers that the good society of
Paris showed its superiority to that of all Europe. At my house, for
instance, we met at about nine o'clock. No one ever talked politics,
but we chatted about literature and told anecdotes of the hour.
Sometimes we diverted ourselves by acting charades, and sometimes the
Abbé Delille or the poet Lebrun read us some of their compositions. At
ten o'clock we sat down to table. My suppers were of the simplest.
They always consisted of some fowl, a fish, a dish of vegetables, and
a salad, so that if I succumbed to the temptation of keeping back some
visitors there really was nothing more for any one to eat. But that
mattered little; the hours passed like minutes, and at midnight the
company broke up.
I not only gave suppers at my own house, but frequently supped in
town. Sometimes there was dancing, and there was no crowding to
suffocation, as there is nowadays. Eight persons only performed the
square dances, and the women who were not dancing could at least look
on, for the men stood behind them. I often went to spend the evening
at M. de Rivière's, in charge of the Saxon legation, a man
distinguished as much by his wit as by his good qualities. We played
comedies there, and comic operas. His daughter (my sister-in-law) sang
excellently, and could pass for a good society actress. M. de
Rivière's eldest son was charming in comic parts, and I was given the
use of a few professionals in opera and drama. Mme. Laruette, some
years retired from the stage, did not disdain our troupe. She played
with us in several operas, and her voice was still fresh and fine. My
brother Vigée played leading parts with very great success. In short,
all our actors were good--excepting Talma. My saying this will no
doubt make my readers laugh. The fact is, that Talma, who acted
lovers' parts with us, was so awkward and diffident that no one could
then possibly have foreseen how great an actor he would become. My
surprise was therefore very great when I saw our leading man surpass
Larive and take the place of Lekain. But the time it took to operate
this change, and all of the same kind, proves to me that the dramatic
talent takes longer to reach perfection than any other.
One evening, when I had invited a dozen or more friends to hear a
recital by the poet Lebrun, and while we were waiting for them, my
brother read aloud to me a few pages of "Anacharsis." Arriving at the
place where, in the description of a Greek dinner, the method of
preparing various sauces is explained, "We ought," said my brother,
"to try this to-night." I at once ordered up my cook and instructed
her properly, deciding that she was to make a certain sauce for the
chicken and another for the eel. As I was expecting some very pretty
women, I conceived the idea of Greek costumes, in order to give M. de
Vaudreuil and M. Boutin a surprise, knowing they would not arrive
until ten o'clock. My studio, full of things I used for draping my
models, would furnish me with enough material for garments, and the
Count de Parois, who lived in my house in the Rue de Cléry, owned a
superb collection of Etruscan pottery. It happened that he came to see
me that evening. I confided my project to him, so that he supplied me
with a number of drinking-cups and vases, from among which I took my
choice. I cleaned all these articles myself, and arranged them on a
table of mahogany without a tablecloth. This done, I put behind the
chairs a large screen, which I took the precaution of concealing under
some hangings looped up at intervals, as may be seen in Poussin's
pictures. A hanging lamp threw a strong light on the table. All was
now prepared except my costumes, when Joseph Vernet's daughter, the
charming Mme. Chalgrin, was first to arrive. I immediately took her in
hand, doing her hair and dressing her up. Then came Mme. de Bonneuil,
so remarkable for her beauty, and Mme. Vigée, my sister-in-law, who,
without being pretty, had the most beautiful eyes imaginable. And
there they were, all three, metamorphosed into veritable Athenians.
Lebrun came in; we wiped off his powder, undid his side curls, and put
a wreath of laurels on his head. Then the Marquis de Cubières arrived.
While we sent for a guitar of his, which he had turned into a gilded
lyre, I attended to his costume, and then likewise dressed up M. de
Rivière, and Chaudet, the famous sculptor.
The hour was waxing late. I had little time to think of myself. But as
I always wore white gowns in the form of a tunic--now called a
blouse--it was sufficient to put a veil and a wreath of flowers on my
head. I took particular pains in costuming my daughter, darling child
that she was, and Mlle. de Bonneuil, now Mme. Regnault d'Angély, who
was as lovely as an angel. Both were ravishing to behold, bearing a
very light antique vase, in readiness to serve us with drink.
At half past nine the preparations were ended, and at ten we heard the
carriage of the Count de Vaudreuil and of Boutin roll in, and when
these two gentlemen arrived before the door of the dining-room, whose
two leaves I had thrown open, they found us singing Gluck's chorus,
"The God of Paphos," with M. de Cubières accompanying us on his lyre.
Never in all my days have I seen two such astonished faces as those of
M. de Vaudreuil and his companion. They were so surprised and
delighted that they stood motionless for a long time before they could
make up their minds to take the seats we had reserved for them.
Besides the two courses I have mentioned, we had for supper a cake
made with honey and Corinth raisins, and two dishes of vegetables. I
confess that that evening we drank a bottle of old Cyprus wine, which
had been presented to me. But that was the whole of our dissipation.
We nevertheless remained a long time at table, where Lebrun recited to
us several odes of "Anacreon," which he had translated, and I think I
never spent a more amusing evening. M. Boutin and M. de Vaudreuil were
so enthusiastic that the next day they told all their friends about
the entertainment.
Some of the women of the court asked me to repeat the performance. I
declined for various reasons, and some of them felt hurt by my
refusal. Soon the report spread in society that this supper had cost
me twenty thousand francs. The King spoke of it with annoyance to the
Marquis de Cubières, who fortunately had been one of my guests, and
who therefore was able to convince His Majesty how foolish the
accusation was. Nevertheless, what was estimated at Versailles at the
modest price of twenty thousand francs was increased at Rome to forty
thousand. At Vienna the Baroness de Strogonoff informed me that I had
spent sixty thousand francs on my Greek supper. At St. Petersburg the
sum fixed upon was eighty thousand francs. In reality, the supper had
occasioned an outlay of nearly fifteen francs!
Although, as I am sure, I was the most harmless creature who ever drew
breath, I had enemies. A few years before the Revolution I did the
portrait of M. de Calonne, which I exhibited at the Salon of 1785. I
painted that minister in a sitting position and as far as the knees,
which caused Mlle. Arnould to say, when she looked at it: "Mme. Lebrun
cut off his legs, so that he should not get away." Unfortunately, this
little witticism was not the only one my picture evoked; I was made
the butt of calumnies of the most odious description. There were a
thousand stories circulated as to the payment of the portrait, some
asserting that the minister had given me a quantity of sweetmeats
wrapped in bank-notes, others that I had received in a pasty a sum
large enough to ruin the treasury. The fact is, that M. de Calonne had
sent me four thousand francs in a box worth twenty louis. Some of the
people who were with me when the box arrived can certify this. They
were even surprised at the smallness of the amount, for not long
before, M. de Beaujon, whom I had painted in the same style, had sent
me eight thousand francs, without any one considering this fee too
large.
I cared so little about money that I scarcely knew the value of it.
The Countess de la Guiche, who is still alive, can affirm that, upon
coming to me to have her portrait painted and telling me that she
could afford no more than a thousand francs, I answered that M. Lebrun
wished me to do none for less than two thousand. My closest friends
all know that M. Lebrun took all the money I earned, on the plea of
investing it in his business. I often had no more than six francs in
my pocket and in the world. When in 1788 I painted the picture of the
handsome Prince Lubomirskia, who was then grown up, his aunt, the
Princess Lubomirska, remitted twelve thousand francs to me, out of
which I begged M. Lebrun to let me keep forty; but he would not let me
have even that, alleging that he needed the whole sum to liquidate a
promissory note.
My indifference to money no doubt proceeded from the fact that wealth
was not necessary to me. Since that which made my house pleasant
required no extravagance, I always lived very economically. I spent
very little on dress; I was even reproached for neglecting it, for I
wore none but white dresses of muslin or lawn, and never wore
elaborate gowns excepting for my sittings at Versailles. My head-dress
cost me nothing, because I did my hair myself, and most of the time I
wore a muslin cap on my head, as may be seen from my portraits.
One of my favourite distractions was going to the play, and I can vow
that so many talented actors were on the Paris stage that many of them
have had no successors. I remember perfectly having seen the renowned
Lekain act, whose ugliness, monstrous as it was, was not apparent in
all his parts. But when he played the rôle of Orosmane, in which I
once saw him, I was very near the stage, and his turban made him so
hideous that, although I admired his fine bearing, he frightened me.
Mlle. Dumesnil, although she was short and very ugly, sent her
audiences into transports in her great tragic rôles. It sometimes
happened that Mlle. Dumesnil acted through a portion of the play
without producing any impression; then, all of a sudden, she would
change; her gestures, her voice and her features all became so
intensely tragic that she brought down the house. I was assured that
before coming on the stage she was in the habit of drinking a bottle
of wine, and that another was held in reserve for her in the wings.
The most brilliant first appearance I can remember was Mlle.
Raucourt's in the part of Dido, when she was eighteen or twenty at the
most. The beauty of her face, her figure, her voice, her
declamation--everything foreshadowed a perfect actress. To so many
advantages she added an air of remarkable decency and a reputation of
severe morals, which caused her to be sought after by our greatest
ladies. She was presented with jewelry, with theatrical costumes, and
with money for herself and her father, who was always with her. Later
on she changed her habits very much.
[Illustration: MME. VIGÉE LEBRUN AND HER DAUGHTER.]
Talma, our last great tragic actor, in my opinion surpassed all the
others. There was genius in his acting. It may also be said that he
revolutionised the art, in the first place through banishing the
bombastic and affected style of delivery by his natural, sincere
elocution, and secondly through bringing about an innovation in dress,
attiring himself like a Greek or a Roman when he played Achilles or
Brutus--for which I was heartily grateful to him. Talma had one of the
finest heads and one of the most mobile countenances imaginable, and,
however impetuous his acting became, always kept dignified, which
seems to me a prime quality in a tragic actor. He was a very good man,
and the best tempered individual in the world. It was his custom to
make no fuss in society; in order to make him respond, it needed
something in the conversation which would stir one of his deepest
interests, and then he was well worth listening to, particularly when
he talked about his art. Comedy was perhaps better off still for
talent than tragedy. I often had the good fortune to see Préville on
the stage. There, indeed, was the perfect, the inimitable artist! His
acting, so clever, so natural, and so full of fun, was at the same
time most varied. He would play in turn Crispin, Sosie, and Figaro,
and you would not know it was the same man, so inexhaustible were his
comic resources. Dugazon, his successor in humorous parts, would have
been an excellent comedian if a desire to make the public laugh had
not often led him into being farcical. He played certain parts of
valets admirably. Dugazon behaved villainously in the Revolution: he
was one of those who went for the King to Varennes, and an eyewitness
told me that he had seen him at the carriage door with a gun on his
shoulder. Be it observed that this man had been overwhelmed with
favours by the court, and especially by the Count d'Artois.
I also witnessed Mlle. Contat's first appearance. She was extremely
pretty and well made, but did her work so badly at first that no one
foresaw what a fine actress she was to become. Her charming face was
not sufficient to protect her from hisses when she played the part
confided to her by Beaumarchais, of Susanna in "The Marriage of
Figaro." But from that moment on she advanced further and further on
the path of success.
At a period when all of the great actors were beginning to age, a
young talent arose that to-day is the ornament of the French stage:
Mlle. Mars was then playing the parts of young girls in the most
highly accomplished manner; she excelled in that of Victorine in "The
Unwitting Philosopher," and in a dozen others in which she never had
an equal. For it was impossible for any one else to be so true to life
and so affecting; it was nature at its best. Fortunately, that face,
that figure, that bewitching voice are so perfectly preserved that
Mlle. Mars has no age, nor, I believe, ever will have, and the public
proves every night by its applause that it shares my opinion.
I remember having seen Sophie Arnould twice at the opera, in "Castor
and Pollux." I recollect that she seemed to me to possess grace and
feeling. As for her abilities as a singer, the music of that epoch
disgusted me so that I did not listen to it enough to be able to
speak about it now. Mlle. Arnould was not pretty; her mouth spoiled
her face; only her eyes conveyed the cleverness which made her famous.
A great number of her witty sayings have been passed round from mouth
to mouth or printed.
A woman whose superior gifts delighted us for a long time was Mlle.
Arnould's successor. This was Mme. Saint Huberti, whom one must have
heard in order to understand how far lyric tragedy can go. Mme. Saint
Huberti had not only a superb voice, but was also a great actress. Her
good fate ordained that she should sing the operas of Piccini,
Sacchini and Gluck, and all this music, so beautiful, so expressive,
exactly suited her talent, which was full of significance, of
sincerity and of nobility. She was not good-looking, but her face was
entrancing because of its soulfulness. The Count d'Entraigues, a very
fine, handsome man, and very distinguished through his intellect, fell
in love with her and married her. When the Revolution broke out they
escaped to London together. It was there that one evening they were
both murdered, without either the murderers or their motives ever
being discovered.
In the ballet, likewise noted for people with great capabilities,
Gardel and Vestris the elder were first. Vestris was tall and
imposing, and was not to be excelled in dances of the grave and sedate
order. I could not prescribe the grace with which he took off and put
back his hat at the bow preceding the minuet. All the young women of
the court took lessons from him, before their presentation, in making
the three courtesies. Vestris the elder was succeeded by his son, the
most astonishing dancer to be seen, such were his combined
gracefulness and lightness. Although our dancers of the present day by
no means spare us their pirouettes, certainly no one could ever do as
many as he did. He would suddenly rise toward the sky in such a
marvellous manner that one thought he must have wings, and this made
old Vestris say, "If my son touches the ground it is only from
politeness to his colleagues."
Mlle. Guimard had another sort of talent altogether. Her dancing was
only a sketch; she did nothing but take short steps, but executed them
with such fascinating motions that the public awarded her the palm
over all other female dancers. She was short, slight, very well
shaped, and, although plain, her features were such that at the age of
forty-five she looked no more than fifteen when on the stage.
I now come to one whose entire dramatic career I have been able to
follow--the best talent the Opéra-Comique had to show, Mme. Dugazon.
Never has such reality been seen upon the stage. The actress
disappeared, and gave place to the actual Babet, Countess d'Albert, or
Nicolette. Her voice was rather weak, but it was strong enough for
laughter, for tears, for all situations, for all parts. Grétry and
Delayrac, who wrote for her, were mad about her. No one ever again
played Nina like her--Nina, so decent and so passionate at once, and
so unhappy and so touching that the mere sight of her made the
audience shed tears. Mme. Dugazon was a royalist, heart and soul. Of
this she gave the public a proof, when the Revolution was well
advanced, in playing the part of the maid in "Unforeseen Events." The
Queen was witnessing the performance, and in a duet begun by the
valet, with "I love my master dearly," Mme. Dugazon, whose answer was
"Ah, how I love my mistress!" turned toward the Queen's box, laid her
hand over her heart, and sang her reply in a melting voice while she
bowed to Her Majesty. I was told that the public--and such a
public--afterward sought revenge by attempting to make her sing some
horrible thing which had come into vogue and was often heard in the
theatres. But Mme. Dugazon would not yield. She left the stage.
CHAPTER IV
EXILE
A GALLIC MAECENAS -- ANECDOTE CONCERNING BEAUMARCHAIS -- THE DUKE
DE NIVERNAIS -- MME. DU BARRY SKETCHED IN WORDS -- AND PAINTED IN
OILS -- RUMBLINGS OF THE REVOLUTION -- MME. LEBRUN'S FEARSOME
JOURNEY TO ITALY -- RENEWED ARTISTIC ACTIVITY AT ROME -- EASTER
SUNDAY AT ST. PETER'S -- FASCINATION OF THE ETERNAL CITY --
VANITIES AND VIOLENCES OF ITS PEOPLE.
The same year that I went to Flanders I made a stay of some length at
Raincy. The Duke d'Orléans, the father of Philippe Égalité, who was
then living there, sent for me to paint his portrait and Mme. de
Montesson's. I cannot recall a certain incident without laughing,
though it annoyed me considerably at the time. During Mme. de
Montesson's sittings the old Princess de Conti came to see her one
day, and this Princess persisted in addressing me as "Miss." It is
true that it had formerly been the custom for great ladies to behave
in this way toward their inferiors, but that sort of court snobbery
had gone out with Louis XV.
Another noted country estate, Gennevilliers, belonged to the Count de
Vaudreuil, one of the most amiable of men. The Count de Vaudreuil had
bought this property largely for His Highness the Count d'Artois,
because it included fine hunting-grounds. The purchaser had done much
to embellish the place. The house was furnished in the best taste, and
without ostentation; there was a small but charming theatre in the
house, where my sister-in-law, my brother, M. de Rivière and I often
played in comic operas with Mme. Dugazon, and Garat, Cailleau, and
Laruette. The Count d'Artois and his company witnessed our
performances. The last given in the theatre at Gennevilliers was "The
Marriage of Figaro" by the actors of the Comédie-Française. Mlle.
Contat was delightful in the part of Suzanne. Dialogue, couplets, and
all the rest were aimed against the court, of which a large part was
present. This extravagance benefited no one, but Beaumarchais was none
the less intoxicated with joy. As there were complaints of the heat,
he allowed no time for the windows to be opened, but smashed all the
panes with his walking-stick.
The Count de Vaudreuil came to repent of having given his patronage to
the "Marriage of Figaro." In fact, very soon after the performance
mentioned Beaumarchais asked for an audience. This being at once
granted, he arrived at Versailles at such an early hour that the Count
had only just got up. The dramatist then broached a financial project
which he had hatched out, and which was to bring in a vast fortune. He
concluded by proposing to hand over to M. de Vaudreuil a large sum if
he would engage to carry the affair through successfully. The Count
listened quite calmly, and when Beaumarchais finished speaking,
answered: "M. de Beaumarchais, you could not come at a more favourable
time, for I have spent a good night, my digestion is in good order,
and I never felt better than I do to-day. If you had made such a
proposition to me yesterday I would have thrown you out of the
window."
Another fine country place I visited was Villette. The Marquise de
Villette, nicknamed Lovely and Lovable, having invited me, I went to
pass a few days there. On one occasion we found a man painting fences
in the park. This painter was working with such expedition that M. de
Villette complimented him upon it. "Oh!" was the reply, "I'd undertake
to cover up in a day all that Rubens painted in his whole life!"
I dined several times at Saint Ouen, with the Duke de Nivernais, who
owned a very handsome residence there, and who gathered about him the
most agreeable company it was possible to meet. The Duke, always
praised for his elegant and pointed wit, had manners that were
dignified and gentle and without the slightest affectation. He was
particularly distinguished for his extreme civility to women of all
ages. In this respect I might speak of him as a model of whom I would
never have found a copy if I had not known the Count de Vaudreuil,
who, much younger than the Duke de Nivernais, added to his refined
gallantry a politeness that was the more flattering since it came from
the heart. In fact, it is very difficult to convey an idea to-day of
the urbanity, the graceful ease, in a word the affability of manner
which made the charm of Parisian society forty years ago. The women
reigned then; the Revolution dethroned them. The Duke de Nivernais was
very small and very lean. Although very old when I knew him, he was
still full of life; he was passionately fond of poetry, and wrote
charming verses.
I also dined frequently at the Marshal de Noailles's, in his fine
mansion situated at the entrance to Saint Germain. There was then an
immense park there, admirably kept. The Marshal was highly sociable;
his cleverness and good spirits infected all his guests, whom he
selected from among the literary celebrities and the most
distinguished people of the town and the court.
It was in 1786 that I went for the first time to Louveciennes, where I
had promised to paint Mme. Du Barry. She might then have been about
forty-five years old. She was tall without being too much so; she had
a certain roundness, her throat being rather pronounced but very
beautiful; her face was still attractive, her features were regular
and graceful; her hair was ashy, and curly like a child's. But her
complexion was beginning to fade. She received me with much courtesy,
and seemed to me very well behaved, but I found her more spontaneous
in mind than in manner: her glance was that of a coquette, for her
long eyes were never quite open, and her pronunciation had something
childish which no longer suited her age.
She lodged me in a part of the building where I was greatly put out by
the continual noise. Under my room was a gallery, sadly neglected, in
which busts, vases, columns, the rarest marbles, and a quantity of
other valuable articles were displayed without system or order. These
remains of luxury contrasted with the simplicity adopted by the
mistress of the house, with her dress and her mode of life. Summer and
winter Mme. Du Barry wore only a dressing-robe of cotton cambric or
white muslin, and every day, whatever the weather might be, she walked
in her park, or outside of it, without ever incurring disastrous
consequences, so sturdy had her health become through her life in the
country. She had maintained no relations with the numerous court that
surrounded her so long. In the evening we were usually alone at the
fireside, Mme. Du Barry and I. She sometimes talked to me about Louis
XV. and his court. She showed herself a worthy person by her actions
as well as her words, and did a great deal of good at Louveciennes,
where she helped all the poor. Every day after dinner we took coffee
in the pavilion which was so famous for its rich and tasteful
decorations. The first time Mme. Du Barry showed it to me she said:
"It is here that Louis XV. did me the honour of coming to dinner.
There was a gallery above for musicians and singers who performed
during the meal."
[Illustration: THE DAUPHIN OF FRANCE.]
When Mme. Du Barry went to England, before the Terror, to get back her
stolen diamonds, which, in fact, she recovered there, the English
received her very well. They did all they could to prevent her from
returning to France. But it was not long before she succumbed to the
fate in store for everybody who had some possessions. She was informed
against and betrayed by a little Negro called Zamore, who is mentioned
in all the memoirs of the period as having been overwhelmed with
kindness by her and Louis XV. Being arrested and thrown into prison,
Mme. Du Barry was tried and condemned to death by the Revolutionary
tribunal at the end of 1793. She was the only woman, among all who
perished in those dreadful days, unable to face the scaffold with
firmness; she screamed, she sued for pardon to the hideous mob
surrounding her, and that mob became moved to such a degree that the
executioner hastened to finish his task. This has always confirmed my
belief that if the victims of that period of execrable memory had not
had the noble pride of dying with fortitude the Terror would have
ceased long before it did.
I made three portraits of Mme. Du Barry. In the first I painted her at
half length, in a dressing-gown and straw hat. In the second she is
dressed in white satin; she holds a wreath in one hand, and one of her
arms is leaning on a pedestal. The third portrait I made of Mme. Du
Barry is in my own possession. I began it about the middle of
September, 1789. From Louveciennes we could hear shooting in the
distance, and I remember the poor woman saying, "If Louis XV. were
alive I am sure this would not be happening." I had done the head, and
outlined the body and arms, when I was obliged to make an expedition
to Paris. I hoped to be able to return to Louveciennes to finish my
work, but heard that Berthier and Foulon had been murdered. I was now
frightened beyond measure, and thenceforth thought of nothing but
leaving France. The fearful year 1789 was well advanced, and all
decent people were already seized with terror. I remember perfectly
that one evening when I had gathered some friends about me for a
concert, most of the arrivals came into the room with looks of
consternation; they had been walking at Longchamps that morning, and
the populace assembled at the Étoile gate had cursed at those who
passed in carriages in a dreadful manner. Some of the wretches had
clambered on the carriage steps, shouting, "Next year you will be
behind your carriages and we shall be inside!" and a thousand other
insults.
As for myself, I had little need to learn fresh details in order to
foresee what horrors impended. I knew beyond doubt that my house in
the Rue Gros Chenet, where I had settled but three months since, had
been singled out by the criminals. They threw sulphur into our cellars
through the airholes. If I happened to be at my window, vulgar
ruffians would shake their fists at me. Numberless sinister rumours
reached me from every side; in fact, I now lived in a state of
continual anxiety and sadness. My health became sensibly affected, and
two of my best friends, the architect Brongniart and his wife, when
they came to see me, found me so thin and so changed that they
besought me to come and spend a few days with them, which invitation I
thankfully accepted. Brongniart had his lodgings at the Invalides,
whither I was conducted by a physician attached to the Palais Royal,
whose servants wore the Orléans livery, the only one then held in any
respect. There I was given everything of the best. As I was unable to
eat, I was nourished on excellent Burgundy wine and soup, and Mme.
Brongniart was in constant attendance upon me. All this solicitude
ought to have quieted me, especially as my friends took a less black
view of things than I did. Nevertheless, they did not succeed in
banishing my evil forebodings. "What is the use of living; what is
the use of taking care of oneself?" I would often ask my good friends,
for the fears that the future held over me made life distasteful to
me. But I must acknowledge that even with the furthest stretch of my
imagination I guessed only at a fraction of the crimes that were to be
committed.
I remember having supped at the Brongniarts's with His Excellence M.
de Sombreuil, at that time governor of the Invalides. He brought us
the news that an attempt was threatening to take the arms that he had
in reserve, "But," he added, "I have hidden them so well that I defy
any one to find them." The good man did not consider that one could
trust no one but oneself. As the arms were very soon abstracted, it
seems evident that he was betrayed by some of the servants in his
employ.
M. de Sombreuil, as notable for his private virtues as for his
military talents, was among the prisoners who were to be killed in
their cells on the second of September. The murderers gave him his
life at the tears of supplication of his heroic daughter, but,
villainous even in granting pardon, they compelled Mlle. de Sombreuil
to drink a glass of the blood that flowed in streams in front of the
prison. For a long time afterward the sight of anything with red
colour made this unfortunate young woman vomit horribly. Some years
later (in 1794) M. de Sombreuil was sent to the scaffold by the
Revolutionary tribunal.
I had made up my mind to leave France. For some years I had cherished
the desire to go to Rome. The large number of portraits I had engaged
to paint had, however, hindered me from putting my plan into
execution. But I could now paint no longer; my broken spirit, bruised
with so many horrors, shut itself entirely to my art. Besides,
dreadful slanders were pouring upon my friends, my acquaintances and
myself, although, Heaven knows, I had never hurt a living soul. I
thought like the man who said, "I am accused of having stolen the
towers of Notre Dame; they are still in their usual place, but I am
going away, as I am evidently to blame." I left several portraits I
had begun, among them Mlle. Contat's. At the same time I refused to
paint Mlle. de Laborde (afterward Duchess de Noailles), brought to me
by her father. She was scarcely sixteen, and very charming, but it was
no longer a question of success or money--it was only a question of
saving one's head. I had my carriage loaded, and my passport ready, so
that I might leave next day with my daughter and her governess, when a
crowd of national guardsmen burst into my room with their muskets.
Most of them were drunk and shabby, and had terrible faces. A few of
them came up to me and told me in the coarsest language that I must
not go, but that I must remain. I answered that since everybody had
been called upon to enjoy his liberty, I intended to make use of mine.
They would barely listen to me, and kept on repeating, "You will not
go, citizeness; you will not go!" Finally they went away. I was
plunged into a state of cruel anxiety when I saw two of them return.
But they did not frighten me, although they belonged to the gang, so
quickly did I recognise that they wished me no harm. "Madame," said
one of them, "we are your neighbours, and we have come to advise you
to leave, and as soon as possible. You cannot live here; you are
changed so much that we feel sorry for you. But do not go in your
carriage: go in the stage-coach; it is much safer." I thanked them
with all my heart, and followed their good advice. I had three places
reserved, as I still wanted to take my daughter, who was then five or
six years old, but was unable to secure them until a fortnight later,
because all who exiled themselves chose the stage-coach, like myself.
At last came the long-expected day.
It was the 5th of October, and the King and Queen were conducted from
Versailles to Paris surrounded by pikes. The events of that day filled
me with uneasiness as to the fate of Their Majesties and that of all
decent people, so that I was dragged to the stage-coach at midnight in
a dreadful state of mind. I was very much afraid of the Faubourg Saint
Antoine, which I was obliged to traverse to reach the Barrière du
Trône. My brother and my husband escorted me as far as this gate
without leaving the door of the coach for a moment; but the suburb
that I was so frightened of was perfectly quiet. All its inhabitants,
the workmen and the rest, had been to Versailles after the royal
family, and fatigue kept them all in bed.
Opposite me in the coach was a very filthy man, who stunk like the
plague, and told me quite simply that he had stolen watches and other
things. Luckily he saw nothing about me to tempt him, for I was only
taking a small amount of clothing and eighty louis for my journey. I
had left my principal effects and my jewels in Paris, and the fruit of
my labours was in the hands of my husband, who spent it all. I lived
abroad solely on the proceeds of my painting.
Not satisfied with relating his fine exploits to us, the thief talked
incessantly of stringing up such and such people on lamp-posts, naming
a number of my own acquaintances. My daughter thought this man very
wicked. He frightened her, and this gave me the courage to say, "I beg
you, sir, not to talk of killing before this child." That silenced
him, and he ended by playing at battle with my daughter. On the bench
I occupied there also sat a mad Jacobin from Grenoble, about fifty
years old, with an ugly, bilious complexion, who each time we stopped
at an inn for dinner or supper made violent speeches of the most
fearful kind. At all of the towns a crowd of people stopped the coach
to learn the news from Paris. Our Jacobin would then exclaim:
"Everything is going well, children! We have the baker and his wife
safe in Paris. A constitution will be drawn up, they will be forced to
accept it, and then it will be all over." There were plenty of ninnies
and flatheads who believed this man as if he had been an oracle. All
this made my journey a very melancholy one. I had no further fears for
myself, but I feared greatly for everybody else--for my mother, for my
brother, and for my friends. I also had the gravest apprehensions
concerning Their Majesties, for all along the route, nearly as far as
Lyons, men on horseback rode up to the coach to tell us that the King
and Queen had been killed and that Paris was on fire. My poor little
girl got all a-tremble; she thought she saw her father dead and our
house burned down, and no sooner had I succeeded in reassuring her
than another horseman appeared and told us the same stories.
I cannot describe the emotions I felt in passing over the Beauvoisin
Bridge. Then only did I breathe freely. I had left France behind, that
France which nevertheless was the land of my birth, and which I
reproached myself with quitting with so much satisfaction. The sight
of the mountains, however, distracted me from all my sad thoughts. I
had never seen high mountains before; those of the Savoy seemed to
touch the sky, and seemed to mingle with it in a thick vapour. My
first sensation was that of fear, but I unconsciously accustomed
myself to the spectacle, and ended by admiring it. A certain part of
the road completely entranced me; I seemed to see the "Gallery of the
Titans," and I have always called it so since. Wishing to enjoy all
these beauties as fully as possible, I got down from the coach, but
after walking some way I was seized with a great fright, for there
were explosions being made with gunpowder, which had the effect of a
thousand cannon shots, and the din echoing from rock to rock was
truly infernal.
I went up Mount Cenis, as other strangers were doing, when a postilion
approached me, saying, "The lady ought to take a mule; to climb up on
foot is too fatiguing." I answered that I was a work-woman and quite
accustomed to walking. "Oh! no!" was the laughing reply. "The lady is
no work-woman; we know who she is!" "Well, who am I, then?" I asked
him. "You are Mme. Lebrun, who paints so well, and we are all very
glad to see you safe from those bad people." I never guessed how the
man could have learned my name, but it proved to me how many secret
agents the Jacobins must have had. Happily I had no occasion to fear
them any longer.
No sooner had I arrived at Rome than I did a portrait of myself for
the Florence gallery. I painted myself palette in hand before a canvas
on which I was tracing a figure of the Queen in white crayon. After
that I painted Miss Pitt, who was sixteen and extremely pretty. I
represented her as Hebe, on some clouds, holding in her hand a goblet
from which an eagle was about to drink. I did the eagle from life, and
I thought he would eat me. He belonged to Cardinal de Bernis. The
wretched beast, accustomed to being in the open air--for he was kept
on a chain in the courtyard--was so enraged at finding himself in my
room that he tried to fly at me. I admit that I was dreadfully
frightened.
About this time I painted the portrait of a Polish lady, the Countess
Potocka. She came with her husband, and after he had gone away she
said to me quite coolly, "He is my third husband, but I am thinking of
taking back my first, who would suit me better, although he is a
drunkard." I painted this Pole in a very picturesque way: for a
background she had a rock overgrown with moss, and falling water
nearby.
The pleasure of living in Rome was the only thing that consoled me for
having left my country, my family, and so many friends I loved. My
work did not deprive me of the daily diversion of going about the city
and its surroundings. I always went alone to the palaces where
collections of pictures and statues were exhibited, so as not to have
my enjoyment spoiled by stupid remarks or questions. All these palaces
are open to strangers, and much gratitude is due to the great Roman
nobles for being so obliging. It may seem hard to believe, but it is
true that one might spend one's whole life in the palaces and
churches. In the churches are to be found great treasures of painting
and extraordinary monuments. The wealth of St. Peter's in this respect
is well known. The finest of the churches regarding architecture is
St. Paul's, whose interior is lined with columns on each side.
One can have no idea of the grand and imposing effect of the Catholic
religion unless one can see Rome during Lent. On Easter Day I took
good care to be in the square of St. Peter's to see the Pope give his
blessing. Nothing could have been more solemn. The immense square was
filled at early morning by peasants and by the inhabitants of the
town, in all sorts of different costumes--bright and varied in
colour--and there were also a large number of pilgrims. They all stood
as still as the superb obelisk of Oriental granite in the middle of
the square. At ten o'clock the Pope arrived, clothed all in white, his
crown on his head. He took his place in the centre stand outside the
church on a magnificent high velvet throne. The Cardinals surrounded
him, clad in their handsome dress. It must be said that Pope Pius VI.
was splendid. His healthy face showed no sign of the wear and tear of
old age. His hands were white and plump. He knelt down to read his
prayer. Afterward, rising up, he gave a double blessing in speaking
these words, "_Urbi et Orbi_." Then, as if struck by an electric
shock, the people, the strangers, the troops, and all others fell on
their knees, while the cannons boomed from all sides, this adding to
the majesty of the scene, by which it was impossible not to be moved.
[Illustration: THE BARONESS DE CRUSSOL.]
The blessing given, the Cardinals threw a quantity of papers down from
the gallery, and these, I was told, were indulgences. Thousands of
hands shot upward to grasp them. The eagerness and the excitement of
this crowd, its pressing and pushing, were beyond description. When
the Pope withdrew, the regimental bands intoned a flourish, and the
troops then marched off to the rattle of drums. In the evening the
dome of St. Peter's was illuminated, first with lights under coloured
glasses, and then with white lights of greatest brilliancy. It was
difficult to conceive how the change could be effected with such
rapidity; however, the spectacle was as beautiful as it was
remarkable. The same evening, too, gorgeous fireworks were set off at
the castle of St. Angelo. Myriads of bombs and fire balloons were sent
into the air; the final display was the most magnificent to be seen of
the kind, and the reflection of these splendid fireworks in the Tiber
doubled their effect.
In Rome, where everything is grand, the great mansions have no
wretched lamps before them, but each palace is provided with enormous
candelabras, from which stream gigantic flames that shed day, so to
speak, over the whole city. This luxurious manner of lighting strikes
a stranger the more as the streets of Rome are mostly illuminated by
the lamps burning in front of the Madonnas.
Strangers are attracted to Rome far more by Holy Week than by the
carnival, at which I was not surprised. The masqueraders establish
themselves in tiers, disguised as harlequins, as pulcinellos, etc.,
just as we see them on the boulevards in Paris, the difference being
that in Rome they never stir. I saw only a single young man going
about the streets after the French fashion. He was giving a lifelike
imitation of a very affected exquisite whom we had no difficulty in
recognising. The carriages and wagons come and go full of richly
costumed people. The horses are adorned with feathers, ribbons, and
bells, the servants being dressed up as Scaramouche or Harlequin, but
it all passes off in the quietest way in the world. Finally, toward
evening, several discharges of cannon announce the horse-races, which
enliven the rest of the day.
There is no town in the world where one could pass one's time as
delightfully as in Rome, even were one deprived of all the resources
which good society offers. The walks within the walls are a joy, for
one is never tired of revisiting the Coliseum, the Capitol, the
Pantheon, the square of St. Peter's with its colonnades, its superb
obelisk, and its lovely fountains, across which the rays of the sun
often throw beautiful rainbows. The square is wonderfully impressive
at sunset and in the moonlight. Whether it was on my way or not, I
always took pleasure in crossing it.
What astonished me very much in Rome was to find at the Coliseum, on
Sunday mornings, a crowd of women from the lowest classes,
extravagantly bedizened, loaded with ornaments, and wearing in their
ears enormous stars of paste diamonds. It was also in this garb that
they went to church, frequently followed by a domestic, who very often
was no other than their husband, his real occupation being probably
that of a valet. These women do nothing at home; their idleness is
such that they live in the greatest want. They may be seen at their
windows in the streets of Rome, with flowers and feathers on their
head, their faces made up with cosmetics. The upper part of their
dress, which is visible, indicates great luxury, so that one is
surprised, upon entering their rooms, to find that they have on
nothing more than a dirty petticoat. The Roman dames whom I mention
nevertheless enact aristocratic parts, and when the time comes to go
to the villas they carefully close their shutters in order to create
the belief that they have left for the country.
I was assured that every woman in Rome was in the habit of carrying a
dagger. I do not, however, believe that the great ladies wear any, but
certain it is that the wife of Denis, the landscape painter, with whom
I lodged, and who was a Roman, showed me the dagger which she always
had about her. As for the men of the people, they are never unprovided
with one, and this brings about a number of grave tragedies. Three
evenings after my arrival, for instance, I heard in my street some
shouts followed by a great tumult. I sent out to learn what the matter
was, and was informed that a man had just killed another with his
dagger. As these peculiar habits made me very much afraid, I was
assured that strangers had nothing to fear--that it was simply a
question of an act of revenge between Italians. As for the case in
point, the murderer and his victim had quarrelled ten years ago, and
the first, having recognised his enemy, at once struck him down with
his dagger, which proves how long an Italian can keep a grudge.
Certainly the customs of the upper class are milder, since high
society is very much the same all over Europe. However, I am not the
best judge, as with the exception of relations involving my art, and
invitations sent to me for numerous parties, I had little occasion to
become acquainted with the patrician ladies of Rome. What happened to
me was what naturally happens to every exile, which was to seek the
company of my own countrymen. In 1789 and 1790 Rome was full of French
refugees, whom I knew for the greater part, and with whom I soon made
friends. We saw the Princess Joseph de Monaco and the Duchess de
Fleury arrive, and a host of other notabilities. The Princess Joseph
de Monaco had a charming face, and was very sweet and charming.
Unfortunately for her, she did not stay in Rome. She returned to Paris
to attend to the small amount of property remaining to her children,
and she was there during the Terror. Thrown into prison and condemned
to death, she was taken to the scaffold.
The arrival at Rome of so many people bringing so much news made me
undergo different emotions every day. Often they were very sad, but
sometimes very sweet. I was told, for instance, that a little while
after my departure, when the King was begged to have his picture
painted, he had replied: "No, I shall wait for Mme. Lebrun to come
back, so that she may make a portrait of me to match the Queen's. I
want her to paint me at full figure, in the act of commanding M. de la
Pérouse to make a journey round the world."
CHAPTER V
NEAPOLITAN DAYS
NAPLES -- A SLEEPY AMBASSADRESS -- THE REMARKABLE LIFE OF LADY
HAMILTON -- BEING THE STORY OF A FRIVOLOUS FLIRT FOND OF BEER --
MORE ROYAL MODELS -- EXCURSIONS TO POSILIPPO -- MLLE. LEBRUN
WRITES A NOVEL AT THE AGE OF NINE -- THE QUEEN OF NAPLES SITS TO
THE AUTHORESS -- THE WEDDING OF THE DOGE OF VENICE WITH THE SEA.
I had been in Rome eight months or thereabouts, when, observing that
all foreigners were leaving for Naples, I was seized with a great
desire to go there likewise. I confided my plan to the Cardinal de
Bernis, who, while approving, advised me not to go alone. He spoke to
me of a M. Duvivier, the husband of Voltaire's niece, Mme. Denis, who
proposed to make the journey, and who would be charmed with my
company. M. Duvivier came to me, repeating everything that the
Cardinal had said, and promising to take care of my daughter and
myself. He added, thus tempting me the more, that he had in his
carriage a sort of stove, for cooking fowl, which would be very useful
to us, seeing how bad the fare was in the best inns of Terracina. All
his offers suited me to a marvel, and so I started with this
gentleman. His coach was very large; my daughter and her governess sat
in front, and there was another seat in the middle. A huge man-servant
sat on it in front of me in such a way that his large back touched me
and I had to hold my nose. I am not in the habit of talking while
travelling, so that conversation between us was restricted to the
exchange of a few phrases. But as we were crossing the Pontine
marshes, I noticed on the edge of a canal a shepherd whose flock was
passing into a meadow all studded with flowers, and beyond which the
sea and Cape Circe were visible. "What a charming picture!" said I to
my travelling companion. "This shepherd, these sheep, the meadow, the
sea!" "Those sheep are all filthy," he answered; "you ought to see
them in England." Farther along on the Terracina road, at the place
where you cross a small river in a boat, I saw at my left the line of
the Apennines crowned with magnificent clouds, which the setting sun
illumined. I was unable to refrain from expressing my admiration
aloud. "Those clouds mean that we shall have rain to-morrow," said my
optimistic friend.
We reached Naples at about three or four o'clock. I cannot describe
the impression I received upon entering the town. That burning sun,
that stretch of sea, those islands seen in the distance, that Vesuvius
with a great column of smoke ascending from it, and the very
population so animated and so noisy, who differ so much from the Roman
that one might suppose they were a thousand miles apart.
I had engaged a house at Chiaja on the edge of the sea. Opposite me I
had the island of Capri, and this situation delighted me. Hardly had I
arrived when Count Skavronska, the Russian Ambassador at Naples, whose
house was next to mine, sent one of his runners to find out how I was,
and at the same time had a very choice dinner brought me. I was the
more grateful for this kind attention, as I must have died of hunger
before there would have been time to get my kitchen ready. The same
evening I went to thank the Count, and thus became acquainted with his
charming wife.
[Illustration: MARIE CAROLINE, WIFE OF FERDINAND IV. OF NAPLES.]
Count Skavronska had features that were noble and regular; he was very
pale. This pallor came from the extreme delicacy of his health, which,
however, did not prevent him from being highly sociable nor from
chatting both gracefully and cleverly. The Countess was as sweet and
pretty as an angel. The famous Potemkin, her uncle, had loaded her
with wealth, for which she had no use. Her great delight was to live
stretched out on a lounge wrapped in a large black cloak, and wearing
no stays. Her mother-in-law sent her, from Paris, cases full of the
most beautiful dresses then made by Mlle. Bertin, Queen Marie
Antoinette's dressmaker. I do not believe that the Countess ever
opened one of them, and when her mother-in-law expressed a wish to see
her in the beautiful gowns and head-dresses contained in the cases,
she answered indifferently: "What for? Why?" She gave me the same
answer when showing me her jewel-case, one of the most splendid I have
ever seen. It contained enormous diamonds given her by Potemkin, but I
never saw them on her. I remember her telling me that in order to go
to sleep she had a slave under her bed who told her the same story
every night. She was utterly idle all day, she had no education, and
her conversation was quite empty. But in spite of all that, thanks to
her lovely face and her angelic sweetness, she had an incomparable
charm.
Count Skavronska had made me promise to do his wife's portrait before
any one else's, and, having agreed, I began this portrait two days
after my arrival. After the first session, Sir William Hamilton, the
British Ambassador at Naples, came to me and begged that my first
portrait in this town should be that of the splendid woman he
presented to me. This was Mme. Harte, who soon after became Lady
Hamilton, and who was famous for her beauty. After the promise to my
amiable neighbours, I could not begin the other portrait until
Countess Skavronska's was well advanced. I then painted Mme. Harte as
a bacchante reclining by the edge of the sea, holding a goblet in her
hand. Her beautiful face had much animation, and was a complete
contrast to the Countess's. She had a great quantity of fine chestnut
hair, sufficient to cover her entirely, and thus, as a bacchante with
flying hair, she was admirable to behold.
The life of Lady Hamilton is a romance. Her maiden name was Emma Lyon.
Her mother, it is said, was a poor servant, and there is some
disagreement as to her birthplace. At the age of thirteen she entered
the service of an honest townsman of Hawarden as a nurse, but, tired
of the dull life she led, and believing that she could obtain a more
agreeable situation in London, she betook herself thither. The Prince
of Wales told me that he had seen her at that time in wooden shoes at
the stall of a fruit vender, and that, although she was very meanly
clad, her pretty face attracted attention. A shopkeeper took her into
his service, but she soon left him to become housemaid under a lady of
decent family--a very respectable person. In her house she acquired a
taste for novels, and then for the play. She studied the gestures and
vocal inflections of the actors, and rendered them with remarkable
facility. These talents, neither of which pleased her mistress in the
very least, were the cause of her dismissal. It was then that, having
heard of a tavern where painters were in the habit of meeting, she
conceived the idea of going there to look for employment. Her beauty
was then at its height.
She was rescued from this pitfall by a strange chance. Doctor Graham
took her to exhibit her at his house, covered with a light veil, as
the goddess Hygeia (the goddess of health). A number of curious people
and amateurs went to see her, and the painters were especially
delighted. Some time after this exhibition, a painter secured her as
a model; he made her pose in a thousand graceful attitudes, which he
reproduced on canvas. She now perfected herself in this new sort of
talent which made her famous. Nothing, indeed, was more remarkable
than the ease Lady Hamilton acquired in spontaneously giving her
features an expression of sorrow or of joy, and of posing marvellously
to represent different people. Her eyes a-kindle, her hair flying, she
showed you a bewitching bacchante; then, all of a sudden, her face
expressed grief, and you saw a magnificent repentant Magdalen. The day
her husband presented her to me, she insisted on my seeing her in a
pose. I was delighted, but she was dressed in every-day clothes, which
gave me a shock. I had gowns made for her such as I wore in order to
paint in comfort, and which consisted of a kind of loose tunic. She
also took some shawls to drape herself with, which she understood very
well, and then was ready to render enough different positions and
expressions to fill a whole picture gallery. There is, in fact, a
collection drawn by Frederic Reimberg, which has been engraved.
To return to the romance of Emma Lyon. It was while she was with the
painter I have mentioned that Lord Greville fell so desperately in
love with her that he intended to marry her, when he suddenly lost his
official place and was ruined. He at once left for Naples in the hope
of obtaining help from his Uncle Hamilton, and took Emma with him so
that she might plead his cause. The uncle, indeed, consented to pay
all his nephew's debts, but also decided to marry Emma Lyon in spite
of his family's remonstrances. Lady Hamilton became as great a lady as
can be imagined. It is asserted that the Queen of Naples was on an
intimate footing with her. Certain it is that the Queen saw her
often--politically, might perhaps be said. Lady Hamilton, being a
most indiscreet woman, betrayed a number of little diplomatic secrets
to the Queen, of which she made use to the advantage of her country.
Lady Hamilton was not at all clever, though she was extremely
supercilious and disdainful, so much so that these two defects were
conspicuous in all her conversation. But she also possessed
considerable craftiness, of which she made use in order to bring about
her marriage. She wanted in style, and dressed very badly when it was
a question of every-day dress. I remember that when I did my first
picture of her, as a sibyl, she was living at Caserta, whither I went
every day, desiring to progress quickly with the picture. The Duchess
de Fleury and the Princess de Joseph Monaco were present at the third
sitting, which was the last. I had wound a scarf round her head in the
shape of a turban, one end hanging down in graceful folds. This
head-dress so beautified her that the ladies declared she looked
ravishing. Her husband having invited us all to dinner, she went to
her apartment to change, and when she came back to meet us in the
drawing-room, her new costume, which was a very ordinary one indeed,
had so altered her to her disadvantage that the two ladies had all the
difficulty in the world in recognising her.
When I went to London in 1802 Lady Hamilton had just lost her husband.
I left a card for her, and she soon came to see me, wearing deep
mourning, with a dense black veil surrounding her, and she had had her
splendid hair cut off to follow the new "Titus" fashion. I found this
Andromache enormous, for she had become terribly fat. She said that
she was very much to be pitied, that in her husband she had lost a
friend and a father, and that she would never be consoled. I confess
that her grief made little impression upon me, since it seemed to me
that she was playing a part. I was evidently not mistaken, because a
few minutes later, having noticed some music lying on my piano, she
took up a lively tune and began to sing it.
As is well known, Lord Nelson had been in love with her at Naples; she
had maintained a very tender correspondence with him. When I went to
return her visit one morning, I found her radiant with joy, and
besides she had put a rose in her hair, like Nina. I could not help
asking her what the rose signified. "It is because I have just
received a letter from Lord Nelson," she answered.
The Duke de Berri and the Duke de Bourbon, having heard of her poses,
very much desired to witness a spectacle which she had never been
willing to offer in London. I requested her to give me an evening for
the two Princes, and she consented. I also invited some other French
people, who I was aware would be anxious to see this sight. On the day
appointed I placed in the middle of my drawing-room a very large
frame, with a screen on either side of it. I had had a strong
limelight prepared and disposed so that it could not be seen, but
which would light up Lady Hamilton as though she were a picture. All
the invited guests having arrived, Lady Hamilton assumed various
attitudes in this frame in a truly admirable way. She had brought a
little girl with her, who might have been seven or eight years old,
and who resembled her strikingly. One group they made together
reminded me of Poussin's "Rape of the Sabines." She changed from grief
to joy and from joy to terror so rapidly and effectively that we were
all enchanted. As I kept her for supper, the Duke de Bourbon, who sat
next to me at table, called my attention to the quantity of porter she
drank. I am sure she must have been used to it, for she was not tipsy
after two or three bottles. Long after leaving London, in 1815, I
heard that Lady Hamilton had ended her days at Calais, dying there
neglected and forsaken in the most awful poverty.
The excursions I made at Naples did not prevent me from accomplishing
a great deal of work. I even undertook so many portraits that my first
stay in that town extended to six months. I had arrived with the
intention of spending only six weeks. The French Ambassador, the Baron
de Talleyrand, came to inform me one morning that the Queen of Naples
wished me to do the portraits of her two eldest daughters, and I began
upon them at once. Her Majesty was preparing to leave for Vienna,
where she was to busy herself about the marriage of these Princesses.
I remember her saying to me after her return: "I have had a successful
journey; I have just made two fortunate matches for my daughters." The
eldest, in fact, soon after was married to the Emperor of Austria,
Francis II., and the other, who was called Louise, to the Grand Duke
of Tuscany. This second girl was very ugly, and made such grimaces
that I did not want to finish her picture. She died a few years after
her marriage.
During the Queen's absence I also painted the Prince Royal. The hour
of noon was appointed for the sittings, and in order to attend I was
obliged to follow the Chiaja road in the heat of the day. The houses
on the left, which faced the sea, being painted a lustrous white, the
sun was reflected from them so vividly that I was almost struck blind.
To save my eyes, I put on a green veil, which I had never seen any one
else do, and which must have looked rather peculiar, since only black
or white veils were worn. But a few days after I saw several English
women imitating me, and green veils came into fashion. I also found
great comfort in my green veil at St. Petersburg, where the snow was
so dazzling that it might have killed my eyesight.
One of my greatest pleasures was to go for walks on the lovely slope
of Posilippo. Under it is the grotto of the same name, which is a
splendid piece of work a mile long, and which is recognised as having
been done by the Romans. This slope of Posilippo is covered with
country houses, casinos, meadows, and very fine trees with vines
winding about them in festoons. It is here that Virgil's tomb is to be
found, and it is said that laurels grow upon it, but I must confess
that I saw none. In the evenings I walked on the seashore; I
frequently took my daughter, and we often remained sitting there
together until moonrise, enjoying the salubrious air and the gorgeous
view. This was a rest for my daughter after her daily studies, for I
had resolved to give her the best education possible, and to this
effect I had engaged at Naples masters of writing, geography, Italian,
English, and German. She showed a preference for German above the
others, and evinced a remarkable aptitude in her various studies.
There were some signs in her of a talent for painting, but her
favourite pastime was to compose novels. Returning from evening
parties to which I had gone, I would find her with a pen in her hand
and another in her cap; I would then oblige her to go to bed, but not
infrequently did she secretly get up in the middle of the night to
finish one of her chapters, and I remember very well how, at the age
of nine, at Vienna, she wrote a little romance as remarkable for its
situations as for its style.
[Illustration: PRINCESS CHRISTINE, DAUGHTER OF FERDINAND IV. OF
NAPLES.]
All the portraits I had engaged to do at Naples being finished, I went
back to Rome, but hardly had I arrived when the Queen of Naples
arrived also, she making a stop there on her return journey from
Vienna. As I happened to be in the crowd through which she made her
way, she noticed me and spoke to me, and begged me with extreme
graciousness to visit Naples once more for the purpose of painting her
portrait. It was impossible to refuse, and I complied with her wish at
once.
Upon arriving at Naples I began the portrait of the Queen forthwith.
It was then so terribly hot that one day when Her Majesty gave me a
sitting we both fell asleep. I took great pleasure in doing this
picture. The Queen of Naples, without being as pretty as her younger
sister, the Queen of France, reminded me strongly of her. Her face was
worn, but one readily judged that she had been handsome; her hands and
arms especially were perfect in form and colour. This Princess, of
whom so much evil has been written and spoken, had an affectionate
nature and simple ways at home. Her magnanimity was truly royal. The
Marquis de Bombelles, the Ambassador at Vienna in 1790, was the only
French envoy who refused to swear to the constitution; the Queen,
being apprised that by this brave and noble conduct M. de Bombelles,
the father of a large family, had been reduced to the most unfortunate
position, wrote him a letter of commendation with her own hand. She
added that all sovereigns should be at one in acknowledging faithful
subjects, and asked him to accept a pension of twelve thousand francs.
She had a fine character and a good deal of wit. She bore the burden
of government alone. The King would have nothing to do with it; he
spent most of his time at Caserta. Before I left Naples for good the
Queen presented me with a box of old lacquer, with her initials
surrounded by beautiful diamonds. The initials are worth ten thousand
francs; I shall keep them all my life.
I had a burning desire to see Venice; I arrived there the day before
Ascension. M. Denon, whom I had known in Paris, having heard of this,
came to see me without delay. His cleverness and his great knowledge
of the arts made him the most charming mentor, and I congratulated
myself upon such a happy encounter. The very next day he took me out
on the canal, where the marriage of the Doge with the sea was enacted.
The Doge and all the members of the senate were on a vessel gilded
inside and out and called the _Bucentaur_; it was surrounded by a
swarm of boats, of which several were occupied by musicians. The Doge
and the senators had on black gowns and white wigs with three bows.
When the _Bucentaur_ had reached the place fixed for the celebration
of the marriage, the Doge pulled a ring from his finger and threw it
into the sea. At the same instant a thousand cannon shots announced to
the city and its surroundings the consummation of this great wedding,
which concluded with mass.
A number of strangers were present at the ceremony. I observed among
them Prince Augustus of England, and the charming Princess Joseph de
Monaco, then preparing to go back to France for her children. I saw
her at Venice for the last time.
CHAPTER VI
TURIN AND VIENNA
A QUEEN WHO REFUSED TO BE PAINTED -- A FOUR-COURSE DINNER OF
FROGS, FROGS, FROGS AND FROGS -- VILLEGGIATURA -- FRENCH REFUGEES
AT TURIN -- THEIR HEARTRENDING PLIGHT -- VIENNA -- NEWS OF THE
"AWFUL MURDER" OF LOUIS XVI. AND MARIE ANTOINETTE -- BAREFOOT
PRINCESS LICHTENSTEIN -- INDUCEMENTS TO VISIT RUSSIA -- JOURNEY
THITHER VIA DRESDEN -- THE SISTINE MADONNA.
Meanwhile, it being my desire to see France again, I reached Turin
with this end in view. The two aunts of Louis XVI. had been kind
enough to give me letters to Clotilda, Queen of Sardinia, their niece.
They sent word that they very much wished to have a portrait done by
me, and consequently, as soon as I was settled, I presented myself
before Her Majesty. She received me very well after reading the
letters of Princess Adelaide and Princess Victoria. She told me that
she regretted having to refuse her aunts, but that, having renounced
the world altogether, she must decline being painted. What I saw
indeed seemed quite in accord with her statement and her resolve. The
Queen of Sardinia had her hair cut short and wore on her head a little
cap, which, like the rest of her garb, was the simplest conceivable.
Her leanness struck me particularly, as I had seen her when she was
very young, before her marriage, when her stoutness was so pronounced
that she was called "Fat Milady" in France. Be it that this change
was caused by too austere religious practices, or by the sufferings
which the misfortunes of her family had made her undergo, the fact was
that she had altered beyond recognition. The King joined her in the
room where she received me. He was likewise so pale and thin that it
was painful to look at them together.
I lost no time in going to see Madame, the wife of Louis XVIII. She
not only accorded me a warm welcome, but arranged picturesque drives
for me in the neighbourhood of Turin, which I took with her
lady-in-waiting, Mme. de Gourbillon, and her son. Said surroundings
are very beautiful, but our first expedition was not very auspicious.
We set out in the heat of the day to visit a monastery situated high
up on a mountain. As the mountain was very steep, we were obliged to
get out of the carriage when we had gone half way and then climb on
foot. I remember passing a spring of the clearest water, whose drops
sparkled like diamonds, and which peasants declared to be a cure for
sundry diseases. After climbing so long that we were exhausted, we at
length arrived at the monastery dying with heat and hunger. The table
was already laid for the monks and for travellers, which filled us
with joy, since it may be imagined how impatient we were for dinner.
As there was some delay, we thought that something special was being
done for us, seeing that Madame had recommended us to the monks in a
letter she had given us addressed to them. At last a dish of frogs'
breasts was served, which I took for a chicken stew. But as soon as I
tasted it I found it impossible to eat another morsel, hungry as I
was. Then three other dishes were brought on, boiled, fried and
grilled, and I set great hopes on each in turn. Alas! they were only
frogs again! So we ate nothing but dry bread, and drank water, these
monks never drinking nor offering wine. My heart's desire was then an
omelet--but there were no eggs in the house.
After my visit to the monastery I met Porporati, who wanted me to live
with him. He proposed occupying a farm he owned two miles from Turin,
where he had some plain but comfortable rooms. I gladly accepted this
offer, as I hated living in town, and at once went to establish myself
with my daughter and her governess in this retreat. The farm stood in
the open country, surrounded with fields, and little streams edged by
trees high enough to form delightful bowers. From morning till night I
took rapturous walks in these enchanting solitudes. My child enjoyed
the pure air as much as I did the quiet, peaceful life that we led.
Alas! it was in this peaceful place, while I was in such a happy state
of mind, that I was struck a most cruel blow. The cart which brought
our letters having come one evening, the carter handed me one from my
friend M. de Rivière, my sister-in-law's brother, who apprised me of
the dreadful events of the 10th of August and supplied me with some
horrible details. I was quite overcome, and made up my mind to go back
to Turin immediately.
On entering the town, great heavens! what did I behold! Streets,
squares, were all filled with men and women of all ages who had fled
from French towns and come to Turin in search of a home. They were
coming in by thousands, and the sight broke my heart. Most of them
brought neither baggage, nor money, nor even food, for they had had no
time to do anything but think of saving their lives. Since then the
case has been cited to me of the aged Duchess de Villeroi, whose
lady's maid, possessing a small sum of money, kept her alive on the
way by a daily expenditure of ten sous. The children were crying with
hunger in lamentable fashion. In fact, I never saw anything more
pitiful. The King of Sardinia ordered these unfortunates to be housed
and fed, but there was not room for all. Madame also did much to
succour them; we went all over the town, accompanied by her equerry,
seeking lodgings and victuals for the poor wretches, without being
able to find as many of either as were wanted.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE.]
Never shall I forget the impression made upon me by an old soldier,
decorated with the cross of St. Louis, who might have been about
sixty-five years old. He was a fine man with a noble mien, supporting
himself against the curbstone at the corner of a lonely street; he
accosted nobody and asked for nothing; I believe he would rather have
died of hunger than beg, but the profound unhappiness imprinted on his
face compelled interest at first sight. We went straight to him,
giving him a little money that remained to us, and he thanked us with
sobs in his throat. The next day he was lodged in the King's palace,
as several other refugees were, for there was no more room in the
town.
It may well be imagined that I abandoned the plan of going to Paris. I
decided to leave for Vienna instead.
Vienna is of considerable extent, if you count its thirty-two suburbs.
It is full of very fine palaces. The Imperial Museum boasts pictures
by the greatest masters, and I often went to admire them, as well as
those belonging to Prince Lichtenstein. His gallery comprises seven
rooms, of which one contains only pictures by Van Dyck and the others
some fine Titians, Caravaggios, Rubens, Canalettos, and so on. There
are also several masterpieces by the last-named painter in the
Imperial Museum.
It has been said with truth that the Prater is one of the best
promenades in existence. It is a long, magnificent avenue in which
large numbers of elegant carriages drive up and down, and which is
lined on either side by sitting spectators, just as in the great
avenue of the Tuileries. But what renders the Prater more pleasant
and more picturesque is that the avenue leads to a wood, which is not
very thick, and full of deer so tame that one can approach them
without frightening them. There is another promenade on the bank of
the Danube, where every Sunday various companies of the middle classes
meet together to eat fried chicken. The park of Schoenbrunn is also
well frequented, especially on Sundays. Its broad avenues, and the
pretty resting places on the heights at the end of the park, make it
very pleasant for walking in.
In Vienna I went to several balls, especially to those given by the
Russian Ambassador, Count Rasomovski. They danced the waltz there with
such fury that I could not imagine how all these people, spinning
round at such a rate, did not fall down from giddiness; but men and
women were so accustomed to this violent exercise that they never
rested a single moment while a ball lasted. The "polonaise" was often
danced, too, and was much less fatiguing, for this dance is nothing
more than a procession in which you quietly walk two by two. It suits
pretty women to perfection, as there is time to look their faces and
figures all over.
I also wanted to see a great court ball. I was invited to one. The
Emperor Francis II. had taken for his second wife Maria Theresa of the
two Sicilies, daughter to the Queen of Naples. I had painted this
Princess in 1792, but I found her so changed on meeting her at this
ball that I had difficulty in recognising her. Her nose had
lengthened, and her cheeks had sunk so much that she resembled her
father. I was sorry for her sake that she had not kept her mother's
features, who reminded me strongly of our charming Queen of France.
A person whose friendship I had great pleasure in renewing at Vienna
was the Countess de Brionne, Princess de Lorraine. She had been most
kind to me in my early youth, and I resumed the agreeable habit of
supping at her house, where I often met the valiant Prince Nassau, so
formidable in a fight, so gentle and modest in a _salon_.
I also made frequent visits at the house of the Countess de Rombec,
sister of Count Cobentzel. The Countess de Rombec gathered about her
the most distinguished society of Vienna. It was under her roof that I
saw Prince Metternich and his son, who has since become prime
minister, and who was then nothing but a very handsome young man. I
there met again the amiable Prince de Ligne; he told us about the
delightful journey he had made in the Crimea with the Empress
Catherine II., and inspired me with a wish to see that great ruler. In
the same house I encountered the Duchess de Guiche, whose lovely face
had not changed in the least. Her mother, the Duchess de Polignac,
lived permanently at a place near Vienna. It was there that she heard
of the death of Louis XVI., which affected her health very seriously,
but when she heard the dreadful news of the Queen's death she
succumbed altogether. Her grief changed her to such an extent that her
pretty face became unrecognisable, and every one foresaw that she had
not much longer to live. She did, in fact, die in a little while,
leaving her family and some friends who would not leave her
disconsolate at their loss.
I can judge how terrible that which had happened in France must have
been to her by the sorrow I experienced myself. I learned nothing from
the newspapers, for I had read them no more since the day when, having
opened one at Mme. de Rombec's, I had found the names of nine persons
of my acquaintance who had been guillotined. People even took care to
hide all political pamphlets from me. I thus heard of the horrible
occurrence through my brother, who wrote it down and sent the letter
without giving any further particulars whatever. His heart broken, he
simply wrote that Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette had perished on the
scaffold. Afterward, from compassion toward myself, I always abstained
from putting the least question concerning what accompanied or
preceded that awful murder, so that I should have known nothing about
it to this very day had it not been for a certain fact to which I may
possibly refer in the future.
As soon as spring came I took a little house in a village near Vienna
and went to settle there. This village, called Huitzing, was adjacent
to the park of Schoenbrunn. I took with me to Huitzing the large
portrait I was then doing of the Princess Lichtenstein, to finish it.
This young Princess was very well built; her pretty face had a sweet,
angelic expression, which gave me the idea of representing her as
Iris. I painted her standing, as if about to fly into the air. She had
about her a fluttering, rainbow-coloured scarf. Of course I painted
her with naked feet, but when the picture was hung in her husband's
gallery the heads of the family were greatly scandalised at seeing the
Princess exhibited without shoes, and the Prince told me that he had
had a pair of nice, little slippers placed under the portrait, which
slippers, so he had informed the grandparents, had slipped off her
feet and fallen on the ground.
At Vienna I was as happy as any one possibly could be away from her
kin and country. In the winter the city offered one of the most
agreeable and brilliant societies of Europe, and when the fine weather
returned I delightedly sought my little country retreat. Not thinking
of leaving Austria before I could safely return to France, the Russian
Ambassador and some of his compatriots urged me strongly to go to St.
Petersburg, where, they assured me, the Empress would be pleased to
see me. Everything that the Prince de Ligne had told me about
Catherine II. inspired me with an irrepressible desire to get a
glance at that potentate. Moreover I reasoned correctly that even a
short stay in Russia would complete the fortune I had decided to make
before resuming residence in Paris. So I made up my mind to go.
[Illustration: QUEEN MARIE ANTOINETTE.]
After a sojourn at Vienna of two years and a half, I left that place
in April of the year 1795 for Prague. I then passed on to Budweis,
whose surroundings are most engaging. The town is deserted, the
fortifications are in ruins; there are only old men and some women and
children to be met with--and not many of those. Finally we reached
Dresden by a very narrow road skirting the Elbe at a great height, the
river flowing through a broad valley. The very day after my arrival I
visited the famous Dresden gallery, unexcelled in the world. Its
masterpieces are so well known that I render no special account. I
will only observe that here, as everywhere else, one recognises how
far Raphael stands above all other painters. I had inspected several
rooms of the gallery, when I found myself before a picture which
filled me with an admiration greater than anything else in the art of
painting could have evoked. It represents the Virgin, standing on some
clouds and holding the infant Jesus in her arms. This figure is of a
beauty and a nobility worthy of the divine brush that traced it; the
face of the child bears an expression at once innocent and heavenly;
the draperies are most accurately drawn, and their colouring is
exquisite. At the right of the Virgin is a saint done with admirable
fidelity to life, his two hands being especially to be noted. At the
left is a young saint, with head inclined, looking at two angels at
the bottom of the picture. Her face is all loveliness, truth and
modesty. The two little angels are leaning on their hands, their eyes
raised to the persons above them, and their heads are done with an
ingenuity and a delicacy not to be conveyed in words.
Being in great haste to get to St. Petersburg, I went from Dresden to
Berlin, where I only remained five days, my project being to return
thither and make a longer stay on my way back from Russia, for the
purpose of seeing Prussia's charming Queen.
CHAPTER VII
SAINT PETERSBURG
ARRIVAL AT ST. PETERSBURG -- THE BEAUTIFUL GRANDDUCHESS ELISABETH
-- CATHERINE II. RECEIVES MME. LEBRUN -- AND IS MOST GRACIOUS --
PETTY COURT INTRIGUES -- A VISIT TO COUNT STROGONOFF --
HOSPITALITY OF THE RUSSIANS -- AN AMBASSADOR AS GARDENER --
PRINCESS DOLGORUKI AND HER HIDEOUS ADMIRER -- THE EXTRAVAGANCES
OF POTEMKIN -- HIS END.
I entered St. Petersburg on the 25th of July, 1795, by the road from
Peterhoff, which gave me a favourable idea of the city, for this road
is lined on both sides by delightful country houses, with gardens of
the best taste in the English style. Their residents have taken
advantage of the soil, which is very marshy, to adorn the
gardens--where there are kiosks and pretty bridges--by canals and
little streams. But it is a pity that a dreadful dampness spoils this
pleasant scene of an evening; even before sunset such a fog rises over
the road that one seems to be enveloped in thick, dark smoke.
Magnificent as I had conceived the city to be, I was enchanted by the
aspect of its monuments, its handsome mansions, and its broad streets,
one of which, called the Prospekt, is a mile long. The Neva, clear and
limpid, cuts through the town, laden with vessels and barks
unceasingly moving up and down, and this greatly adds to the
liveliness of the town. The quays of the Neva are of granite, like
those of the large canals dug through the town by Catherine. On one
bank of the river are splendid edifices: the Academy of Arts, the
Academy of Sciences and a number of others are reflected in the Neva.
There was no grander sight on a moonlight night, I was told, than the
bulk of those majestic piles, resembling ancient temples. Altogether,
St. Petersburg took me back to the times of Agamemnon, partly through
the grandeur of the buildings and partly through the popular garb,
which reminded me of the dress of antiquity.
Though I have just spoken of moonlight, I was unable to enjoy it at
the time of my arrival, for in the month of July there is not a single
hour of actual darkness in St. Petersburg. The sun sets at about
half-past ten, and it is merely dusk until twilight, which begins half
an hour after midnight, so that one can always see plainly. I have
often supped at eleven o'clock by daylight.
My first care was to take a good rest, for, after Riga, the roads had
been most horrible. Large stones, one on top of the other, gave my
carriage, which was one of the roughest in the world, a violent shock
at every moment. And the inns being so bad as to exclude every
possibility of staying at them, we had jolted and jerked on to St.
Petersburg without a stop.
I was far from recovered from all my fatigue--since the term of my
residence in St. Petersburg had been only twenty-four hours--when a
visitor was announced in the person of the French Ambassador, Count
Esterhazy. He congratulated me on my arrival at St. Petersburg,
telling me that he was about to inform the Empress of it and at the
same time to take her orders for my presentation. Very little later I
received a visit from the Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. While conversing
with him I confessed what happiness it would give me to see the great
Catherine, but I did not dissemble the fright and embarrassment I
expected to undergo when I should be presented to that powerful
Princess. "You will find it quite easy," he replied. "When you see the
Empress you will be surprised at her good nature; she is really an
excellent woman." I acknowledge that I was astonished by his remark,
the justice of which I could scarcely believe, in view of what I had
heard up to that time. It is true that the Prince de Ligne, during the
charming narration of his journey in the Crimea, had recounted several
facts proving that this great Princess had manners that were as
gracious as they were simple, but an excellent woman was hardly the
thing to call her.
However, the same evening Count Esterhazy, on returning from
Czarskoiesielo, where the Empress was living, came to tell me that Her
Majesty would receive me the next day at one o'clock. Such a quick
presentation, which I had not hoped for, put me into a very awkward
position. I had nothing but very plain muslin dresses, as I usually
wore no others, and it was impossible to have an ornamental gown made
from one day to the next, even at St. Petersburg. Count Esterhazy had
said he would call for me at ten o'clock precisely and take me to
breakfast with his wife, who also lived at Czarskoiesielo, so that
when the appointed hour struck I started with serious apprehensions
about my dress, which certainly was no court dress. On arriving at
Mme. d'Esterhazy's, I, in fact, took note of her amazement. Her
obliging civility did not prevent her from asking me, "Have you not
brought another gown?" I turned crimson at her question, and explained
how time had been wanting to have a more suitable gown made. Her
displeased looks increased my anxiety to such a degree that I needed
to summon up all my courage when the moment came to go before the
Empress.
The Count gave me his arm, and we were walking across a portion of the
park, when, at a ground-floor window, I espied a young person who was
watering a pot of pansies. She was seventeen years old at most; her
features were well formed and regular, her face a perfect oval; her
fine complexion was not bright, but was of a paleness completely in
harmony with the expression of her countenance, whose sweetness was
angelic. Her fair hair floated over her neck and forehead. She was
clad in a white tunic, a carelessly knotted girdle surrounding a waist
as slender and supple as a nymph's. As I have described her, so
ravishingly did this young person stand out against the background of
her apartment, adorned with pillars and draped in pink and silver
gauze, that I exclaimed, "That is Psyche!" It was Princess Elisabeth,
the wife of Alexander. She addressed me, and kept me long enough to
tell me a thousand flattering things. She then added, "We have wanted
you here for a long time, Mme. Lebrun--so much so that I have
sometimes dreamed you had already come." I parted from her with
regret, and have always preserved a memory of that charming vision.
A few minutes later I was alone with the autocrat of all the Russias.
The Ambassador had told me I must kiss her hand, in accordance with
which custom she drew off one of her gloves, and this ought to have
reminded me what to do. But I forgot all about it. The truth is, that
the sight of this famous woman made such an impression upon me that I
could not possibly think of anything else but to look at her. I was at
first extremely surprised to find her short; I had imagined her a
great height--something like her renown. She was very stout, but still
had a handsome face, which her white hair framed to perfection. Genius
seemed to have its seat on her broad, high forehead. Her eyes were
soft and small, her nose was quite Greek, her complexion lively, and
her features very mobile. She at once said in a voice that was soft
though rather thick: "I am delighted, madame, to see you here; your
reputation had preceded you. I am fond of the arts and especially of
painting. I am not an adept, but a fancier." Everything else she said
during this interview, which was rather long, in reference to her wish
that I might like Russia well enough to remain a long time, bore the
stamp of such great amiability that my shyness vanished, and by the
time I took leave of Her Majesty I was entirely reassured. Only I
could not forgive myself for not having kissed her hand, which was
very beautiful and very white, and I deplored that oversight the more
as Count Esterhazy reproached me with it. As for what I was wearing,
she did not seem to have paid the least attention to it. Or else
perhaps she may have been easier to please than our Ambassadress.
I went over part of the gardens at Czarskoiesielo, which are a
veritable little fairyland. The Empress had a terrace from them
communicating with her apartment, and on this terrace she kept a large
number of birds. I was told that every morning she went out to feed
them, and that this was one of her chief pleasures.
Directly after my audience Her Majesty testified her wish to have me
spend the summer in that beautiful region. She commanded her stewards,
of whom the old Prince Bariatinski was one, to give me an apartment in
the castle, as she desired to have me near her, so that she might see
me paint. But I afterward found out that these gentlemen took no pains
to put me near the Empress, and that in spite of her repeated orders
they always maintained that they had no lodgings at their disposal.
What astonished me most of all, when I was informed of this matter,
was that these courtiers, suspecting me to belong to the party of the
Count d'Artois, were afraid lest I had come to get Esterhazy replaced
by another Ambassador. It is probable that the Count was in connivance
with them about all this, but anybody was surely little acquainted
with me who did not know that I was too busy with my art to give any
time to politics, even if I had not always felt an aversion to
everything smacking of intrigue. Moreover, aside from the honour of
being lodged with the Empress and the pleasure of inhabiting such a
fine place, everything would have been stiff and irksome for me at
Czarskoiesielo. I have always had the greatest need to enjoy my
liberty, and, for the sake of following my own inclination, I have
always infinitely preferred living in my own house.
Moreover, the reception I met with in Russia was well calculated to
console me for a petty court intrigue. I cannot say how eagerly and
with what kind-hearted affability a stranger is sought after in this
country, especially if possessing some talent. My letters of
introduction became quite superfluous; not only was I at once invited
to live with the best and pleasantest families, but I found several
former acquaintances in St. Petersburg, and even some old friends.
First, there was Count Strogonoff, a true lover of the arts, whose
portrait I had painted at Paris in my early youth. It was to us both
an extreme pleasure to meet once more. He owned a splendid collection
of pictures in St. Petersburg, and near the town, at Kaminostroff, a
delightful Italian villa, where he gave a great dinner every Sunday.
He called for me to take me there, and I was enraptured with the
place. The villa stood by the high road, and its windows overlooked
the Neva. The garden, whose boundaries were immense, was laid out in
the English manner. A number of boats arrived from all directions,
bringing visitors to Count Strogonoff's, for a number of people who
were not invited to dinner came to walk in the park. The Count also
allowed merchants to set up their stalls there, so that this beautiful
place was enlivened with an amusing fair, especially as the costumes
of the different neighbouring districts were picturesque and varied.
About three o'clock we went up on a covered terrace lined with
pillars, bright daylight falling between them from every side. On one
hand we enjoyed the view of the park, and on the other that of the
Neva, covered with a thousand boats. The weather was the finest in the
world, for the summers are splendid in Russia, a country that in July
I have often found hotter than Italy. We dined on this same terrace,
and the dinner was magnificent; at dessert gorgeous fruits were
served, and remarkably fine melons, which seemed to me a great luxury.
As soon as we sat down at table delightful instrumental music was
heard, and continued throughout the dinner. The overture to
"Iphigenia" was executed entrancingly. I was greatly surprised when
Count Strogonoff informed me that each of the musicians played but one
note; it was impossible for me to conceive how all these individual
sounds could form into such a perfect whole, and how any expression
could grow out of such a mechanical performance.
After dinner we took a delightful walk in the park; then, toward
evening, we went back to the terrace, whence, at nightfall, we
witnessed a very fine display of fireworks which the Count had had in
store for us. Reflected in the waters of the Neva, these fireworks
were of beautiful effect. Finally, by way of concluding the pleasures
of the day, there arrived in two very narrow little boats some
Indians, who danced before us. Their dances consisted in going through
light movements without stirring from their places, and entertained us
considerably.
Count Strogonoff's house was far from being the only one kept with
such splendour. At St. Petersburg, as at Moscow, a number of noblemen
owning enormous fortunes were in the habit of setting an open table,
so that a well-recommended stranger was never under the necessity of
having recourse to an inn. There was a dinner or a supper everywhere;
nothing was embarrassing but your choice. I remember, toward the end
of my stay in St. Petersburg, how Prince Narischkin, the Grand
Equerry, always held open table to the extent of twenty-five or thirty
covers for strangers who were recommended to him. These hospitable
customs exist in the interior of Russia, whither modern civilisation
has not yet penetrated. When Russian noblemen go upon visits to their
estates, which are usually situated at great distances from the
capital, they stop on the way in the houses of their countrymen,
where, without being personally known by the host, they, their
servants and their horses are taken in and treated as handsomely as
possible, even should they remain a month.
I once saw a traveller who had journeyed across this vast country with
two friends. All three had traversed those distant provinces as they
might have done during the Golden Age, in the days of the patriarchs.
They had everywhere been lodged and fed with such liberality that
their purses had become almost useless. They had not been able to so
much as force drink-money on the people who had waited upon them and
cared for their horses. Their hosts, who for the most part were
traders or husbandmen, had expressed astonishment at the warmth of
their gratitude. "If we were in your country," said they, "you would
do the same for us." I only wish this had been true.
The summer ends in Russia with the month of August, and there is no
autumn. I often went walking at Czarskoiesielo, whose park, bounded by
the sea, is one of the loveliest sights imaginable. It is full of
monuments which the Empress was wont to call her caprices. There are a
superb marble bridge in the Palladian style, Turkish baths--trophies
of Romazoff's and Orloff's victories--a temple with thirty-two
pillars, and then the colonnade and the great stairway of Hercules.
The park has unrivalled avenues of trees. Opposite the castle is a
long, broad lawn, and at the end of it a cherry orchard, where I
remember having frequently eaten excellent cherries.
[Illustration: THE PRINCESS DE TALLEYRAND.]
Count Cobentzel very much wished me to make the acquaintance of a
woman whose cleverness and beauty I had often heard vaunted--the
Princess Dolgoruki. I received an invitation from her to dine at
Alexandrovski, where she had a country house, and the Count came for
me to take me there with my daughter. This very large house was
furnished without ostentation, and it was a great pleasure to me to
watch the continual passage of the boats, in which the rowers sang in
chorus. The songs of the Russian people have a somewhat barbarous
originality, but are melancholy and melodious.
The beauty of Princess Dolgoruki struck me very much. Her features had
the Greek character mixed with something Jewish, especially in
profile. Her long, dark chestnut hair, carelessly taken up, touched
her shoulders. Her figure was perfect, and in her whole person she
exhibited at once nobility and grace without the least affectation.
She received me with so much amiability and civility that I willingly
acceded to her request that I might stay a week with her. The charming
Princess Kurakin, whose acquaintance I had made, was living with the
Princess Dolgoruki, these ladies and Count Cobentzel keeping house
together. The company was very numerous, and no one thought of
anything but amusement. After dinner we took delightful rides in
handsome boats furnished with red velvet, gold-fringed curtains. A
choir, preceding us in a plainer boat, charmed us with their singing,
which was always perfectly exact, even at the highest notes. The day
of my arrival we had music in the evening; the next day there was a
delightful play. Dalayrac's "Underground" was given. Princess
Dolgoruki played the part of Camille; young De la Ribaussière, who
afterward became minister in Russia, played the boy; and Count
Cobentzel, the gardener. I remember how, during the performance, a
messenger arrived from Vienna with despatches for the Count, who was
Austrian Ambassador at St. Petersburg, and how, at the sight of the
man dressed as a gardener, he did not want to give up the despatches,
this giving rise to a most diverting argument between them behind the
scenes. At the end of the week, the whole of which had seemed to last
but a minute, I was obliged, to my regret, to leave the hospitable
roof of Princess Dolgoruki, as I had made a number of engagements to
paint portraits. I, however, formed several connections at
Alexandrovski which proved infinitely agreeable during my whole stay
in Russia.
Count Cobentzel was passionately devoted to the Princess Dolgoruki,
without her responding in the least to his importunities; but the
coolness she showed toward his intentions by no means drove him away.
His sole object was the happiness of being in her presence; whether in
the country or in town, he scarcely ever left her for a moment. So
soon as his despatches, written with great facility, were sent off, he
rushed to her side and made a complete slave of himself. He was seen
to fly at the least word, the least gesture of his divinity. If a play
was given he took any part she offered him, even if the rôle was not
at all suited to his appearance. For Count Cobentzel, who looked about
fifty, was very ugly, and squinted horribly. He was rather tall, but
also extremely fat, which, however, did not prevent him from being
quite active, particularly when it was a case of executing the demands
of his dearly beloved Princess. Otherwise he was quick and clever, his
conversation was enlivened with a thousand anecdotes which he could
recount to perfection, and I always knew him as the best and most
obliging of men.
What made the Princess Dolgoruki indifferent to the sighs of Count
Cobentzel and to those of many other admirers was the fact that from
one of them she had received attentions more brilliant than ever woman
had had lavished upon her by any lovelorn king. The famous
Potemkin--he who had said the word "impossible" should be ruled out of
the dictionary--had testified his adoration for her with a
magnificence surpassing all that we read of in the "Thousand and One
Nights." When, in 1791, after making her journey in the Crimea, the
Empress Catherine II. returned to St. Petersburg, Prince Potemkin
remained behind in command of the army, several of the generals having
brought their wives. It was then that he had occasion to meet Princess
Dolgoruki. Her name, too, was Catherine, and the Prince made a great
banquet for her, nominally in honour of the Empress. At table the
Princess was seated by his side. At dessert, on the table were put
crystal goblets full of diamonds, which were served to the ladies by
the spoonful. The queen of the festival observing this luxury,
Potemkin whispered to her, "Since this celebration is for you, why
should you be astonished at anything?" He would spare no sacrifice to
satisfy a wish or a whim of that charming woman. Learning one day that
she was in want of ball slippers of a kind she usually sent for to
France, Potemkin despatched an express messenger to Paris, who
hastened day and night to bring back these slippers. It was well known
in St. Petersburg that to afford the Princess Dolgoruki a spectacle he
much desired her to see he had assaulted the fortress of Otschakoff
sooner than had been agreed upon, and perhaps sooner than was prudent.
No woman, it seems to me, had greater dignity of mien and manner than
Princess Dolgoruki. Having seen my "Sibyl," about which she was very
enthusiastic, she wished me to make her portrait in this style, and I
had the pleasure of doing her bidding to her entire satisfaction. The
portrait done, she sent me a very handsome carriage, and put on my arm
a bracelet made of a tress of her hair with a diamond inscription
reading, "Adorn her who adorns her century." I was deeply touched by
the graciousness and delicacy of such a gift.
At the time of my reaching St. Petersburg, Prince Potemkin had already
been there some years, but he was still spoken of as though he had
been a wizard. Some idea of what an extraordinary and high-flying
imagination he had may be obtained from reading what the Prince de
Ligne and the Count de Ségur have written about the journey he
arranged for the Empress Catherine II. in the Crimea; those palaces,
those wooden villages built all along the route, as if by a magic
wand, that huge forest going up in flames by way of fireworks for Her
Majesty--the whole journey, in fact, was a fantastic affair. His
niece, Countess Skavronska, said to me in Vienna, "Had my uncle known
you, he would have loaded you with distinctions and riches." Certain
it is that at every opportunity this famous man was generous to
prodigality and luxurious to madness. All his tastes were extravagant,
all his habits royal, so much so that, although he possessed a fortune
exceeding that of some sovereigns, the Prince de Ligne told me that he
had known him to be without money.
Favour and power had accustomed Prince Potemkin to satisfy his
slightest desires. Here is an example which proves the point. One day,
when the talk ran on the size of one of his adjutants, he declared
that a certain officer in the Russian army--whom he named--was taller
still. After every one who knew the officer in question had
contradicted Potemkin, he forthwith sent off a messenger with an order
to bring back with him this officer, who was then eight hundred miles
away. Upon hearing that he had been sent for by the Prince, his joy
was unbounded, since he believed that he had been promoted to a higher
rank. His disappointment may therefore be imagined when, on his
arrival in camp, he was informed that he was to be measured with
Potemkin's adjutant, and that he must then return without any other
reward than the fatigue of the long journey.
The man whom a long period of favour had, so to say, accustomed to
reign beside the sovereign was unable to survive the thought of
disgrace. Catherine II. sent to Prince Repnin her orders to treat for
peace, to which Potemkin was strongly opposed. Angry as possible, he
set out upon the instant in the hope of preventing the signature, but
only to learn at Yassy that peace was concluded. This news was fatal
to him. Already indisposed, he now fell mortally ill, which did not
hinder him from at once beginning the return journey to St.
Petersburg. But in a few hours his ailment grew so serious that it
became out of the question for him to support the movement of a
carriage. He was laid out in a meadow and covered with his cloak, and
there Potemkin breathed his last sigh, on the 15th of October, 1791,
in the arms of Countess Branicka, his niece. Plato Zouboff, a young
lieutenant of the guard, succeeded Potemkin in the favour of the
Empress, who showered honours and wealth upon him.
CHAPTER VIII
LIFE IN RUSSIA
PAINTING RUSSIAN ROYALTIES -- FESTIVITIES AT COURT -- THE PANGS
OF WAITING FOR DINNER -- "TO KEEP WARM, SPEND THE WINTER IN
RUSSIA" -- THE HARDINESS OF ITS COMMON PEOPLE -- WHO ARE WELL
SUITED WITH SERFDOM -- AND REMARKABLY HONEST -- THE QUAINT
CEREMONIAL OF BLESSING THE NEVA -- VARIOUS SOCIAL CUSTOMS.
Upon Her Majesty's return from Czarskoiesielo Count Strogonoff came to
me with her command to paint the two Grand Duchesses, Alexandrina and
Helen. These Princesses might have been thirteen or fourteen years
old, and their faces were angelic, though of entirely different
expression. Their complexions especially were so tender and delicate
that one might have supposed they lived on ambrosia. The eldest,
Alexandrina, was of the Greek type of beauty and very much resembled
Alexander, but the face of the younger, Helen, was far more subtle. I
grouped them together, holding and looking at the Empress's portrait;
their dress was somewhat Greek in style, quite simple and modest. As
soon as I had done their pictures the Empress ordered me to paint the
Grand Duchess Elisabeth, not long married to Alexander. I have already
said what a ravishing person this Princess was; I should very much
have liked not to represent such a heavenly figure in common dress,
and I have always wanted to paint an historical picture of her and
Alexander, so regular were the features of both. I painted her
standing, in full court dress, arranging some flowers near a basketful
of others. When I had done her large portrait she had another done for
her mother, in which I painted her leaning on a cushion, with a
diaphanous violet wrap. I can say that the more sittings the Grand
Duchess Elisabeth gave me, the kinder and more affectionate did she
become. One morning, while she was posing, I was seized with a giddy
fit and grew so dazed that I had to close my eyes. She took alarm, and
herself quickly ran for water, bathed my eyes, tended me with
inexpressible kindness, and sent to inquire after me as soon as I had
got home. About this time, too, I did a portrait of the Grand Duchess
Anne, the wife of the Grand Duke Constantine. She, born as Princess of
Coburg, without having a celestial face like her sister-in-law, was
nevertheless sweetly pretty. She was probably sixteen, and her
features were all life and mirth. Not that this young Princess ever
knew much happiness in Russia. If it can be said that Alexander
inherited his good looks and his character from his mother, it is
equally true that this was not the case with Constantine, who strongly
resembled his father, without, however, being quite as ugly, but like
him endowed with a marvellously quick temper.
In that era the Russian court usually included such a large number of
beautiful women that a ball at the Empress afforded an exquisite
sight. I was present at the most magnificent ball she ever gave. The
Empress, grandly arrayed, sat at the end of the room, attended by the
first personages of the court. Close to her stood the Grand Duchess
Marie, and Paul, Alexander and Constantine. An open balustrade
separated them from the space where the dancing was going forward. The
ball consisted of nothing but repetitions of the dance called
"polonaise," in which I had for my first partner young Prince
Bariatinski, with whom I went the round of the room and afterward took
a seat on the bench to watch all the dancers. I could not tell how
many pretty women I saw pass before me, but I cannot help saying that,
amidst all these beauties, the Princesses of the imperial family
carried off the palm. They were all habited in Greek costumes, with
tunics attached at the shoulder with large diamond buckles. I had
taken a hand in the Grand Duchess Elisabeth's dress, so that her
costume was the most correct. Paul's daughters, however, Helen and
Alexandrina, wore on their heads veils of light-blue gauze, strewn
with silver, which lent their faces an almost divine appearance. The
splendour of all that surrounded the Empress, the gorgeousness of the
room, the handsome people, the profusion of diamonds, and the
sparkling of the thousand lights made a veritable enchantment of this
ball.
A few days later I went to a gala dinner at court. When I entered the
room the invited ladies were all there, standing by the table, on
which the first dish was already served. A moment after, a large door
with two valves was thrown open, and the Empress appeared. I have said
that she was short, but nevertheless on state occasions, her erect
head, her eagle eye, her countenance so used to command--all was so
symbolic of majesty that she seemed to be the queen of the world. She
wore the ribbons of three orders. Her garb was plain and dignified,
consisting of a muslin tunic embroidered with gold and enclasped by a
diamond belt, a pair of wide sleeves being turned back in oriental
fashion. Over this tunic was a red velvet dolman with very short
sleeves. The cap set on her white hair was not adorned with bows, but
with diamonds of the greatest beauty. When Her Majesty had taken her
place all the ladies sat down to the table, and, according to
universal custom, laid their napkins on their knees, while the Empress
fastened hers with two pins, just as napkins are fastened on
children. She soon noticed that the ladies did not eat, and suddenly
burst out: "Ladies, you do not want to follow my example, and you are
only pretending to eat! I have adopted the habit of pinning my napkin,
as otherwise I could not even eat an egg without spilling some of it
on my collar."
I, in fact, observed her to dine with a very hearty appetite. A good
orchestra played during the whole meal, the musicians being in a large
gallery at the end of the room.
Relating to dinners, I may say here that certainly the saddest I ever
went to at St. Petersburg was at a sister's of Zuboff, where I had
neglected to present a letter of introduction. Six months of my
sojourn in Russia had gone by, when I met her one evening coming out
of the theatre. She stepped over to me and said most politely that she
was still waiting for a letter which had been given to me for her.
Scarcely knowing what excuse to make, I replied that I had mislaid the
letter, but that I would look for it again and hasten to bring it to
her. I accordingly went one morning to visit the Countess D----, and
she invited me to dine with her the day after the next. It was then
the custom all over St. Petersburg to dine at half-past two, and I
therefore went to the Countess's at that hour with my daughter, who
was also invited. We were conducted to a very melancholy drawing-room,
on the way to which I observed no preparations whatever for dinner.
One hour, two hours went by, but there was no more question of sitting
down to table than if we had just taken our morning coffee. At last
two servants came in and opened several card-tables, and although it
seemed rather strange to me that any one should eat in a drawing-room,
I flattered myself that dinner was now to be served. But I was wrong.
The servants went out, and in a few minutes a number of the guests
had settled down to play cards. About six o'clock my poor daughter and
I were so starved that, when we looked into a mirror, we were
frightened and sorry for ourselves. I felt as if I should die. Not
until half-past seven were we informed that the meal was ready; but
our poor stomachs had gone through too much agony; we were unable to
eat anything at all. I then found out that the Countess D---- dined at
the hour usual in London. The Countess ought to have notified me, but
perhaps she imagined that the whole universe was aware of her dinner
hour.
As a rule, nothing was more distasteful to me than to dine in town,
but I was sometimes obliged to do it, especially in Russia, where one
runs a risk of mortally offending people if one declines their
invitations too often. I disliked the dinners the more as there were
such a number of them. They were highly luxurious; most of the
nobility had very good French cooks, and the fare was incomparable. A
quarter of an hour before the guests sat down at table a servant would
pass round a tray with all sorts of cordials and small slices of
buttered bread. No cordials were taken after dinner, but always
superior Malaga wine.
It is the custom in Russia for the great ladies, even at their own
houses, to go into table before the guests, so that the Princess
Dolgoruki and others would take me by the arm, in order that I might
go in at the same time as they, for it would be impossible to exceed
the Russian ladies in the urbanities of good society. I will even go
so far as to say that they are without the haughtiness chargeable to
some of our French ladies.
At St. Petersburg the rigour of the climate would be unnoticed by any
one who remains indoors, to such a degree have the Russians perfected
the means of keeping their houses warm. From the very porter's door
all is heated by such excellent stoves that the fires maintained in
the chimney places are purely ornamental. The stairways and corridors
are of the same temperature as the rooms, whose communicating doors
are left open without any inconvenience resulting. When the Emperor
Paul, then Grand Duke only, came to France for the first time, he said
to the Parisians: "In St. Petersburg you see the cold, but here you
feel it." And when, after spending seven and a half years in Russia, I
went back to Paris, where the Princess Dolgoruki was also staying, I
remember that on a certain day, on which I had gone to see her, we
were both so cold in front of her fireplace that we said, "We must go
to spend the winter in Russia to get warm."
[Illustration: ISABEL CZARTORYSKA
A Polish Noblewoman.]
For going out, such precautions are taken that even foreigners are
hardly affected by the severity of the weather. Every one wears
velvet, fur-lined boots in his carriage, and cloaks likewise heavily
lined with fur. At seventeen degrees below zero the theatres are
closed, and every one remains at home. I am perhaps the only person
who, not suspecting how cold it was, ever took it into my head to pay
a visit when the thermometer was at eighteen. The Countess Golovin
lived rather far away, in the broad street called the Prospekt, and
from my house to hers I met not a single carriage, which surprised me
considerably. I nevertheless went on. The cold was such that at first
I thought my carriage windows must be open. Upon seeing me enter her
drawing-room, the Countess exclaimed: "Heavens! How could you go out
this evening? Do you not know that it is nearly twenty degrees?" This
made me think of my poor coachman, and without taking off my pelisse I
at once returned to my carriage, and was driven home as quickly as
possible. But the cold had so attacked my head that I was benumbed. My
head was treated with Cologne water to restore the circulation;
otherwise I should have gone mad.
One very astonishing thing is the small effect which this severe
temperature has on the common people. Far from their health suffering
in consequence, it has been observed that there are more centenarians
in Russia than anywhere else. In St. Petersburg, as in Moscow, the
great lords and all the notables of the empire drive six-or
eight-in-hand; their postilions are little boys of eight or ten, who
ride with amazing dexterity. There are from two to eight horses, and
it is curious how these little fellows, so lightly clad, with their
shirts sometimes open on their chests, cheerfully expose themselves to
cold which certainly would kill a French or Prussian grenadier in a
few hours. As for me, who was content with two horses for my carriage,
I was surprised at the submissiveness and resignation of the coachmen.
They never complained. In the most rigorous weather, when waiting for
their masters either at the theatre or a ball, they sit still without
budging, and only knock their feet against the box to get a little
warmth, while the little postilions lie down at the bottom of the
staircases. I must acknowledge, however, that the coachmen are
provided by their masters with furred coats and gloves, and that, in
the event of the cold being unusual, if any noblemen gives a party or
a ball he has strong liquor distributed among them, and wood to build
campfires in the courtyard and the street.
The common people of Russia are in general ugly, but their behaviour
is at once simple and dignified, and they are the best creatures in
the world. One never sees a drunken man, although the popular beverage
is corn brandy. Most of the Russians of this class live on potatoes
and garlic, with oil, which they eat with their bread, so that they
always stink, although it is their habit to take a bath every
Saturday. But their food does not prevent them from singing loudly
when at work or rowing their boats, and they often reminded me of
something the Marquis de Chastellux said one evening at my house
about the beginning of the Revolution: "If their bonds are taken off
they will be much more unhappy!"
The Russians are clever and capable, since they learn all trades with
great ease, some of them even gaining success in the arts. One day, at
Count Strogonoff's, I saw an architect who had once been his serf.
This young man exhibited so much talent that the Count made a present
of him to the Emperor Paul, who made him one of his architects and
ordered him to build a theatre-hall after the plans designed and
submitted by him. I never saw the hall, but was told that it was very
handsome. In the matter of artistic serfs I was less fortunate than
the Count. As I found myself without a man-servant, after being robbed
by one I had brought from Vienna, Count Strogonoff gave me one of his
serfs, who was supposed to prepare his daughter-in-law's palette and
clean her brushes when she amused herself with painting. This youth,
whom I therefore engaged for the same purpose, became persuaded, after
serving me for a fortnight, that he was a painter, too, and gave me no
rest until I had obtained his freedom from the Count to enable him to
work with the Academy students. He wrote me some letters on this
subject that were really curiosities of style and ideas. The Count, in
yielding to my request, had said, "You may be sure that before long he
will want to come back." I gave the young man twenty rubles and the
Count gave him at least as much. Accordingly, he at once hastened to
purchase the uniform of the students in painting, and thus attired
came to thank me with a triumphant air. About two months later he
brought me a large family picture, which was so bad that I could not
look at it, and for which the poor young man had been paid so little
that, after liquidating all his expenses, he had lost eight rubles of
his money. As the Count had foreseen, his disappointment made him
surrender his wretched liberty and go back to his master.
The servants are remarkable for their intelligence. I had one who knew
not a word of French, and although I was equally ignorant of Russian
we understood each other perfectly without the agency of speech. By
raising my arm I asked him for my easel, or my paint box, or otherwise
conveyed to him by gesture what articles I wanted. He invariably
seized my meaning, and was of the greatest value to me. Another very
precious quality I discovered in him was his honesty, which was proof
against all temptations. Frequently bank-notes were remitted to me in
payment of my pictures, and when I was busy painting I laid them near
me on a table. On quitting work I constantly forgot to take away the
notes, which sometimes lay there three or four days without his ever
abstracting one. Moreover, he was a man of exceptional sobriety; I
never once saw him drunk. This good servant was called Peter; he wept
when I left St. Petersburg, and I have always sincerely regretted
losing him.
The Russian people in general are honest and gentle by nature. At St.
Petersburg or Moscow not only are great crimes never heard of, but one
never hears of thefts. This good and quiet behaviour, surprising in
men little beyond barbarism, is attributed by many to the system of
servitude they are under. As for me, I believe the reason to be that
the Russians are extremely religious.
Not long after my arrival at St. Petersburg I went into the country to
see the daughter-in-law of my old friend, Count Strogonoff. His house
at Kaminostroff was situated at the right of the great highway
skirting the Neva. I alighted from my carriage, opened a little wicket
giving admission to the garden, and reached a room on the ground floor
whose door was wide open. So it was very easy to enter Countess
Strogonoff's house. Consequently, when I found her in a little
sitting-room, and she showed me her apartments, I was greatly
astonished to see all her jewels near a window looking out on the
garden and therefore within close reach of the high road. This seemed
to me the more imprudent as Russian ladies are in the habit of
exhibiting their diamonds and other ornaments under large cases, such
as are to be seen in jewellers' shops. "Countess," I asked her, "are
you not afraid of being robbed?" "No," was her answer; "there are the
best police." And she pointed out, above the jewel-box, various images
of the Virgin, and St. Nicholas, the patron saint of the country, with
a lamp burning in front of them. It is a fact that, during the seven
years and more which I spent in Russia, I on all occasions observed
the image of the Virgin, or of a saint, and the presence of a child,
to have something sacred for a Russian.
The common people, in speaking to you, never address you otherwise,
according to your age, than as mother, father, brother or sister, and
in this usage every one is included, even the Emperor and the Empress
and the whole imperial family. In the class above the populace there
are a number of people in comfortable circumstances and others very
well-to-do. The tradesmen's wives, for instance, spend a great deal on
dress, without this appearing to impose any restriction on household
expenses. Their head-dress especially is always fine and fashionable.
On their caps, whose flaps are usually embroidered with small pearls,
they wear a broad piece of stuff which falls from the head to the
shoulders and down the whole back. This sort of veil throws a shadow
on the face, which they assuredly need, seeing that all of them, I
know not why, whiten and rouge their faces and pencil their eyebrows
in the most absurd manner.
When the month of May comes to St. Petersburg there is no evidence of
spring flowers embalming the air, nor of the nightingale's song,
celebrated so much by the poets. The ground is covered with
half-melted snow. The Doga brings into the Neva ice blocks as large as
enormous rocks, heaped on top of each other, and these ice blocks
renew the cold which has diminished with the breaking of the Neva.
This dissolution might be called a splendid horror; the noise of it is
fearful. Close to the exchange the Neva is three times as wide as the
Seine at the Pont Royal, and one may imagine the effect of this sea of
ice cracking in all its parts. In spite of the officials posted all
along the quays to prohibit the people from jumping from floe to floe,
the boldest venture upon the moving ice for the purpose of crossing
the river. Before undertaking their dangerous expedition they make the
sign of the cross, and then rush on, fully persuaded that if they
perish it must be because they were predestined to it. The first who
crosses the Neva in a boat at the hour of the breaking up presents a
silver cup, full of river water, to the Emperor, who in turn fills it
with gold.
The windows are still left stuffed up at this season. Russia has no
spring, but the vegetation hastens to make up for lost time. One may
say with literal truth that the leaves sprout while you watch them.
One day at the end of May I went with my daughter for a walk in the
Summer Garden, and, wishing to assure ourselves as to the truth of all
we had heard concerning the rapidity of vegetable growth, we took note
of some shrub-leaves that were only in bud. We took a long turn in the
avenue, then coming back to the spot we had started from, we found the
buds open and the leaves completely unrolled.
The Russians take advantage of all phases of their climate to enjoy
themselves. In the severest cold they indulge in sledging parties,
either by day or with torches at night. In some places they throw up
mountains of snow, down which they slide at a stupendous rate of speed
without any danger. Men versed in their business push you off from
the top of the mountain, and others catch you at the bottom.
One of the most interesting ceremonies to be seen is the blessing of
the Neva. It occurs once a year, and it is the Archimandrite who
bestows the benediction in presence of the Emperor, the imperial
family, and all the dignitaries. As at this season the ice of the Neva
is at least three feet thick, a hole is made through which, after the
ceremony, everybody draws up some of the holy water. Frequently women
are seen to dip their little children in, and sometimes the
unfortunate mothers let loose their hold of the poor victims of
superstition. But instead of mourning the loss of her child, the
mother then gives thanks for the happiness of the angel who has gone
to pray for her. The Emperor is obliged to drink the first glass of
water, it being tendered him by the Archimandrite.
I have already said that in St. Petersburg you must go out into the
street to find out how cold it is. And it is likewise true that the
Russians are not content with giving their houses a springlike
temperature; some of their rooms are lined with windowed screens,
behind which are arranged boxes and pots containing the lovely flowers
that the month of May gives to France. In winter the rooms are lighted
most elaborately. They are also scented with hot vinegar into which
bits of mint have been thrown and which yields a very agreeable and
healthy smell. All apartments are furnished with long, broad divans
for men and women to sit on. I became so used to them that after a
time I could not sit on a chair.
The Russian lady's salute is a bow, seeming to me more dignified and
graceful than our courtesy. They do not ring for their servants, but
signal to them by clapping their hands together, as sultanas are said
to do in the harems. Every Russian lady has a man in full livery at
the door of her drawing-room; he is always there to open the door for
visitors, whom it was at that time the custom not to announce by name.
But what seemed stranger still to me was that some of these ladies
made a female serf sleep under their bed.
Of an evening I went out into society. There were innumerable balls,
concerts and theatrical performances, and I thoroughly enjoyed these
gatherings, where I found all the urbanity, all the grace of French
company. It seemed as though good taste had made a jump with both feet
from Paris to St. Petersburg. Nor was there a lack of open houses, and
in all of them one was welcomed with the greatest hospitality. One met
at about eight and supped at ten. In the meantime tea was drunk, like
everywhere else. But the Russian tea is so excellent that I--with whom
it does not agree, and who must abstain from it--was glad to inhale
its aroma. Instead of tea I drank hydromel. This tasty beverage is
made with good honey and a small fruit picked in the Russian woods; it
is left in the cellar for a certain length of time before bottling. I
found it far preferable to cider, beer, or even lemonade.
CHAPTER IX
CATHERINE II.
SURROUNDINGS OF ST. PETERSBURG -- PATRIARCHAL UNCONVENTIONALITIES
-- AN ARTILLERY REPAST -- THE GREATNESS OF THE SECOND CATHERINE
-- WHO LIT HER OWN FIRE AND MADE HER OWN COFFEE -- AND WAS SWORN
AT BY A CHIMNEY SWEEPER -- OTHER DOMESTIC AMENITIES IN THE CAREER
OF AN EMPRESS -- THE SUIT OF GUSTAVUS IV. -- CATHERINE'S DEATH --
HUMILIATING FUNERAL INCIDENTS.
I experienced a great joy when, after breathing frosty air outdoors
and air heated by stoves indoors for several months, I witnessed the
arrival of summer. I took a great delight in the walks, and hastened
to enjoy the beautiful surroundings of St. Petersburg. I very often
went to the Lake of Pergola alone with my Russian man-servant to take
what I called an air-bath. I enjoyed the contemplation of its limpid
water, which vividly reflected the trees on its banks. And then I
would mount to the heights adjacent. On one side the horizon was
bounded by the sea and I could distinguish the sails lit up by the
sun. Here a silence reigned that was disturbed only by the song of a
thousand birds, or sometimes by the sound of a distant bell. The pure
air and the wild, picturesque place enchanted me. My faithful Peter,
who warmed up my little dinner or picked flowers of the field for me,
made me think of Robinson on his island with Friday.
The heat being considerable, I often went with my daughter for early
walks on the island of Krestovski. The extreme point of this island
seemed to merge into the sea, on which large vessels were navigating.
Sometimes we went there in the evening to see the Russian peasants
dance, their national dress being very picturesque. I remember, on the
subject of the excessive heat often prevailing at St. Petersburg, a
certain day in the month of July of some year in which that month was
hotter than in Italy. On this day I saw Princess Dolgoruki's mother,
Princess Bariatinski, who was once as lovely as an angel, and whose
clever and spontaneous wit rendered her one of the most fascinating
women of St. Petersburg, established in her cellar, with her lady's
companion seated on the bottom step, very quietly reading to her from
a book.
But to return to the island of Krestovski. Taking a row in a boat one
day, we came upon a crowd of men and women all bathing together. We
even saw from a distance young men naked on horseback, who were thus
bathing with their horses. In any other country one would have been
shocked by this, but the Russian people are really primitively
ingenuous. In the winter husband, wife and children sleep together on
the stove; if the stove is not large enough, they lie on wooden
benches lining their hut, wrapped up simply in their sheepskins. These
good people have kept the customs of the ancient patriarchs.
A walk which pleased me particularly was one on the island of
Zelaguin, which, though it had once been a very handsome garden, was
now deserted. However, there remained some lovely trees, charming
avenues, a temple surrounded with magnificent weeping willows, flowers
to please the eye, little running streams, and bridges after the
English fashion. In order to enjoy this walk to the full, I took a
little house opposite on the bank of the Neva. The advantageous
situation of my cottage was combined with pleasing diversion, due to
the fact that most of the boats, of which there was an unceasing
procession up and down the river, gave me a continuous concert of
vocal music or wind instruments.
The artillery general, Melissimo, lived in a pretty house close to
mine, and I enjoyed having him for my neighbour, since he was the best
and most obliging of men. As the General had spent much time in
Turkey, his house was a model of Oriental comfort and luxury. There
was a bathroom lighted from above, in the middle of which was a basin
large enough to hold a dozen people. One went down into the water by
steps. Linen to be used for drying the body after bathing was hung on
a golden balustrade circling the basin, and consisted of large pieces
of Indian mull worked at the bottom in flowers and gold, so that the
weight of this embroidery caused the mull to adhere to the skin, which
appeared to me an elaborate refinement. Round the room ran a broad
divan on which one could stretch oneself and rest after taking a bath,
and one of the doors opened from a sweet little sitting-room. This
sitting-room, again, overlooked an odorous flower-bed, and some of the
stems grew to the height of the window. It was in this room that the
General gave us a breakfast of fruits, cream cheese and excellent
Mocha coffee, on all of which my daughter regaled herself royally.
Another time he asked us to a very good dinner, and had it served
under a Turkish tent brought back from one of his journeys. The tent
was put up on the lawn facing the house. There were twelve of us, all
seated by the table on splendid divans. We were served with delicious
fruits at dessert. The whole dinner was quite Asiatic, and the
General's courtesy added to the savour of all the good things. I wish,
however, that he had omitted firing off cannon shots in our immediate
proximity just as we were sitting down at table, but I was informed
that such was the custom with all generals. I took my little house on
the Neva for one summer only. The next, young Count Strogonoff lent me
one at Kaminstroff, where I was very well suited. Every morning I
walked alone in a neighbouring wood and passed my evenings with
Countess Golovin, my neighbour. There I met young Prince Bariatinski,
Princess Tarent, and various other congenial people. We would chat or
have readings until supper time. In fact time was speeding by for me
in the most agreeable manner.
The Russian people lived very happily under the rule of Catherine; by
great and lowly have I heard the name of her blessed to whom the
nation owed so much glory and so much well-being. I do not speak of
the conquests by which the national vanity was so prodigiously
flattered, but of the real, lasting good that this Empress did her
people. During the space of the thirty-four years she reigned, her
beneficent genius fathered or furthered all that was useful, all that
was grand. She erected an immortal monument to Peter I.; she built two
hundred and thirty-seven towns in stone, saying that wooden villages
cost much more because they burned down so often; she covered the sea
with her fleets; she established everywhere manufactories and banks,
highly propitious to the commerce of St. Petersburg, Moscow and
Tobolsk; she granted new privileges to the Academy; she founded
schools in all the towns and the country districts; she dug canals,
built granite quays, gave a legal code, instituted an asylum for
foundlings, and, finally, introduced into her empire the boon of
vaccination, adopted by the Russians solely through her mighty will,
and, for the public encouragement, was the first to be inoculated.
Catherine herself was the source of all these blessings, for she never
allowed any one else real authority. She dictated her own
despatches to her ministers, who, in effect, were but her secretaries.
I am much annoyed that the Duchess d'Abrantès, who has recently
published a work on Catherine II., has either not read what the Prince
de Ligne and the Count de Ségur have written, or has not given
credence to those irrefutable witnesses. If she had, she would have
more justly appreciated and admired the qualities distinguishing that
great Empress, considering her as a ruler, and she would have paid
more respect to the memory of a woman in whom our sex ought to take
pride for so many reasons.
[Illustration: THE DUCHESS DE POLIGNAC.]
Catherine II. loved everything that was magnificent in the arts. At
the Hermitage she built a set of rooms corresponding to certain rooms
in the Vatican, and had copies made of the fifty pictures by Raphael
adorning those rooms. She enriched the Academy of Fine Arts with
plaster casts of the finest ancient statues and with a large number of
paintings by various masters. The Hermitage, which she had founded and
erected quite near her palace, was a model of good taste in every
respect, and made the clumsy architecture of the imperial palace at
St. Petersburg appear to worse advantage than ever by the contrast. It
is well known that she wrote French with great facility. In the
library at St. Petersburg I saw the original manuscript of the legal
code she gave the Russians written entirely in her own hand and in the
French language. Her style, I was told, was elegant and very concise,
and this reminds me of an instance of her laconic manner of expression
which seems to me quite delightful. When General Suvaroff had won the
battle of Warsaw, Catherine at once sent him a messenger, and this
messenger brought the fortunate victor nothing but an envelope on
which she had written with her own hand, "To Marshal Suvaroff."
This woman, whose power was so great, was at home the simplest and
least exacting of women. She rose at five in the morning, lit her
fire, and then made her coffee herself. It was even said that one day,
having lit the fire without being aware that the sweeper had climbed
up the chimney, the sweeper began to swear at her, and to shower the
coarsest revilements upon her, believing he was speaking to a
stove-lighter. The Empress hastened to extinguish the fire, though not
without laughing heartily at having been thus treated.
After breakfast the Empress wrote her letters and prepared her
despatches, remaining in seclusion until nine o'clock. She then rang
for her men servants, who sometimes did not answer her bell. One day,
for instance, impatient at waiting, she opened the door of the room
they were in, and, finding them settled down at a game of cards, she
asked them why they did not come when she rang. Thereupon one of them
calmly replied that they wanted to finish their game--and so they did.
On another occasion the Countess Bruce, who was allowed in the
Empress's apartments at all hours, came in one morning to find her
alone at her toilet. "Your Majesty seems to be without assistance,"
said the Countess. "How can I help it?" answered the Empress. "My
maids all went off. I was trying on a dress which fitted so badly that
I lost my temper over it, and so they left me to myself. Not one of
them stayed, not even Reinette, my head maid, and I am waiting for
them to cool off."
In the evening Catherine would gather about her some of the people of
her court she liked best. She sent for her grandchildren, and blind
man's buff, hunt the slipper and other games were played until ten
o'clock, when Her Majesty went to bed. Princess Dolgoruki, who was
among the favoured, often told me with what good spirits and jollity
the Empress enlivened these gatherings. Count Stachelberg and the
Count de Ségur were invited to Catherine's small parties. When she
broke with France and dismissed the Count de Ségur, the French
Ambassador, she expressed deep regret at losing him. "But," she added,
"I am an autocrat. Every one to his trade." Many persons have
attributed Catherine's death to the keen sorrow brought her by the
failure of the marriage arranged between her granddaughter, the
Duchess Alexandrina, and the King of Sweden. That Prince arrived at
St. Petersburg, with his uncle, the Duke of Sudermania, in August,
1796. He was only seventeen years old, but his tall figure and his
proud and noble bearing made him respected in spite of his youth.
Having been very carefully brought up, he showed a most unusual
politeness. The Princess whom he had come to marry, and who was
fourteen, was lovely as an angel, and he speedily fell deeply in love
with her. I remember that when he came to my house to see the portrait
I had done of his bride elect, he looked at it with such rapt
attention that his hat fell from his hand.
The Empress wished for this marriage more than anything, but she
insisted that her granddaughter should have a chapel and clergy of her
own religion in the palace at Stockholm, but the young King, all his
love for the young Duchess Alexandrina notwithstanding, would not
consent to anything that would violate the laws of his country.
Knowing that Catherine had sent for the patriarch to pronounce the
betrothal after a ball in the evening, the King remained absent from
the ball despite M. de Markoff's repeated calls urging him to come. I
was then doing the portrait of Count Diedrichstein. We went to my
window several times to see if the young King would yield and go to
the ball, but he did not. In the end, according to what Princess
Dolgoruki told me, when every one was assembled, the Empress half
opened the door of her room and said in a very subdued voice, "Ladies,
there will be no ball to-night." The King of Sweden and the Duke of
Sudermania left St. Petersburg the next morning.
Whether or no it was the grief arising from this occurrence that cut
short the days of Catherine, Russia was soon to lose her. The Sunday
preceding her death, I went to Her Majesty after church to present her
with the portrait that I had made of the Grand Duchess Elisabeth. She
congratulated me upon my work and then said: "They insist that you
must take my portrait. I am very old, but still, as they all wish it,
I will give you the first sitting this day week." The following
Thursday she did not ring at nine o'clock as was her wont. The
servants waited until ten o'clock, and even a little later. At last
the head maid went in. Not seeing the Empress in her room, she went to
the clothes-closet, and no sooner did she open the door than
Catherine's body fell upon the floor. It was impossible to discover at
what hour the apoplectic shock had touched her; however, her pulse was
still beating, and hope was not entirely given up. Never in my days
did I see such lively alarm spread so generally. For my part I was so
seized with pain and terror when apprised of the dreadful tidings that
my convalescing daughter, perceiving my state of prostration, became
again ill.
After dinner I hastened to Princess Dolgoruki's, whither Count
Cobentzel brought us the news every ten minutes from the palace. Our
anxiety continued to grow, and was unbearable for everybody, since not
only did the nation worship Catherine, but it had an awful dread of
being governed by Paul. Toward evening Paul arrived from a place near
St. Petersburg, where he lived most of the time. When he saw his
mother lying senseless, nature for a moment asserted her rights; he
approached the Empress, kissed her hand, and shed some tears.
Catherine II. finally expired at nine o'clock on the evening of
November 17, 1796. Count Cobentzel, who saw her breathe her last
sigh, at once came to inform us that she had ceased to live.
I confess that I did not leave Princess Dolgoruki's devoid of fear, in
view of the general talk as to a probable revolution against Paul. The
immense mob I saw on my way home in the palace square by no means
tended to comfort me; nevertheless, all those people were so quiet
that I soon concluded, and rightly, we had nothing to fear for the
moment. The next morning the populace gathered again at the same
place, giving vent to its grief under Catherine's windows in
heartrending cries. Old men and young, as well as children, called to
their "matusha" (little mother), and between their sobs lamented that
they had lost everything. This day was the more depressing as it
augured so sadly for the Prince succeeding to the throne.
The Empress's body was exposed six weeks in a large room at the
palace, lit up day and night and gorgeously decorated. Catherine was
laid out on a bed of state and surrounded by shields bearing the arms
of all the towns in the empire. Her face was uncovered, her beautiful
hand resting on the bed. All the ladies--of whom some took turn in
watching by the body--bent to kiss that hand, or pretended to. I, who
had never kissed it in her lifetime, did not dare to kiss it now, and
even avoided looking at Catherine's face, which would have left too
bad an impression on my memory.
After his mother's death, Paul at once had his father Peter
disinterred; he had been buried for thirty-five years in the convent
of Alexander Nevski. Nothing was found in the coffin but bones and a
sleeve of Peter's uniform. Paul desired the same honours rendered to
these remains as to Catherine's. He had them exhibited in the middle
of the Church at Kazan; the watch service was performed by old
officers, friends of Peter III, whom his son had pressed to come, and
whom he loaded with honours. The day of the funeral having arrived,
Peter III.'s coffin, on which his son had placed a crown, was put with
great ceremony beside Catherine's, and both were conveyed to the
Citadel, Peter's preceding, it being Paul's wish to humble his
mother's ashes. I saw the marvellous procession from my window as one
sees a play from a box in the theatre. Before the Emperor's coffin
rode a horseman of the guard, clad from top to toe in golden armour;
but the man riding in front of the Empress's coffin wore only steel
armour. The murderers of Peter III. were, by order of his son, obliged
to act as pall-bearers. The new Emperor walked in the procession on
foot, bareheaded, with his wife and the whole court, which was very
numerous, and attired in deep mourning. The women wore long trains and
enormous black veils. They were obliged to walk in the snow, at a very
low temperature, from the palace to the fortress, where Russia's
sovereigns were laid to rest, a long distance on the other side of the
Neva. Mourning was ordered for six months. The women's hair was
brushed back, and their headgear came to a point on the forehead,
which did not improve their looks at all. But this slight
inconvenience was insignificant compared to the deep anxiety to which
the Empress's death gave rise throughout the whole empire.
CHAPTER X
THE EMPEROR PAUL
ACCESSION OF THE EMPEROR PAUL -- HIS ARBITRARY RULE -- HIS
CIVILITY TO THE AUTHORESS -- A MAN WHO DID NOT KNOW THE EMPEROR'S
ADDRESS -- PAUL'S KINDNESS TO FOREIGNERS -- HIS FEAR OF
ASSASSINATION -- HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE -- THE EMPRESS MARIA --
VAGARIES OF A HALF-MAD EMPEROR -- A NOBLE PRELATE.
The Emperor Paul, born October 1, 1754, ascended the throne on the
12th of December, 1796. What I have related touching Catherine's
funeral is sufficient proof that the new Emperor did not share the
national sorrow; it is well known, besides, that he bestowed the order
of St. Andrew upon Nicholas Zuboff, who brought him the news of his
mother's death. Paul was clever, well-informed and energetic, but his
whims bordered on insanity. In this unhappy Prince generous emotions
were often followed by outbreaks of ferocity; approval or anger,
favour or resentment, were with him altogether a matter of caprice.
One night I was at a court ball; every one except the Emperor was
masked, both men and women wearing black dominos. One of the doorways
between two rooms became crowded, and a young man in haste to pass
elbowed a woman, who began to scream. Paul at once turned to one of
his adjutants, saying, "Take that gentleman to the fortress, and come
back to tell me that he is safe under lock and key." The adjutant soon
came back to tell the Emperor that he had executed his order; "but,"
he went on, "Your Majesty must know that the young man is very
short-sighted. Here is the proof." And he produced the prisoner's
eye-glasses, which he had brought with him. Paul, after trying the
eye-glasses, was convinced, and said with feeling: "Go for him quickly
and take him to his parents; I shall not go to bed until you have come
back with the information that he is at home again."
The least infraction of Paul's commands was punished with exile to
Siberia, or at least with imprisonment, so that, unable to foresee how
far lunacy and arbitrariness combined would go, one lived in a state
of perpetual fear. It soon came to one's not daring to invite company
to one's house. If one would see a few friends, one was very careful
to close the shutters, and when a ball was given it was agreed that
the carriages should be sent home so as to attract less attention.
Everybody's words and actions were watched to such an extent that I
heard it said there was no social circle without a spy. Allusion to
the Emperor was usually abstained from altogether. I remember how one
day, joining a very small gathering, a lady who did not know me and
who had just ventured upon this subject, cut her words short when she
saw me coming into the room. Countess Golovin was obliged to tell her
that she might continue. "You may speak without fear," she said; "it
is Mme. Lebrun." All this seemed extremely burdensome after living
under Catherine, who allowed every one to enjoy entire liberty
without, however, using the word.
It would take a long time to recount to what futilities Paul practised
his tyranny. He ordered, for instance, that every one should make
obeisance to his palace, even when he was absent. He forbade the
wearing of round hats, which he looked upon as a symbol of
Jacobinism. The police knocked off with their sticks all the round
hats they saw, to the great annoyance of people whose ignorance of the
regulation exposed them to being thus unhatted. On the other hand,
every one was obliged to wear powder. At the time when this regulation
was made I was painting young Prince Bariatinski's portrait, and he
had acceded to my request that he come without powder. One day he
arrived pale as death. "What is the matter with you?" I asked him. "I
have just met the Emperor," he replied, all a-tremble, "I barely had
time to hide in a doorway, but I am terribly afraid that he recognised
me." There was nothing surprising in Prince Bariatinski's fright. All
classes were likewise affected, for no inhabitant of St. Petersburg
was sure one night that he would sleep in his bed the next.
For my part, I avow that in the reign of Paul I experienced the
greatest fear of all my life. I had gone to Pergola to spend the day,
and had with me M. de Rivière, my coachman, and Peter, my faithful
Russian servant. While M. de Rivière was walking about with his gun to
shoot birds or rabbits--to which, by the way, he never did great
harm--I remained on the shore of the lake. All of a sudden I noticed
the fire that had been lit to cook our dinner communicate itself to
the trees and spread with great rapidity. The trees were close
together, and Pergola was close to St. Petersburg! I began to scream
dreadfully, calling upon M. de Rivière, and, aided by fear, the four
of us succeeded in extinguishing the blaze, though not without
severely burning our hands. But we thought of the Emperor, of Siberia,
and it may well be imagined how this filled us with zeal!
I can only explain the terror that Paul inspired me with from the fact
that it was universal, since I must admit that toward myself he was
never anything but civil and considerate. When I saw him for the first
time at St. Petersburg he was amiable enough to remember that I had
been presented to him in Paris on the occasion of his visit there. I
was very young then, and so many years had since gone by that I had
forgotten the incident; but princes as a rule are gifted with a memory
for faces and names. Among the various queer ordinances of his reign,
one, to which obedience was very troublesome, compelled both men and
women to alight from their carriages whenever the Emperor drove by.
Now, I must add that Paul was to be met with very frequently in the
streets of St. Petersburg, as he travelled them perpetually, sometimes
on horseback with but slim attendance, and sometimes in a sledge
without an escort, without any sign by which he might have been
recognised. You were nevertheless obliged to obey his command, under
pain of incurring his severest displeasure, and it will be agreed that
it was cruel to have to jump out into the snow and stand there,
however extreme the cold. One day when I was out driving, my coachman
not having observed his approach, I scarcely had time to exclaim:
"Stop! it is the Emperor!" But, as my door was opened and I was about
to get out, the Emperor himself descended from his sledge and hastened
to stop me, saying in the most gracious manner that his order did not
concern foreign ladies, especially Mme. Lebrun.
The reason why even Paul's most favourable whims were not reassuring
for the future was that no man was ever more changeable in his tastes
and affections. At the beginning of his reign, for instance, he
loathed Bonaparte. Later on he conceived such a great tenderness for
him that a portrait of the French hero was kept in his sanctuary and
he exhibited it to every one. Neither his dislike nor his favour was
lasting. Count Strogonoff, I believe, is the only person he always
loved and esteemed. He was not known to have favourites among the
gentlemen of the court, but was very fond of a French actor called
Frogères, who was not without talent and rather clever. Frogères went
into the Emperor's study at all hours unannounced; they were often
seen walking together in the gardens arm in arm, chatting on the
subject of French literature, for which Paul had a strong fancy,
particularly our drama. This actor was often invited to the small
court gatherings, and as he was highly gifted in the art of joking, he
made the greatest lords the object of jokes, which amused the Emperor
very much, but which probably were very slightly amusing to those at
whose expense they were made. The Grand Dukes themselves were not safe
from Frogères's naughty pleasantries; in fact, after the death of
Paul, he did not venture to appear at the palace. The Emperor
Alexander, walking alone one day in the streets of Moscow, met him and
called to him. "Frogères, why have you not been to see me?" the
Emperor asked him with affable air. "Sire," replied Frogères, freed
from his fears, "I did not know Your Majesty's address." The Emperor
laughed a great deal over this piece of nonsense, and munificently
paid the French actor some arrears in salary which the poor man had up
till then not dared to claim.
After dealing for a long time with Paul, it was indeed natural that
Frogères should dread the resentment of a sovereign, for Paul was so
vindictive that the greatest share of his wrongdoings was attributable
to his hatred for the Russian nobility, against whom he had had a
grievance during Catherine's lifetime. In this hatred he confused the
innocent with the guilty, detesting all the great nobles and taking a
delight in humbling any of them he did not exile. To foreigners, on
the other hand, and especially to the French, he showed remarkable
kindness, and I must here affirm that he always received and treated
well all travellers and refugees coming from France. Of these last
some were even generously assisted by him. I will mention as an
instance the Count d'Autichamp, who, finding himself in St. Petersburg
without any resources whatever, had hit upon the idea of making a very
pretty elastic shoe. I bought a pair, which the same evening I showed
to several women of the court at Princess Dolgoruki's. They were
pronounced charming, and this, together with the sympathy inspired by
the refugee, resulted in immediate orders for a large number of pairs.
The little shoe eventually came under the notice of the Emperor, who,
as soon as he learned the name of the workman, sent for him and gave
him a fine position. Unfortunately, it was a confidential post, and
the Russians were so offended that Paul could not leave the Count
d'Autichamp in it for long. But he made amends in such a way as to
secure him against poverty. Several facts of this kind, I confess,
made me more indulgent toward the Emperor than the Russians were,
whose peace was incessantly disturbed through the extravagant caprices
of an omnipotent madman. It would be difficult to convey an idea of
the fears, the discontent and the secret murmurings of his court, that
I had formerly seen so placid and happy. It may be said with truth
that as long as Paul's reign lasted terror was the order of the day.
As one cannot torment one's fellowmen without being tormented oneself,
Paul was far from leading an enviable life. He had a fixed idea that
he would die by steel or by poison, and this conviction explains much
of his queer conduct. While going about the streets of St. Petersburg
alone at all hours of the day and night, he took the precaution to
have his broth made in his room, and the rest of his cooking was
likewise done in the secrecy of his apartment. The whole was
superintended by his faithful Kutaisoff, a confidential valet who had
been to Paris with him and was in constant attendance upon him. This
Kutaisoff had entertained an unlimited devotion for the Emperor, and
nothing could ever change it.
Paul was exceedingly ugly. A flat nose, and a very large mouth
furnished with very long teeth, made him look like a death's head. His
eyes were more than vivacious, though they often had a soft
expression. He was neither stout nor lean, neither tall nor short, and
although his whole person was not wanting in a sort of elegance, it
must be admitted that his face suggested opportunity for caricature.
Indeed, a number were made, in spite of the danger that such an
amusement threatened. One of them represented him holding a paper in
each hand. On one was written "order," on the other "counter-order,"
and on his forehead "disorder." At the mere mention of this caricature
I still feel a little shiver; for it must be understood that there
were lives in jeopardy, in which the artists' and the purchasers' were
included.
But all I have said did not hinder St. Petersburg from being a
pleasant as well as profitable place of sojourn for a painter. The
Emperor Paul loved and patronised the arts. A great admirer of French
literature, he munificently subsidised the actors to whom he owed the
pleasure of seeing our dramatic masterpieces performed.
Doyen, my father's friend and the historical painter I have already
mentioned, was distinguished by Paul as he had been by Catherine II.
Though very old at the time, Doyen, who had imposed a simple and
frugal manner of living upon himself, had accepted but a portion of
the Empress's generous offers. The Emperor continued in the path of
Catherine, and ordered a ceiling for the new palace of St. Michael, as
yet unfurnished. The room where Doyen was working was close to the
Hermitage. Paul and all the court passed through it on their way to
mass, and the Emperor rarely returned without stopping to chat for
more or less time with the painter in quite amiable fashion. I am
hereby reminded how, one day, one of the Emperor's
gentlemen-in-waiting stepped up to Doyen and said: "Permit me, sir, to
make a slight observation. You are painting the hours dancing round
the chariot of the sun. I see one there, in the distance, smaller than
the rest; the hours, however, are all exactly alike." "Sir," replied
Doyen with cool self-possession, "you are perfectly right, but what
you point out is only a half-hour." The first speaker nodded in
assent, and went off greatly pleased with himself. I must not forget
to record that the Emperor, wishing to pay the price of painting the
ceiling before it was finished, sent to Doyen a bank-note for a large
sum--how much I do not now remember. But the bank-note was enclosed in
a wrapper, upon which Paul had written with his own hand, "Here is
something to buy colours with; as for oil, there is a lot left in the
lamp."
If my father's old friend was pleased with his life at St. Petersburg,
I was none the less pleased with mine. I worked without relaxing from
morning till evening. Only on Sundays I lost two hours, which I was
obliged to grant people wishing to see my studio, and among these
there were frequently grand dukes and grand duchesses. Besides the
pictures I have already spoken of, and an endless succession of
portraits, I had sent to Paris for my large portrait of Queen Marie
Antoinette, one in which I had painted her in a blue velvet dress, and
the general interest it provoked yielded me the sweetest delight. The
Prince de Condé, then at St. Petersburg, on coming to see it, uttered
not a word, but burst into tears.
In respect of social amenity St. Petersburg left nothing to be
desired. One might have believed oneself at Paris, so many French were
there at the fashionable gatherings. It was thus that I saw the
Duke Richelieu and the Count de Langeron again. They were really not
residents, the first being Governor of Odessa and the other always
travelling on military inspections, but it was different with a host
of other countrymen of mine. For instance, I made acquaintance with
the amiable and dear good Countess Ducrest de Villeneuve. Not only was
this young woman very pretty and very well built, but she had a
special charm coming from her great goodness of heart. I often saw her
at St. Petersburg, as well as at Moscow, by which I am reminded that
one day, when I went to dine with her, an instance occurred of a kind
not rare in Russia, but which frightened me excessively. M. Ducrest de
Villeneuve came for me in a sledge, and it was so cold that my
forehead was quite frozen. I exclaimed in terror, "I shall be able to
think no more!" M. de Villeneuve hurried me into a shop, where my
forehead was rubbed with snow, and this remedy, employed by the
Russians in all similar cases, soon banished the cause of my despair.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE.]
I did not neglect the natives who treated me so well, for my French
friends and my relations with Russian families were constantly
increasing. Besides the numerous persons I have already mentioned, I
often saw M. Dimidoff, the richest private gentleman in Russia. His
father had left him a heritage of richly productive iron and
quicksilver mines, and the enormous sales he made to the government
kept on enlarging his fortune. His immense wealth was the cause of his
obtaining in marriage Mlle. Strogonoff, a member of one of the most
aristocratic and oldest families of Russia. Their union was very
happy. They left only two sons, one of whom lives in Paris most of the
time, and who, like his father, has a great love for pictures.
The Emperor ordered me to make a portrait of his wife. I represented
her standing, wearing a court dress, and a diamond crown on her head.
I do not like painting diamonds; the brush cannot render their
brilliancy. Nevertheless, in taking for a background a large crimson
velvet curtain, I succeeded in making the crown shine as much as
possible. When I sent for the picture to finish the details at home,
the Empress wanted to lend me the court dress and all the jewels
belonging to it, but they were so valuable that I declined to accept
the trust, which would have given me too much anxiety. I preferred to
finish my painting at the palace, whither I had the picture taken
back. The Empress Maria was a very handsome woman; her plumpness kept
her fresh. She had a tall figure, full of dignity, and magnificent
fair hair. I recollect having seen her at a great ball with her
beautiful locks falling at each side of her shoulders and a diamond
tiara on the top of her head. This tall and handsome woman walked
majestically next to Paul, on his arm, and a striking contrast was
thus presented. To all her loveliness was added a sweet character. The
Empress Maria was truly the woman of the Gospel; her virtues were so
universally known that she perhaps affords the only example of a woman
never attacked by slander. I confess I was proud to find myself
honoured with her favour, and that I set great store by the good-will
she showed me on all occasions.
Our sittings took place immediately after the court dinner, so that
the Emperor and his two sons, Alexander and Constantine, were
habitually present. These august spectators did not annoy me in the
least, especially as the Emperor, who alone could have made me feel
any diffidence, was exceedingly polite to me. One day, when coffee was
being served, as I was already at my easel, he brought me a cup
himself, and then waited until I had drunk the coffee to take back the
cup and put it away. Another time, it is true, he made me witness a
rather comical scene. I was having a screen put behind the Empress in
order to obtain a quiet background. In this moment of intermission
Paul began cutting up a thousand antics, exactly like a monkey,
scratching the screen and pretending to climb up it. Alexander and
Constantine seemed pained at their father's grotesque behaviour before
a stranger, and I myself felt sorry on their account.
During one of the sittings the Empress sent for her two youngest sons,
the Grand Duke Nicholas and the Grand Duke Michael. Never have I seen
a finer child than the Grand Duke Nicholas, the present Emperor. I
could, I believe, paint him from memory to-day, so much did I admire
his enchanting face, which bore all the characteristics of Greek
beauty.
I remember, too, a type of beauty of an altogether different kind--an
old man. Although in Russia the Emperor is the supreme head of the
church, as well as of the government and the army, the religious power
is held, under him, by the first "pope," called "the great
archimandrite," who is about the same to the Russians that the Holy
Father is to us. While living in St. Petersburg I had often heard of
the merit and virtues of the divine occupying this post, and one day
some of my acquaintances who were going to visit him, proposing to
take me with them, I eagerly accepted their invitation. Never in my
life had I been in the presence of such an imposing man. His figure
was tall and majestic; his handsome face, whose every feature was
endowed with perfect regularity, expressed at once a gentleness and a
nobility difficult to describe; a long white beard, falling below the
chest, added to the venerable appearance of his magnificent head. His
dress was simple and dignified. He wore a long white robe, divided in
front, from top to bottom, by a broad strip of black material, which
made the whiteness of his beard stand out admirably. His walk, his
gestures, his glance,--everything about him commanded respect from the
very first. The great archimandrite was a superior man. He had a
profound mind and great learning, and spoke several languages;
besides, by reason of his virtues and kindness he was cherished by all
who knew him. His grave vocation never prevented him from being
affable and gracious toward high society. One of the Princesses
Galitzin, who was very beautiful, seeing him in a garden one day, ran
to throw herself on her knees before him. The old man at once picked a
rose and gave it to her, accompanying it with his blessing. One of my
regrets on leaving St. Petersburg was my not having done the
archimandrite's portrait, for I believe no painter could ever meet
with a finer model.
CHAPTER XI
FAMILY AFFAIRS
PONIATOWSKI, LAST KING OF POLAND -- HIS AMIABLE CHARACTER -- THE
AUTHORESS'S FACULTY OF PRESAGING DEATH -- PONIATOWSKI, THE NEPHEW
-- MME. LEBRUN RECEIVED AS A MEMBER OF THE ST. PETERSBURG ACADEMY
-- HER DAUGHTER'S UNTOWARD MARRIAGE -- RESULTING IN ESTRANGEMENT
BETWEEN MOTHER AND CHILD.
I will now speak of a man I frequently saw for whom I entertained a
lively friendship, and who, after wearing a crown, was then living in
St. Petersburg as a private gentleman. This was Stanislaus Augustus
Poniatowski, Poland's last king. In my early youth I had heard this
prince, who had not then ascended the throne, talked of by people in
the habit of meeting him at Mme. Geoffrin's, where he often went to
dinner. All his companions of that date praised his amiability and his
good looks. For his good or his harm--it is difficult to decide
which--he made a journey to St. Petersburg. Catherine II. showed him
every distinction, and helped him with all her might to become King of
Poland. Poniatowski was crowned in September of the year 1764. But
this same Catherine destroyed her own work and overthrew the monarch
she had so heartily helped. The ruin of Poland once determined, Replin
and Stachelberg, the Russian envoys, became the actual rulers of this
unfortunate kingdom, and so remained until the day it ceased to exist.
Their court became more numerous than that of the Prince, whom they
continually insulted with impunity, and who was king in name only.
Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski was kind-hearted and very brave, but
perhaps he wanted the necessary energy to hold down the spirit of
rebellion reigning in his country. He did everything to make himself
agreeable to the nobility and the people, and he partly succeeded. But
there were so many disorderly interior elements, in addition to the
scheme of the three great neighbouring powers for the seizure of
Poland, that it would have been a miracle had he triumphed. He
ultimately succumbed and retired to Grodno, where he lived on a
pension allowed him by Russia, Prussia and Austria, who had divided
his kingdom between them.
After the death of Catherine II., the Emperor Paul invited Poniatowski
to St. Petersburg, to be present at his coronation. During the whole
ceremony, which was very long, the ex-king was allowed to stand,
which, in view of his advanced years, pained everybody there. Paul
afterward behaved more civilly when he asked him to stay at St.
Petersburg, and lodged him in a marble palace to be seen on a fine
quay of the Neva.
The King of Poland was now suitably housed. He created an agreeable
social circle for himself, largely composed of French, to whom were
added some other foreigners he wished to honour. He was so extremely
good as to seek me out, to bid me to his private parties, and he
called me his "dear friend," as Prince Kaunitz did at Vienna. Nothing
touched me more than to hear him repeat that it would have made him
glad to have me at Warsaw while he was still king. I was aware, in
fact, how at that time, some one having told him I was going to
Poland, he had replied that he would treat me with the greatest
distinction. But I am sure that every allusion to the past must have
been very painful to him.
He was very tall; his handsome face expressed gentleness and
kindness; his voice was resounding, and his walk erect without
conceit; his conversation had a particular charm, since he loved and
knew literature to a high degree. He was so passionately fond of the
arts, that at Warsaw, when he was king, he perpetually went to visit
the best artists. He was more considerate than can possibly be
imagined. I recollect being given a proof that makes me feel rather
ashamed when I think of it. Sometimes, when I am painting, I refuse to
see any one in the world but my model, which more than once has made
me rude to people coming to disturb me at my work. One morning, when I
was occupied with finishing a portrait, the King of Poland came to see
me. Having heard the noise of horses at my door, I fully suspected it
was he who was paying me a call, but I was so absorbed in my task that
I lost my temper so far as to cry out, at the moment he opened my
door, "I am not at home!" The King, without a word, put on his cloak
again and went away. When I had laid down my palette and recalled in
cold blood what I had done, I reproached myself so strongly that the
same evening I went to the King of Poland for the purpose of
proffering my excuses and asking pardon. "What a reception you gave me
this morning!" he said as soon as he set eyes on me. He then
immediately went on: "I quite understand how a very busy artist
becomes impatient if disturbed, and so you may believe that I am not
at all angry with you." He obliged me to remain to supper, and there
was no further mention of my delinquency.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS
Painted for the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, where the Picture Now
Hangs.]
I rarely missed the little suppers of the King of Poland. Lord
Witworth, the English Ambassador to Russia, and the Marquis de Rivière
were likewise faithful attendants. We all three preferred these
intimate gatherings to the large mobs, because after supper there was
always a delightful round of chat, enlivened especially by the King,
who knew a host of interesting anecdotes. One evening, when I had
followed the usual invitation, I was struck by the singular change I
observed in our dear Prince's appearance; his left eye particularly
looked so dull that I was frightened. At leaving, I said on the
staircase to Lord Witworth and to the Marquis de Rivière, on whose arm
I was, "Do you know, I am very anxious about the King?" "Why so?" they
asked. "He seemed remarkably well; he talked as he always does." "I
have the misfortune to be a good soothsayer," I replied. "I read
uncommon trouble in his eyes. The King will soon die." Alas! I had
only prophesied too well, for the next day the King went down with an
attack of apoplexy, and a few days later was buried in the citadel
close to Catherine. I did not learn of his death without feeling a
very real sorrow, which was shared by all who had known the King of
Poland. I am rarely mistaken in the meaning of the ocular expression.
The last time I saw the Duchess de Mazarin, who was in perfect health,
and in whom nobody observed the least change, I said to my husband,
"In another month the Duchess will not be alive." And my prophecy came
true.
Stanislaus Poniatowski never married; he had a niece and two nephews.
His oldest nephew, Prince Joseph Poniatowski, is well known through
his military talents and the great bravery which have earned for him
the name of the "Polish Bayard." When I knew him at St. Petersburg he
might have been twenty-five to twenty-seven years old. Though his
forehead was already devoid of hair, his face was remarkably handsome.
All his features, admirably regular, were indicative of a noble soul.
He had exhibited such prodigious valour and so much military science
in the late war against the Turks that the public voice already
proclaimed him a great captain, and I was surprised upon seeing him
how any one could win so high a reputation at that early age. At St.
Petersburg all vied with each other in welcoming and making much of
him. At a great supper given him, to which I was bidden, all the women
urging him to have his portrait painted by me, he answered with a
modesty conspicuous in his character, "I must win several more battles
before I can be painted by Mme. Lebrun."
When I again saw Joseph Poniatowski at Paris I at first did not
recognise him, so much was he changed. Into the bargain he was wearing
a hideous wig that completed his metamorphosis. His renown had,
however, reached such a point that there was no need for him to be
distressed at having lost his good looks. He was then preparing to go
to war in Germany under Napoleon, to whom he, as a Pole, had become a
faithful ally. The heroism he displayed in the campaign of 1812 and
1813 is sufficiently known, as well as the tragic occurrence that
ended his noble career.
Joseph Poniatowski's brother resembled him in no way; he was lanky,
chilly, and dry. I got a close view of him at St. Petersburg, and
remember that one morning he came to my house to look at Countess
Strogonoff's portrait, and that he concerned himself about nothing but
the frame. He nevertheless manifested great pretensions as a picture
fancier, permitting his opinions to be guided by an artist who drew
very well, but whose chief distinction was to imitate Raphael's
sketches, in consequence of which he harboured a sovereign disdain for
the French school.
The King of Poland's niece, Mme. Menicheck, showed herself obliging to
me on many occasions, and it was a great pleasure to meet her again in
Paris. At St. Petersburg she made me do the likeness of her daughter,
then quite a child, whom I painted playing with her dog, as well as
the portrait of her uncle, the King of Poland, in a Henri IV. costume.
The first portrait I did of that charming prince I kept for myself.
One of the pleasantest reminiscences of my travels is that of my
reception as a member of the Academy of St. Petersburg. Count
Strogonoff, then Director of the Fine Arts, apprised me of the
appointed day for my installation. I ordered a uniform of the Academy,
in the shape of an Amazonian dress: a little violet bodice, a yellow
skirt, and a black hat and feathers. At one o'clock I arrived in a
room leading to a long gallery, at the end of which I perceived Count
Strogonoff at a table. I was requested to go up to him. For this
purpose I was obliged to traverse the long gallery in question, where
tiers of benches had been placed which were full of spectators. But as
I luckily recognised a number of friends and acquaintances in the
crowd, I reached the other end of the gallery without feeling too much
confusion. The Count addressed me in a very flattering little speech,
and then presented me, on behalf of the Emperor, with a diploma
nominating me a member of the Academy. Everybody thereupon burst into
such applause that I was moved to tears, and I shall never forget that
touching moment. That evening I met several persons who had witnessed
the affair. They mentioned my courage in passing through that gallery
so full of people. "You must suppose," I answered, "that I had guessed
from their faces how kindly they were prepared to greet me." Very soon
after I did my own portrait for the Academy of St. Petersburg. I
represented myself painting, palette in hand.
In dwelling on these agreeable memories of my life, I am trying to
postpone the moment when I must speak of the sorrows, the cruel
anxieties which disturbed the peace and happiness I was enjoying at
St. Petersburg. But I must now enter upon the sad particulars.
My daughter had attained the age of seventeen. She was charming in
every respect. Her large blue eyes, sparkling with spirit, her
slightly tip-tilted nose, her pretty mouth, magnificent teeth, a
dazzling fresh complexion--all went to make up one of the sweetest
faces to be seen. Her figure was not very tall; she was lithe without,
however, being lean. A natural dignity reigned in all her person,
although she had as much vivacity of manner as of mind. Her memory was
prodigious: everything remained that she had learned in her lessons or
in the course of her reading. She had a delightful voice, and sang
exquisitely in Italian, for at Naples and St. Petersburg I had given
her the best singing masters, as well as instructors of English and
German. Moreover, she could accompany herself on the piano or the
guitar. But what enraptured me above everything else was her happy
disposition for painting, so that I cannot say how proud and satisfied
I was over the many advantages she commanded. I saw in my daughter the
happiness of my life, the future joy of my old age, and it was
therefore not surprising that she gained an ascendancy over me. When
my friends said, "You love your daughter so madly that it is you who
obey her," I would reply, "Do you not see that she is loved by every
one?" Indeed, the most prominent residents of St. Petersburg admired
and sought her out. I was not invited without her, and the successes
she won in society were far more to me than any of my own had ever
been.
Since I could but very rarely leave my studio of a morning, I
sometimes consented to confide my daughter to the Countess
Czernicheff, in order that she might take part in sledging
expeditions, which amused her greatly, and the Countess would
sometimes also take her to spend the evening at her house. There she
met a certain Nigris, Count Czernicheff's secretary. This M. Nigris
had a fairly good face and figure; he might have been about thirty. As
for his abilities, he drew a little, and wrote a beautiful hand. His
soft ways, his melancholy look, and even his yellowish paleness, gave
him an interesting and romantic air, which so far affected my
daughter that she fell in love with him. Immediately the Czernicheff
family put their heads together and began an intrigue to make him my
son-in-law. Being informed what was happening, my grief was deep, as
may well be imagined; but unhappy as I was at the thought of giving my
daughter, my only child, to a man without talents, without fortune,
without a name, I made inquiries about this M. Nigris. Some spoke well
of him, but others reported badly, so that the days went by without my
being able to fix upon any decision.
In vain did I attempt to make my daughter understand how unlikely in
every way this marriage was to make her happy. Her head was so far
turned that she would take nothing from my affection and experience.
On the other hand, people who had determined to get my consent
employed all possible means to wring it from me. I was told that M.
Nigris would carry off my daughter and that they would marry at some
country inn. I had little faith in this elopement and secret marriage,
because M. Nigris had no fortune, and the family that befriended him
was not blessed with superfluous money. I was threatened with the
Emperor, and I answered, "Then I will tell him that mothers have truer
and older rights than all the emperors in the world!" It will scarcely
be credited that the persons intriguing against me were so sure of
making me yield under persecution that they were already throwing out
allusions to a marriage portion. As I was supposed to be very rich,
the ambassador from Naples came to see me and asked a sum which far
exceeded my possessions. I had left France with eighty louis in my
pocket, and a portion of my savings I had since lost through the Bank
of Venice.
I could have endured the malignant and stupid slanders which the cabal
spread, and which were repeated to me from all sides; it pained me
much more to see my daughter becoming alienated and withdrawing all
her confidence from me. Her old governess, Mme. Charrot, who had
already made the great mistake of allowing her to read novels without
my knowledge, had totally dominated her mind and embittered her
against me to such a degree that all a mother's love was impotent to
fight against her sinister influence. At last my daughter, who had
become thin and changed, fell ill altogether. I was then, of course,
obliged to surrender, and wrote to M. Lebrun, so that he might send
his approval. M. Lebrun had in recent letters spoken of his wish to
marry our daughter to Guérin, whose successes in painting had been
bruited loud enough to reach my ears. But this plan, which had such
attractions for me, now could not be carried out. I informed M.
Lebrun, making him feel that, having but this one dear child, we must
sacrifice everything to her desires and her happiness.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MME. LEBRUN'S DAUGHTER
In the Bologna Gallery.]
The letter gone, I had the satisfaction of seeing my daughter recover;
but alas! that satisfaction was the only one she gave me. Owing to the
distance, her father's answer was long delayed, and some one convinced
her that I had only written to M. Lebrun to prevent him from assenting
to what she called her felicity. The suspicion hurt me cruelly;
nevertheless, I wrote again several times, and, after letting her read
my letters, gave them to her, so that she might post them herself.
Even this great condescension on my part was not enough to undeceive
her. With the distrust toward me that was incessantly being poured
into her, she said to me one day, "I post your letters, but I am sure
you write others to the contrary." I was stunned and heartbroken, when
at that very moment the postman arrived with a letter from M. Lebrun
giving his consent. A mother might then, without being accused of
exaction, have expected some excuses or thanks; but in order to have
it understood how entirely those wicked people had estranged my
daughter's heart, I will confess that the cruel child showed not the
least gratitude at what I had done for her in immolating all my
wishes, hopes and dislikes.
The wedding was nevertheless enacted a few days later. I gave my
daughter a very fine wedding outfit and some jewellery, including a
bracelet, mounted with some large diamonds, on which was her father's
likeness. Her marriage portion, the product of the portraits I had
painted at St. Petersburg, I deposited with the banker Livio.
The day after my daughter's wedding I went to see her. I found her
placid and unelated over her bliss. Being at her house again a
fortnight later, I made the inquiry, "You are very happy, I trust, now
that you are married to him?" M. Nigris, who was talking with some one
else, had his back turned to us, and, since he was afflicted with a
severe cold, had a heavy great coat on his shoulders. She replied, "I
confess that fur coat is disenchanting; how could you expect me to be
smitten with such a figure as that?" Thus a fortnight had sufficed for
love to evaporate.
As for me, the whole charm of my life seemed to be irretrievably
destroyed. I even felt no joy in loving my daughter, though God knows
how much I still did love her, in spite of all her wrongdoing. Only
mothers will fully understand me. Soon after her marriage she took the
smallpox. Although I had never had that frightful disease, no one
succeeded in preventing me from hastening to her side. Her face was so
swelled up that I was seized with terror. But it was only for her that
I feared, and as long as the illness lasted I thought not of myself
for a single moment. At last I was glad to see her restored without
being marked in the least.
I then resolved to leave for Moscow. I wanted a change from St.
Petersburg, where I had been suffering to such a degree that my health
was affected. Not that after the wedding the wretched stories which
had been brought up against me left any impression. On the contrary,
the people who had blackened my character most repented of their
injustice. However, I was unable to shake off the memory of the past
months. I felt miserable, but kept my trouble to myself; I complained
of no one. I observed silence, even with my dearest friends, on the
subject of my daughter and the man she had given me for a son, going
so far as reticence toward my brother, to whom I had written
frequently since being apprised by him of another misfortune. Indeed,
this period of my life was devoted to tears: we had lost our mother.
Hoping, then, to obtain relief from so much sorrow through distraction
and a change of scene, I hastened the life-sized portrait I was then
doing of the Empress Maria, as well as several half-length portraits,
and left for Moscow on the 15th of October, 1800.
CHAPTER XII
MOSCOW
JOURNEY TO MOSCOW -- A BAD SMELL AND ITS ORIGIN -- FIRST
IMPRESSIONS OF MOSCOW -- ANOTHER IMPRESSION, ORAL AND UNPLEASING
-- THE KREMLIN -- STEAM-AND-SNOW BATHING -- SOCIETY -- LUXURIOUS
PRINCE KURAKIN -- AN IMPOSSIBLE DUOLOGUE -- EXAMPLES OF RUSSIAN
CLEVERNESS -- DETERMINATION TO RETURN TO FRANCE.
No more dreadful fatigue can be imagined than that which awaited me in
the journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow. The roads I counted upon as
being frozen--as I had been led to believe--were not yet in that
condition. The roads, in fact, were terrible; the logs, which rendered
them almost impracticable in severe weather, not being as yet fixed by
the frost, rolled incessantly under the wheels, and produced the same
effect as waves of the sea. My carriage was half-covered with mud, and
gave us such terrible shocks that at every moment I expected to give
up the ghost. For the sake of some relief from this torture, I stopped
half-way at the inn of Novgorod, the only one on the route, where--so
I had been informed--I should be well fed and lodged. Being greatly in
want of rest, and faint with hunger, I asked for a room. Hardly was I
installed when I noticed a pestilential smell that made me sick. The
master of the inn, whom I begged to change my room, had no other to
give me, and I therefore resigned myself. But soon, seeming to observe
that the intolerable stench came from a glazed door in the room, I
called for a waiter, and questioned him as to the door. "Oh!" he
calmly replied, "there has been a dead man behind that door since
yesterday. That is probably what you smell." I waited for no further
particulars, got up, had my horses harnessed, and started, taking
nothing with me but a piece of bread to continue my journey to Moscow.
I had accomplished but half of the journey whose second part was to be
more fatiguing than the first. Not that there were any high hills, but
the road consisted of perpetual ups and downs--which I called torture.
The climax to my annoyance was that I could not amuse myself with a
view of the country through which I was travelling, since a thick fog
veiled the scene on all sides, and this always depresses me. If one
considers, besides these tribulations, the diet I was restricted to
after I had eaten my piece of bread, it will readily be conceived that
I must have found the road very long.
At length I arrived in the former immense capital of Russia. I seemed
to be entering Ispahan, of which place I had seen several drawings, so
much does the aspect of Moscow differ from everything else in Europe.
Nor will I attempt to describe the effect of those thousands of gilded
cupolas surmounted with huge gold crosses, those broad streets, those
superb palaces, for the most part situated so far asunder that
villages intervened. To obtain a right idea of Moscow, you must see
it.
I was driven to the mansion which M. Dimidoff had been kind enough to
lend me. This enormous building had in front of it a large courtyard
surrounded by very high railings. It was untenanted, and I promised
myself perfect peace. After all my fatigue and my forced diet, my
first concern, as soon as I had appeased my hunger, was, of course, to
sleep. But, bad luck to it! at five o'clock in the morning I was
awakened with a start by an infernal din. A large troop of those
Russian musicians who only blow one note each on their horns had
established themselves in the room next to mine to practise. Perhaps
the room was very spacious and the only one suitable for this kind of
rehearsal. I was careful to inquire of the porter if this music was
played every day. Upon his answer that, the palace being uninhabited,
the largest apartment had been devoted to this purpose, I resolved to
make no change in the customs of a house that was not my own, and to
look for another lodging.
In one of my first expeditions I called on the Countess Strogonoff,
the wife of my good old friend. I found her hoisted on the top of some
very high affair which did nothing but rock to and fro. I could not
imagine how she could endure this perpetual motion, but she wanted it
for her health, as she was unable to walk. But this did not prevent
her being agreeable to me. I spoke to her of the embarrassment I was
in on account of lodgings. She at once told me she had a pretty house
that was not occupied, and begged me to accept it, but because she
would hear nothing of my paying a rent, I positively declined the
offer. Seeing that her efforts were in vain, she sent for her
daughter, who was very pretty, and asked me to paint this young
person's portrait in payment of rent, to which I agreed with pleasure.
Thus, a few days later, I settled in a house where I hoped to find
quiet, since I was to live there alone.
So soon as I was established in my new dwelling, I visited the town as
often as the rigours of the season would permit. For during the five
months I spent at Moscow, the snow never melted; it deprived me of the
pleasure of seeing the environments, said to be admirable.
Moscow is at least ten miles round. The Moskva cuts through the town,
and is joined by two other small streams, and it is really an
astonishing sight--all those palaces, those finely sculptured public
monuments, those convents, those churches, all intermingled with
pretty landscapes and villages. This mixture of urban magnificence
and rural simplicity produces an extraordinary, fantastic effect,
which must please the traveller who is in search of something new. The
churches are so numerous in this city that a popular saying runs:
"Moscow with its forty times forty churches." Moscow is supposed to
contain 420,000 inhabitants, and commerce must be on a large scale,
because in a single quarter, whose name I have forgotten, there are
six thousand shops. In the quarter called the Kremlin there stands the
fortress of the same name, the old palace of the czars. This fortress
is as ancient as the town, said to have been built about the middle of
the twelfth century, and is situated on an elevation at the foot of
which flows the Moskva, but there is nothing remarkable in the style
excepting its antiquity. Close to this pile, whose walls are flanked
with towers, I was shown a bell of colossal dimensions half-embedded
in the ground, and I was told it had never been possible to raise it
in order to hang it in the palace chapel.
The cemeteries at Moscow are stupendous, and following the custom
prevailing all over Russia, several times a year, but especially on
the day that in Russia corresponds to our Death Day, the cemeteries
are filled with vast crowds. Men and women kneel at their family
tombs, and there give vent to loud lamentations, which may be heard a
long way off.
A habit as universal in Moscow as in St. Petersburg is the taking of
steam baths. There are some for women and some for men, only when the
men have taken their bath, coming out of it as red as scarlet, they go
out and roll in the snow in the most extreme cold. To this habit the
vigour and sound health of the Russians have been attributed. It is
very certain they know nothing of chest maladies or rheumatism.
A pleasant walk in Moscow is the market, which is always to be found
provisioned with the rarest and most excellent fruits. It is in the
middle of a garden, and is traversed by a broad avenue which renders
the place fascinating. It is quite proper for the greatest ladies to
go there and do their buying in person. In summer they repair thither
in carriages, and in winter in sledges.
I had observed that in St. Petersburg society formed, so to speak, a
single family, all the members of the nobility being cousins to one
another. At Moscow, where the population and the nobility are far more
numerous, society becomes almost the public. For instance, you will
find six thousand persons in the ballroom where the first families
meet. Around this room runs a colonnade on a platform a few feet above
the ground, where the persons who are not dancing can promenade, and
adjoining are various apartments in which people sup or play cards. I
went to one of these balls, and was surprised at the quantity of
pretty women I found assembled. I can say the same for a ball to which
Marshal Soltikoff invited me. The young women were nearly all of
remarkable beauty. They had imitated the antique costume I had
suggested to the Grand Duchess Elisabeth for Catherine II.'s ball.
They wore cashmere tunics edged with gold fringes; gorgeous jewels
held their short upturned sleeves in place; their Greek head-dresses
were for the most part tied with bands adorned with diamonds. Nothing
could have been more stylish or luxurious than these costumes; they
beautified even this class of lovely women, of whom no one was
prettier than the next. One I especially observed was a young person
soon after married to Prince Tufakin. Her face, whose features were
regular and delicate, wore an excessively melancholy expression. After
her marriage I began her portrait, but was only able to finish the
head in Moscow, so that I carried off the picture to finish it at St.
Petersburg, where, however, I before long heard of the death of that
charming young lady. She was scarcely more than seventeen years
old. I painted her as Iris, seated on some clouds, with a billowy
scarf about her.
[Illustration: MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN.]
Mme. Soltikoff kept one of the best houses in Moscow. I had paid her a
call upon arrival. She and her husband, who was then Governor of the
town, showed me great kindness. She asked me to paint the Marshal's
portrait, and her daughter's, who had married Count Gregory Orloff,
son of Count Vladimir. At this time I was doing a picture of Countess
Strogonoff's daughter, so that by the end of ten or twelve days I had
begun six portraits, without counting the likeness of the good and
genial Mme. Ducrest de Villeneuve, whom I was charmed to meet again in
Moscow, and who was so pretty that I insisted on painting her. An
accident that might have cost me my life deprived me of the use of my
studio and retarded the completion of all these works.
I was enjoying perfect peace in the house loaned me by Countess
Strogonoff, but, as it had not been inhabited for seven years, it was
horribly cold. I remedied the evil as far as possible by heating all
the stoves to the utmost. In spite of this measure, I was obliged to
leave the fire lit in my bedroom at night, and was so frozen in bed,
with the shutters hermetically closed, to say nothing of a small lamp
burning near me to moderate the air, that I tied my pillow all round
my head with a ribbon, at the risk of being stifled. One night, when I
had succeeded in going to sleep, I was awakened by suffocating smoke.
I barely had time to ring for my maid, who declared that she had put
out all the fires. I told her to open the passage door. Scarcely had
she obeyed when her candle went out, and my room and the whole
apartment was filled with thick, sickening smoke. We broke the windows
as fast as we could. Not knowing where this dreadful smoke came from,
it may well be imagined how anxious I was. I then sent for one of the
men who lit the fires, and he informed me that another man had
forgotten to open the cover capping the pipes, which is on the roof, I
think. Relieved from the alarm of having set Countess Strogonoff's
house on fire, I went to look at my rooms, all upset that I was. Near
the room where I gave my sittings was a large stove with two doors, in
front of which I had put Marshal Soltikoff's picture to dry. I found
this portrait so thoroughly scorched that I was obliged to do it over
again. But what gave me most pain in this night of trouble was my
inability to have removed at once a collection of pictures by various
great masters, sent me by my husband; they, of course, suffered very
much.
By five o'clock in the morning the smoke had only begun to disperse,
and as we had broken the windows the place was no longer tenable. But
what were we to do? where to go? I decided to send to good Mme.
Ducrest de Villeneuve. She rushed over at once, and took me off to her
house, where I remained a fortnight, during which the dear woman
showered attentions upon me which I shall never forget. When I had
concluded to go home, I first went with M. Ducrest de Villeneuve to
examine the premises. Although the windows had not yet been replaced,
the whole house was still so redolent with smoke that it was
impossible to think of living in it then. I was exceedingly put out at
this, when Count Gregory Orloff, with that courtesy which is the
natural heritage of the Russians, offered to lend me a vacant house
belonging to him. I accepted his offer, and immediately went to settle
in my new lodgings. Here, by the way, the rain poured in so hard that
Mme. Soltikoff, coming to see me and wishing to stay a few minutes in
the room where my pictures were exhibited, asked me for an umbrella.
But in spite of this new form of discomfort, I remained in the house
until my departure from Moscow.
The Russian nobles display as much luxury at Moscow as at St.
Petersburg. Moscow possesses a multitude of splendid palaces most
richly furnished. One of the most sumptuous belonged to Prince
Alexander Kurakin, whom I knew in St. Petersburg, where I had twice
painted his portrait. On learning that I was in Moscow, he came to see
me, and invited me to dinner with my friends, the Countess Ducrest de
Villeneuve and her husband. We found an immense palace, ornamented
externally with royal magnificence. Every room through which we passed
was more handsomely furnished than the one preceding, and in most of
them was a picture of the master of the house, either full or half
length. Before leading us to table Prince Kurakin showed us his
bedchamber, which surpassed all the rest in elegance. The bed,
standing on a raised platform laid with superb carpets, was encircled
by richly draped columns. Two statues and two vases with flowers stood
at the four corners of the platform; chairs of exquisite taste and
divans of great price rendered this room a habitation worthy of Venus.
To reach the dining-room we traversed broad corridors, both sides of
which were lined with liveried serfs holding torches, which made me
feel as though I was taking part in some grave and solemn ceremony.
During the dinner invisible musicians overhead diverted us with the
horn-playing I have already referred to. Prince Kurakin's large
fortune allowed him to maintain the establishment of a king. He was an
excellent man, politely obliging toward his equals, and not in the
least haughty to his inferiors.
I also dined with Prince Galitzin, universally sought after because of
his affable and friendly ways. Although he was too old to sit down to
table with his guests, forty in number, the luxurious and very
abundant dinner nevertheless lasted more than three hours, which tired
me inexpressibly, especially as I was placed opposite a tall window
through which came a blinding light. To me this banquet seemed
unendurable, but by way of compensation I had the pleasure, before
eating, of going through a fine gallery containing pictures by great
masters, mixed, it is true, with some that were rather mediocre.
Prince Galitzin, whom age and illness kept to his armchair, had
charged his nephew with doing me the honours. This young man, being
ignorant of painting, limited himself to explaining the subjects as
best he could, and I had difficulty in refraining from laughter when,
before a picture representing Psyche, being unable to pronounce the
name, he gave me the information, "That is Fiché."
This long meal at Prince Galitzin's reminds me of another, which
probably never ended at all. I had engaged to dine with a big, stout,
enormously wealthy banker of Moscow. We were eighteen at table; never
in my life did I see such a collection of ugly and insignificant
faces--typical faces of money-makers. When I had looked at them all
once I dared not raise my eyes again, for fear of meeting one of those
visages. There was no conversation; they might have been taken for
dummies if they had not eaten like ogres. Four hours went by in this
fashion, and I was bored to the verge of nausea. At last I made up my
mind, and feigning indisposition I left them sitting at the
table--where they perhaps still are.
It was an unlucky day, for that evening a rather comical episode
occurred, though it did not amuse me in the least. For some reason or
other I was obliged to make a call upon an Englishwoman. A lady of my
acquaintance took me there, and left me for some time, after promising
to come back for me. As ill-luck would have it, this Englishwoman knew
not a word of French, and myself not a word of English, and it may
readily be conceived how great was our mutual embarrassment. I still
see her before a little table, between two candles lighting up a face
as pale as death. She thought it her duty, from politeness, to keep
talking to me in a language I could not understand, and I reciprocated
by addressing her in French, which she understood no better. We
remained together more than an hour, which hour seemed to me a
century, and I imagine the poor Englishwoman must have found it just
as long.
At the period when I was in Moscow the wealthiest resident of the
town, and perhaps of all Russia, was Prince Bezborodko. He could have
raised, it is said, an army of 30,000 men on his estate, so many
peasants did he own, these people, as everybody knows, being
considered as part of the soil in Russia. On his different properties
he owned a large number of serfs, whom he treated with the greatest
kindness, and whom he caused to be instructed in various trades. When
I went to see him he showed me rooms full of furniture, bought in
Paris from the workshops of the famous upholsterer, Daguère. Most of
this furniture had been imitated by his serfs, and it was impossible
to distinguish between copy and original. It is this fine work which
leads me to assert that the Russian people are gifted with remarkable
intelligence; they understand everything, and seem endowed with the
talent of execution. Thus the Prince de Ligne wrote: "I see Russians
who are told to be sailors, huntsmen, musicians, engineers, painters,
actors, and who become all these things according to their masters'
wish. I see others sing and dance in the trenches, plunged in snow and
mud, in the midst of musket and cannon shots. And they are all alert,
attentive, obedient, and respectful."
Prince Bezborodko was a man of high ability. He was employed in the
reign of Catherine II. and of Paul, first as secretary to the cabinet,
and then, in 1780, as Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. In his
desire to avoid the countless appeals by which he was besieged, he
made himself as inaccessible as possible. Women sometimes followed
him into his carriage. He would answer their demands with "I shall
forget," and if it was a case of a petition with "I shall lose it."
His greatest gift was a thorough and exact knowledge of the Russian
language. In addition to this he boasted a phenomenal memory and an
astonishing facility of putting his thoughts into words. I give a
well-known instance in proof thereof. On one occasion the Empress
ordered him to draw up a ukase, which, however, a great pressure of
business caused him to forget. The first time he saw the Empress
again, after conferring with him on several matters of administration,
she asked him for the ukase. Bezborodko, not the least bit in the
world dismayed, drew a sheet of paper out of his portfolio, and
without a moment's hesitation improvised the whole thing from
beginning to end. Catherine was so well pleased with this presentment
that she took the paper from him to look at it. Her surprise may be
imagined at the sight of a sheet that was quite blank! Bezborodko
began elaborate excuses, but she stopped him with compliments, and the
next day made him Privy Councillor.
Another Russian, whose memory was as marvellous as Prince
Bezborodko's, was Count Buturlin, whom I knew quite well at Moscow,
where, by the way, we lived so far apart that whenever I supped with
Countess Buturlin I was obliged to go two miles. The Count, through
his experience and his knowledge, is one of the most remarkable men I
have ever known. He speaks all the languages with extraordinary ease,
and his information on all sorts of subjects renders his conversation
infinitely fascinating. But his superiority over others never
prevented him from being very unaffected, nor from treating his
friends with good-nature and generosity. He owned a huge library in
Moscow, composed of the rarest and most valuable books in different
languages. His memory was such that when he was recounting a
historical or any other anecdote he could at once tell in what room
and on what shelf of his library the book was that he had just cited.
I was greatly amazed at this, yet a thing as fully astonishing was to
hear him talk of all the towns of Europe and their most conspicuous
features as if he had lived in them a long time, whereas he had never
once set foot outside of Russia. For my part, I know that he spoke to
me about Paris and its buildings, and everything curious to be seen
there, in such complete detail that I exclaimed, "It is impossible
that you have not been in Paris!"
The request made to me for portraits and my agreeable social circle
ought to have kept me longer in Moscow, where I stayed but five
months, of which I spent six weeks in my room. But I was melancholy
and ailing; I felt a need of rest, especially of breathing in a warmer
climate. I therefore resolved upon returning to St. Petersburg to see
my daughter and then quitting Russia. I was, however, held back for
some days by an unusually severe attack of my general indisposition.
CHAPTER XIII
GOOD-BY TO RUSSIA
DEPARTURE FROM MOSCOW -- NEWS OF THE DEATH OF PAUL -- PARTICULARS
OF HIS ASSASSINATION -- ET TU BRUTE? -- PAUL'S PRESENTIMENTS OF
PERIL -- HIS SUCCESSOR NOT AN ACCOMPLICE IN THE CRIME --
ALEXANDER I. A POPULAR MONARCH -- AN ORDER FROM AN IMPERIAL
CUSTOMER AND MODEL -- FAREWELLS TO FRIENDS -- AMONG THEM, CZAR
AND CZARINA.
When I was sufficiently restored I announced my departure and made my
adieus. Everything was done to induce me to stay. People offered to
pay more for my portraits than I had received in St. Petersburg--to
allow me all the time I required to finish them without fatiguing
myself. I call to mind now, the very day prior to my leaving, while I
was engaged in packing up on the ground floor of my house, there
suddenly appeared before me, unannounced, a man of colossal stature in
a white cloak, at whose sight I was nearly frightened to death. In
Moscow one continually saw people banished to Siberia by Paul, and
although but two French had been exiled--both authors of infamous
libels against Russia--I forthwith judged this stranger to be an
emissary of Paul. I breathed freely only when I heard him beseeching
me not to leave Moscow, and begging me to do a large likeness of his
whole family. Upon my refusal, which I made as polite as possible, the
good gentleman asked me fervently at least to give my own portrait to
the town. I acknowledge that this last request so touched my heart
as to leave me an enduring regret that my affairs and the state of
my health prevented me from complying.
[Illustration: HUBERT ROBERT
A French Painter of Repute. Born 1733. Died 1808. One of Mme. Lebrun's
Contemporaries.]
Several persons who, I doubt not, were initiated into the
revolutionary conspiracy under progress urged me to defer my departure
for a few days, promising they would go to St. Petersburg with me. But
in my complete ignorance of the plot, I persisted in starting--in
which I made a great mistake. For by waiting a little I might have
avoided the hardships I underwent on those abominable roads, again
rendered well-nigh impracticable by a thaw.
It was on the 12th of March, 1801, when I was half-way between Moscow
and St. Petersburg, that I heard the news of Paul's death. I found in
front of the posthouse a number of couriers, who were about to spread
the news in the different towns of the empire, and, since they took
all the horses, I could obtain none for myself. I was obliged to
remain in my carriage, which had been put by the roadside on the bank
of a river; such a bitter wind was blowing that it froze me.
Nevertheless, I was compelled to pass the night there. At last I
contrived to hire some horses, and I reached St. Petersburg only at
eight or nine on the morning of the following day.
I found that city in a delirium of joy; people were singing and
dancing and kissing one another in the streets; acquaintances of mine
ran up to my carriage and squeezed my hands, exclaiming "What a
blessing!" They told me that the houses had been illuminated the
evening before. In short, the death of the unhappy Prince gave rise to
general rejoicings.
None of the particulars of the dreadful occurrence were secret from
anybody, and I can aver that the accounts given me that day all
agreed. Palhen, one of the conspirators, had taken every means to
frighten Paul with a plot he alleged to have been hatched by the
Empress and her children for the purpose of seizing the throne.
Paul's habitually suspicious mind incited him only too strongly to
credit these false confidences, which enraged him to the degree of
ordering his wife and the Grand Dukes to be shut up in the fortress.
Palhen declined to obey without the Emperor's signed authority. Paul
gave his signature, and Palhen at once went to Alexander with the
document. "You see," he said, "that your father is mad, and that you
are all lost unless we forestall him by locking him up first."
Alexander, though believing his life and his family's in jeopardy, did
nothing but consent through silence to this idea, which seemed merely
to propose putting a lunatic out of harm's way. But Palhen and his
accomplices thought it necessary to go further. Five of the
conspirators undertook the assassination, one of them being Plato
Zuboff, a former pet of Catherine, whom Paul had loaded with favours
after recalling him from exile. The five penetrated into Paul's
sleeping apartment after he had gone to bed. The two guards at the
door defended it valiantly, but their resistance was fruitless, and
one of them was killed. At the sight of the infuriated men rushing in
upon him, Paul rose from his couch. As he was very powerful he made a
long fight against his murderers, who finally managed to strangle him
in an armchair. The unhappy man's last words were, "You, too, Zuboff!
I thought you were my friend!"
It seems that chance had contributed in every way to the success of
the plot. A regiment of soldiers had been brought to surround the
palace, and the Colonel, far from being in the counsels of the
conspirators, fully believed that an attempt upon the Emperor's life
was to be frustrated. A portion of the regiment went through the
garden to post themselves under Paul's window. Unfortunately, the
marching of the soldiers did not awaken him; nor did the noise of a
flock of crows, which were in the habit of sleeping on the roof, and
which burst out cawing. Had it been otherwise, the ill-fated ruler
would have had time to reach a secret staircase next to his room, by
which he could have descended to that of one Mme. Narischkin, in whom
he had full confidence. Having got thus far, nothing would have been
easier for him than to make off in a little boat always moored on the
canal beside the palace. Besides, the distrust he harboured against
his wife had caused him to double-lock the door dividing his
apartments from the Empress's. When he tried to escape through that
door it was too late, the assassins having taken the precaution to
withdraw the key. To crown all, Kutaisoff, his faithful valet, the
very day the murder was committed received a letter revealing the
conspiracy; but this man had for some time been neglecting most of his
duties, and did not open his letters punctually. Kutaisoff left the
letter disclosing the conspiracy on the table. On opening the missive
next day the unhappy man fell into such a desperate state that he
nearly died of it. The same was the case with the Colonel who had
placed his troops about the palace. This young officer, Talesin by
name, learning of the crime that had been perpetrated, felt such grief
at his deception that he went home with a raging fever, which nearly
put an end to him. I believe, in fact, that he did not long survive
the blow, all innocent that he was. But what I am sure of is that
Alexander I. went to see him every day during his illness, and
interdicted some firing exercises too near the patient's house.
Although the various impediments I have mentioned might have
interfered with Paul's killing, it must be concluded that the
contrivers of the scheme never doubted its issue. For all St.
Petersburg knew that on the night of the event a handsome young man in
the plot named S----ky drew out his watch at midnight among a passably
large company, saying: "It must all be over by this time." Paul was
dead, indeed; his body was forthwith embalmed, and for six weeks he
lay on a bed of state, his face uncovered and showing scarcely a trace
of decay, owing to the fact that it was plastered with rouge. The
Empress Maria, his widow, went to kneel in prayer every day at the
bed. She took her two youngest sons, Nicholas and Michael, such small
children that Nicholas one day asked her, "Why is papa always asleep?"
The trick employed to make Alexander I. consent to his father's
deposal--for he took no other view of the case--was a fact vouched for
to me by Count Strogonoff, one of the wisest and most upright men I
have ever known, and the best informed of all as to happenings at the
Russian court. He doubted the less how easy it had been to induce Paul
to sign the order for his wife's and children's imprisonment, as he
was aware by what fearful suspicions the mind of that poor Prince was
haunted. The very evening before the assassination there was a grand
court concert, at which the whole royal family was present. During a
moment's private conversation with Count Strogonoff, the Emperor said
to him: "No doubt you think me the happiest of men, my friend. At last
I am living in this palace of St. Michael, which I have had built and
finely fitted out according to my own tastes. I have my family about
me here for the first time. My wife is still good looking, my eldest
son is handsome, too, and my daughters are charming. There they are,
all of them, opposite me; but when I look at them I see my murderers
in them all." Count Strogonoff exclaimed, recoiling, horror-struck:
"Some one is lying to Your Majesty! This is an infamous slander!" Paul
stared at him with haggard eyes, and then, pressing his hand,
declared, "What I have just told you is the truth."
I am firmly persuaded that Alexander knew nothing of the attempt to be
made upon his father's life. If all the facts I was acquainted with at
the time were not enough, I have conviction from proof afforded by
that Prince's well-known character. Alexander I. had a noble,
magnanimous heart; not only was he always God-fearing, but he was so
honest that even in politics was he never known to resort to guile or
deceit. Very well, then--on hearing that Paul was no more his despair
was so intense that no one who went near him could doubt his innocence
of the murder. The wiliest of men could not have summoned up all the
tears he shed. In the first hours of his grief he refused to be
Emperor, and I know for certain that his wife Elisabeth threw herself
on her knees before him, imploring him to take the reins of
government. He then went to his mother, the Empress, who called to him
as soon as she set eyes upon him from afar: "Go away! Go away! I see
you all covered with your father's blood!" Alexander raised his
tearful eyes to Heaven and said, in accents coming from the soul, "I
take God to witness, mother, that I did not order this awful crime to
be done!" These few words bore such a thorough stamp of truth that the
Empress consented to listen to him, and when she learned how the
conspirators had cheated her son in the carrying out of their
enterprise, she fell at his feet with, "Then I bow to my Emperor!"
Alexander lifted her up, knelt before her in turn, took her in his
arms and bestowed every mark of respect and affection upon her. Nor
did he ever give the lie to this affection. So long as he lived never
did the Emperor Alexander refuse his mother anything, and his respect
toward her was so great that he insisted on maintaining all the
honours of court etiquette for her. Thus she always took precedence
before the Empress Elisabeth.
Paul's death occasioned none of the upheavals which too often follow
upon the departure of a ruler. All those who had participated in his
favour continued to keep the emoluments they owed to his patronage.
His valet Kutaisoff, that barber whom he made so rich, whom he had
decorated with the highest orders in Russia, remained peacefully in
the enjoyment of his master's benefactions. If there was no change in
the lot of Paul's friends, it was otherwise with his victims. Exiles
were called back, and their property was restored to them; justice was
done to all who had been sacrificed to caprices without number. In
fact, a golden era began for Russia. It was impossible to deny this at
witnessing the love, the regard and the enthusiasm of the Russians for
their new Emperor. That enthusiasm was so strong that all esteemed it
the greatest thing to have seen, to have met Alexander. If he went
walking in the Summer Garden of an evening, or if he passed along the
streets of St. Petersburg, the crowd would press about him and call
down blessings upon him, while he, the most benevolent of princes,
would answer all these demonstrations with perfect graciousness. I was
unable to go to Moscow for his coronation, but some people who were
there told me that nothing was ever more moving or more beautiful. The
transports of popular gladness vented themselves all over the city and
in the church. When Alexander placed the diamond crown on the Empress
Elisabeth's head, radiant with beauty, they formed such a lovely pair
as to evoke unbounded acclaim.
In the midst of the universal elation I was myself fortunate enough to
meet the Emperor on one of the St. Petersburg quays a few days after
my arrival. He was on horseback, and although Paul's regulations had
of course been abolished, I had my carriage stopped for the pleasure
of seeing Alexander pass. He rode up to me at once, asked me how I
liked Moscow, and whether the roads had given me any trouble. I
replied that I regretted having been unable to stay long enough in
that glorious city to see all its splendours; as for the roads, I
acknowledged they were abominable. He agreed with me, saying he hoped
to have them mended. Then, after paying me a thousand compliments, he
left me.
Next day Count Strogonoff came to me on the Emperor's behalf, with a
command to paint him at half length, and also on horseback. No sooner
was this news spread than numbers of court people rushed to my house,
asking for a copy of either portrait, they cared not which, so long as
they had one of Alexander. At any other time of my life this would
have been an opportunity to make a fortune, but alas! my physical
condition, to say nothing of the mental sufferings still besetting me,
prohibited me from taking advantage of it. Feeling unfit to work at a
full-length picture, I did a pastel bust-portrait of the Emperor, and
one of the Empress; these I intended to enlarge at Dresden or Berlin,
in case I should be obliged to leave St. Petersburg. It was not long,
in fact, before my ailments became unbearable; the doctor I consulted
ordered me to take the waters at Carlsbad.
I cannot describe the regrets I experienced at leaving St. Petersburg,
where I had spent such happy years. It was not without an aching heart
that I bade my daughter good-by, bitter though it was to see her
estranged from me, to see her completely under the thumb of a clique
headed by the vile governess whom I would accuse of everything evil. A
few days prior to my departure my son-in-law remarked that he did not
conceive how I could quit St. Petersburg at the moment most favourable
to my fortune. "You will admit," I answered, "that my heart must be
very sick. The reason you can easily guess."
Other separations I likewise found most painful. The Princesses
Kurakin and Dolgoruki, that excellent Count Strogonoff, who had given
me so many proofs of friendship--that was what I regretted far more
than the fortune I was renouncing. I remember how the dear Count came
to see me as soon as he heard I was going. He was so perturbed that he
walked up and down the studio where I was painting, muttering to
himself, "No, no; she won't go away; it is impossible!" My daughter,
who was present, thought he was turning mad. To all the kindly
proffered demonstrations of attachment I could not answer except by a
promise to return to St. Petersburg. And such was then my firm
intention.
When I had quite decided to depart I asked for an audience with the
Empress, which was immediately granted, and on presenting myself I
found the Emperor there, too. I testified my liveliest and sincerest
regrets to Their Majesties, telling them my health compelled me to
take the waters at Carlsbad, recommended to me for stoppages. To this
the Emperor affably replied: "Do not go so far in search of a remedy.
I will give you the Empress's horse, and after riding it for some time
you will be cured." I thanked the Emperor a hundred times for the
offer, but confessed that I did not know how to ride. "Well," he
resumed, "I will give you a riding-master to take you out." I cannot
say how touched I was by such kindness, and on taking leave of Their
Majesties I sought in vain for terms strong enough to express my
gratitude.
A few days after this interview I met the Empress walking in the
Summer Garden. I was with my daughter and M. de Rivière. Her Majesty
stepped up to me, saying: "Do not leave us, I beg of you, Mme. Lebrun.
Remain here and take care of your health. I cannot bear to have you
go." I assured her it was my desire and my purpose to return to St.
Petersburg for the pleasure of seeing her again. God knows I spoke the
truth, but I have, none the less, often been assailed with the fear
that my refusal to stay in Russia may have appeared as ingratitude to
Their Majesties, and that they may not have quite forgiven me.
On crossing the Russian border I burst into tears. I wanted to retrace
my journey, and I vowed I would come back to those who had for so long
heaped tokens of friendship and devotion upon me, and whose memory
is ever in my heart. But one must believe in fate, for I never again
saw the country which I still look upon as a second motherland.
[Illustration: A MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER.]
CHAPTER XIV
HOMEWARD BOUND
FIRST STATION, NARVA -- THE CATARACT -- RIGA -- HARDSHIPS OF
TRAVEL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO -- OBDURATE CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICIALS --
A SUMMONS TO POTSDAM -- THE LOVELIEST AND SWEETEST OF QUEENS --
HER UGLY CHILDREN -- AN AMBITIOUS COOK -- THE JOURNEY CONTINUED
-- "REMEMBER YOUR JEWEL-CASE" -- MODELLING IN DIRT FOR A PASTIME
-- LIKEWISE SEWING -- HOME AGAIN.
I left St. Petersburg sad, sick and alone in my carriage, having been
unable to keep my Russian maid. I had nobody but a very old man who
wanted to go to Prussia, and whom I had given a servant's place
through pity, which I had cause to regret, because he got so drunk at
every stage that he had to be carried back to the box. M. de Rivière,
escorting me in his calash, was of no great assistance to me,
especially after crossing the Russian frontier and entering the sandy
district, for his postilions, from whom he did not know how to exact
obedience, were continually taking side roads, while I followed the
main road.
My first stop I made at Narva, a well-fortified but ugly, ill-paved
little town. The road leading there is entrancing; it is edged with
pretty houses and English gardens; in the distance is the sea, covered
with ships, which makes this route extremely picturesque. The women of
Narva wear the dress of ancient times. They are good-looking, for the
people of Livonia in general are splendid. Nearly all the heads of the
old men reminded me of Raphael's heads of Christ, and the young men,
their long hair falling on their shoulders, might have been models to
that great painter.
The day after my arrival I went to visit a magnificent cataract at
some distance from the town. A huge mass of water--you cannot tell
where it comes from--forms a torrent so rapid and powerful that in its
course it runs up enormous rocks, from which it tumbles noisily down
to rush up other rocks. The multitudinous cascades thus shooting after
each other in succession, and swallowing each other up, produce a
terrifying din. While I was occupied in sketching this beautiful
horror some of the inhabitants of Narva who were watching me told me
of a dreadful thing they had witnessed. The waters of the cataract,
swollen by great rains, had carried away some of the bank, and with it
a house that was the home of a family. The cries of distress of the
unfortunates were heard, and their frightful plight was seen, but no
aid could be given them, since it was impossible to steer a boat in
the torrent. The heartrending spectacle was finally followed by one
far more shocking, when the house and the unhappy family were
engulfed, and disappeared before the eyes of those who were now
narrating the catastrophe, and who were still quite affected by it.
Arriving at Riga, I found that this town, like Narva, was neither
handsome nor well-paved, but it is known to be a great commercial
place and has a fine harbour. Most of the men are habited like Turks
or Poles, and all women not of the populace put a gauze veil over
their heads when they go out. I scarcely had time to make other
observations, as I was hastening to reach Mittau, where I still hoped
to find the royal family. But to my annoyance I arrived too late and
did not meet them, so that I made but a short stay in this town, where
I had only gone for the sake of seeing our Princes.
I had taken the post from St. Petersburg, but at Riga we met the
Grand Duchess of Baden, who was on her way to the Empress, her
daughter, and who left not a horse on our route. I was obliged to hire
horses at livery-stables, and the coachman, instead of putting me down
for the night at the posthouses, took me to wretched cabins where
there were no beds and nothing to eat, so that in most cases I spent
the night in my carriage. As for food, the soup I got was made without
meat, but with carrots and bad butter. If I had a fowl killed it was
so lean and so tough that M. de Rivière and I were unable to cut it.
And we barely had time to finish these miserable meals, in so great
haste were the liverymen to resume the journey. We drove through such
deep sand that the horses went at a walk. It was frightfully hot. In
order to get air I was obliged to leave all my windows open, and both
postilions smoked incessantly; the vile odour of their pipes sickened
me so that I preferred to walk most of the time they smoked, although
I was up to my ankles in sand. Fortunately, no robbers are ever met
with on these roads. True, I noticed wolves on the neighbouring
heights, but apparently they were afraid of us, for they always fled
when we drew near, and so did the poor stags, which I frequently saw
crossing the road, when alarmed by M. de Rivière's calash.
In my state of health such hardships were bound to tell upon me. A few
days, in fact, were enough to break me down to such a degree that not
to succumb altogether it needed all my courage and my lively
determination not to interrupt the journey. I became so weak and ill
that I had to drag myself to my carriage, where I remained motionless,
bereft even of the ability to think. The only sensation I had was a
sharp pain in the right side, caused by rheumatism, and intensified
with every jolt. This pain was so unbearable that one day, when we
were driving on a road under repair and full of stones, I fainted away
in the carriage.
A part of my torture ended at Koenigsberg. There I took the post as
far as Berlin, where I arrived about the end of July, 1801, at ten in
the evening. But though I needed rest so badly, I was first to undergo
the ordeal of the custom-house. I was made to enter a large, dark
vault, where I waited a full two hours. The customs officers then said
they wanted to hold my carriage, so as to examine it at night, which
would have compelled me to walk to the inn in the pouring rain. I
argued with these men in French, and they answered me in German. It
was enough to drive one to distraction. They would not even allow me
to take out a nightcap and a little vial containing an antispasmodic,
of which I certainly would stand in great need after such a trial. I
was so hoarse from shouting at the barbarians that I could not speak.
At last I obtained permission to leave the custom-house in my
carriage, and I went to the "City of Paris" inn with a customs
officer, a real demon and dead drunk into the bargain. He opened my
luggage and turned everything pell-mell, appropriating a piece of
embroidered Indian stuff given me by Mme. Du Barry on my departure
from Paris. As I did not wish my "Sibyl" or the studies I had made of
the Emperor and Empress of Russia to be unrolled, my carriage was put
under seal, and at last I was able to get to bed. Early next day I
sent for M. Ranspach, my banker, who settled all my difficulties with
the custom-house.
Three days sufficed to rest me from the fatigues of my journey, and I
was feeling much better when the Queen of Prussia, who was then absent
from Berlin, was kind enough to request my presence at Potsdam, where
she desired me to do her portrait. I went. But my pen is incapable of
rendering the impression which the first sight of that Princess made
upon me. The beauty of her heavenly face, that expressed benevolence
and goodness, and whose features were so regular and delicate, the
loveliness of her figure, neck, and arms, the exquisite freshness of
her complexion--all was enchanting beyond anything imaginable. She was
in deep mourning, and wore a coronet of black jet, which, far from
being to her disadvantage, brought out the dazzling whiteness of her
skin. One must have seen the Queen of Prussia in order to understand
how bewitched I was when I first beheld her.
She made an appointment for the first sitting. "I cannot," she said,
"give it to you before noon, because the King reviews the troops at
ten every morning and likes me to attend." She wanted to lodge me in
the palace, but, knowing that this must inconvenience one of her
ladies, I declined with thanks and took quarters in a neighbouring
hotel, where I was very badly off in every way.
My stay at Potsdam was nevertheless a veritable delight to me, for the
more I saw of that charming Queen the more was I sensible to the
privilege of being in her company. She seemed to wish to see the
studies I had made of the Emperor Alexander and the Empress Elizabeth;
I promptly brought them to her, as well as my "Sibyl," which I had
stretched. I cannot say how graciously she praised this picture. She
was so friendly and so kind that the feeling she inspired was
altogether one of affection. I look back with pleasure upon all the
marks of favour that Her Majesty showered upon me, even in the
slightest matters. For instance: I was in the habit of taking coffee
of a morning, and in my hotel it was always atrocious. Somehow I told
the Queen about this, and the next day she sent me some that was
excellent. Another time, when I complimented her on her bracelets,
which were in the antique style, she at once removed them from her
arms and put them on mine. This gift was more welcome to me than a
fortune would have been; from that day forth those bracelets have
travelled with me everywhere. She was also obliging enough to give me
a box at the theatre quite near hers. From this place of vantage I
enjoyed, above all, looking at Her Majesty, whose lovely face was like
that of a sixteen-year-old girl. During one of our sittings the Queen
sent for her children. To my great surprise I found that they were
ugly. In showing them to me she said, "They are not pretty." I confess
I had not the courage to deny it. I contented myself with replying
that their faces had a great deal of character.
Besides the two pastels I made of Her Majesty, I did two others of
Prince Ferdinand's family. One of the young princesses, Louise, who
had married Prince Radziwill, was pretty and very genial. For some
time I had a delightful correspondence with her; I count her as one of
the people one can never forget. Her husband was a thorough musician.
I remember a surprise he caused me arising solely from a difference in
national customs. During my sojourn at Berlin I was taken to a grand
public concert, and was amazed to the last degree, upon entering the
hall, to see Prince Radziwill performing on the harp! Such a thing
would be impossible with us. Never could an amateur, especially a
prince, play before any one but his own social circle, and certainly
not before people who paid. I suppose in Prussia it was quite usual.
In Berlin I made the acquaintance of the Baroness de Krudener, so well
known for her cleverness and her rhapsodical notions. Her renown as an
author was already established, but she had not yet gained the
reputation of a religious prophet that made her so famous in the
North. She and her husband treated me with great civility. I can say
the same for Mme. de Souza, the Portuguese Ambassadress, whose
portrait I painted at the time.
On first arriving at Berlin I called upon the French Ambassador,
General Bournonville, for I was at last beginning to consider a return
to Paris. My friends, and particularly my brother, urgently suggested
I should do so. They had easily had my name taken off the list of
exiles, so that I was reëstablished as a Frenchwoman, which, in spite
of all, I had ever remained in my heart. Although General Bournonville
was the first republican ambassador I visited, I had already seen
others. Toward the end of my stay at St. Petersburg General Duroc and
M. de Châteaugiron appeared at Alexander's court as envoys of
Bonaparte, and I remember hearing the Empress Elisabeth saying to the
Emperor, "When are we to receive the _citizens_?" M. de Châteaugiron
called upon me. I was as polite as in me lay, but that tricoloured
cockade affected me unspeakably. A few days later they both dined at
Princess Galitzin's. At table I found myself next to General Duroc,
who was said to have been one of Napoleon's intimates. He addressed
not a single word to me, and I did likewise with him. The dinner I
speak of gave rise to a rather amusing incident. The Princess's cook,
wholly ignorant of the French Revolution, naturally took these
gentlemen for ambassadors from the King of France. Wishing to honour
them, after much reflection he bethought himself that the lily was the
emblem of France, and accordingly arranged his truffles and fillets
and sweetmeats in that pattern. This so took the guests aback that the
Princess, fearing no doubt she was suspected of a bad joke, called up
the cook, and asked him what all the lilies meant. Said the worthy
soul with an air of proud satisfaction, "I wanted to show Your
Excellency that I knew the proper thing to do on great occasions."
A few days before I said farewell to Berlin the Director-General of
the Academy of Painting most courteously came to me in person with my
diploma as a member of said Academy. The many tokens of good-will
heaped upon me at the Prussian capital and court would assuredly have
kept me longer had my plans not been definitely fixed. Hence, being
resolved to go, I bade good-by to that dear, kind, lovely young Queen,
all unwitting, alas! how few years after I was to be shocked with the
news of her death.
[Illustration: WOMAN PAINTING.]
At starting from Berlin I was threatened with the loss of everything I
owned, and this is how it happened:
My horses were ordered for five o'clock in the morning. My man servant
must have gone to make his adieus to some friends, for he did not
appear, and in Prussia, as every one knows, horses do not wait. I got
up and dressed in a thoroughly sleepy condition. Meanwhile the porter
of my hotel, not seeing my man, took my jewel-case downstairs with my
remaining effects. This jewel-case, which contained all my diamonds
and other ornaments, and my cash--my whole fortune, in fact--I always
had under my feet when travelling. By the greatest luck, as soon as I
got into my carriage, though half asleep, I noticed that my feet were
not supported as usual. The horses were just off. I cried out to have
them stopped, and then called to the porter for my jewel-case,
purposely making enough noise to wake the mistress of the house. And I
was successful, for, after some evasions by the porter, the case was
brought out. It had been found in a stable at the back of the yard,
all covered with hay. The incident had given my man time to arrive,
and I drove away in high spirits, as may well be imagined, at having
recovered both my servant and my jewel-case. I record the adventure
thinking it may be useful as a lesson to absent-minded travellers.
From Berlin I went to Dresden, and then on to Brunswick, where I spent
a few days with the Rivière family. Between Brunswick and Weimar my
postilion lost the way, and we were stuck for hours in the heaviest
soil. I remember that as a truce to my impatience--and more
particularly to my appetite--I gathered up some of that wretched earth
and tried to model a head with it; I really achieved something that
looked like a face. Though furnished with letters for the court at
Weimar, I did not present them, but after a day's rest proceeded to
Gotha. Here I met an old friend I had known in Paris, Baron Grimm, who
very civilly attended to all my wants for the journey, which I did not
again interrupt until I reached Frankfort. We were obliged to wait at
Frankfort six days, during which I was very much bored. To pass the
time I mended my old shirts, and the Lord knows what sort of sewing
that was! On reaching Paris I engaged a chambermaid, who remarked,
when she saw my mending, "Any one can see that Madame has been in a
savage country, for this is sewn like the devil." I laughed and
informed her that it was my own handiwork. The poor girl, quite
embarrassed, was eager to take back what she had said, but I reassured
her by acknowledging that I had never been an adept with the needle.
I will not attempt to describe my feelings at setting foot on the soil
of France, from which I had been absent twelve years. I was stirred by
terror, grief and joy in turn. I mourned the friends who had died on
the scaffold; but I was to see those again who still lived. This
France, that I was entering once more, had been the scene of horrible
crimes. But this France was my country!
CHAPTER XV
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW
PARIS AFTER THE REVOLUTION -- RENEWING OLD ACQUAINTANCES AND
FORMING NEW TIES -- RIVAL BEAUTIES: MME. RÉCAMIER AND MME.
TALLIEN -- MME. CAMPAN -- AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S SLIP OF THE TONGUE --
SOME DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNERS.
On my arrival in Paris at our house in the Rue Gros Chenet, M. Lebrun,
my brother, my sister-in-law, and her daughter were awaiting me when I
alighted from my carriage; they were all weeping for joy, and I, too,
was deeply moved. I found the staircase lined with flowers, and my
apartment in complete readiness. The hangings and curtains of my
bedroom were in green cloth, the curtains edged with yellow watered
silk. M. Lebrun had had a crown of gilt stars put over the bedstead,
the furniture was all convenient and in good taste, and I felt
altogether comfortably installed. Although M. Lebrun made me pay
dearly enough for all this, I nevertheless appreciated the pains he
had taken to make my place of abode agreeable.
The house in the Rue Gros Chenet was separated by a garden from a
house facing the Rue de Cléry, which also belonged to M. Lebrun. In
this second house was a great room where very fine concerts were
given. I was taken there the evening of my arrival, and as soon as I
entered the place everybody turned in my direction, the audience
clapping their hands, the musicians rapping on their violins with
their bows. I was so touched by this flattering testimony that I gave
way to tears. I call to mind that Mme. Tallien was at this concert,
radiant with beauty.
My first visitor, next day, was Greuze, whom I found unchanged. You
would even have said that he had never undressed his hair, for the
same locks waved at each side of his head--just as before my
departure. I was grateful for his attention, and very glad to see him
again. After Greuze came my good friend, Mme. de Bonneuil, as pretty
as ever; the dear creature was preserved in a truly wonderful manner.
She told me that her daughter, Mme. Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angély,
was to give a ball the following night, and that I must come
unfailingly. I answered that I had no ball dress, and then showed her
that famous piece of Indian stuff given me by Mme. Du Barry, which had
gone through such great adventures since being in my possession. Mme.
de Bonneuil declared it admirable, and sent it to Mme. Germain, the
celebrated dressmaker, who immediately made me a fashionable gown,
which she brought me that very evening. So I went to Mme. Regnault de
Saint-Jean-d'Angély's ball, and I saw the handsomest women of the
period, first among them Mme. Regnault herself, and next Mme.
Visconti, so remarkable for her beauty of both figure and face. While
amusing myself with looking over all these lovely ladies, some one
sitting in front of me turned round. She was so exquisite that I could
not help exclaiming, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" It was Mme.
Jouberthon, then portionless, who afterward married Lucien Bonaparte.
I also saw a number of French generals at this ball. Macdonald,
Marmont and several others were pointed out to me. In fact, this was a
new society.
A few days after my return Mme. Bonaparte called upon me one morning.
She spoke of the balls at which we had been together before the
Revolution; she was most cordial, and even invited me to dinner at the
First Consul's. However, the date of this dinner was never mentioned.
My friend Robert soon paid me a visit, and so did the Brongniarts, and
Ménageot. I was very deeply touched with the joy testified by the
friends and acquaintances who crowded to see me every day. But the
pleasure of greeting them all was bitterly mingled with sorrow at
learning of many deaths I was ignorant of, for not an individual came
who had not lost a mother, a husband, or some relation.
And I had another trial to undergo, worse than all the rest. Good
manners demanded a visit to my odious stepfather. He still lived at
Neuilly, in a small house bought by my father, where I had often been
in my early youth. Everything in the place reminded me of my poor
mother and my happy days with her. I found her workbasket just as she
had left it. In short, the visit was the more sad for me as I was
mournfully inclined. Going to Neuilly, I for the first time recrossed
the Louis XV. square, where I still seemed to see the blood of a host
of noble victims. My brother, who was with me, reproached himself for
not having made our carriage take a different route, since I was
suffering beyond belief. At this very day I never pass that square
without calling up the horrors it has witnessed--I cannot control my
imagination.
The first time I went to the play the house looked exceedingly dull to
me. Accustomed as I had been, in France and abroad, to see every one
powdered, those dark heads and those men in dark clothes made a
melancholy picture. You would have thought the audience had assembled
to go to a funeral.
In general, Paris had a less lively appearance to me. The streets
seemed so narrow that I was tempted to believe double rows of houses
had been built. This was no doubt due to my recent impressions of St.
Petersburg and Berlin, where the streets, for the most part, are very
wide. But what displeased me far more was still to see "liberty,
fraternity or death" written on the walls. These words, sanctified by
the Terror, aroused the saddest thoughts in me touching the past, and
inspired me with some fears for the future.
I was taken to see a great review by the First Consul in the square of
the Louvre. I stood at a window in the museum, and recollect that I
refused to acknowledge the tiny man I saw to be Bonaparte; the Duke de
Crillon, who was beside me, had all the difficulty in the world to
convince me. Here, as in the case of Catherine II., I had depicted
such a famous man in the shape of a giant. Not long after my arrival
Bonaparte's brothers came to view my works; they were very civil
toward me, and said the most flattering things. Lucien, especially,
inspected my "Sibyl" quite minutely, and proffered me a thousand
praises on account of it.
My first visits were to my good old friends, the Marquise de Grollier,
Mme. de Verdun and the Countess d'Andlau, whose two daughters I saw at
the same time, Mme. de Rosambeau and Mme. d'Orglande, both worthy of
their mother in mind and good looks. I likewise went to see Mme. de
Ségur. I found her lonely and dejected; her husband had no post, and
they were living in straitened circumstances. Later, when I came back
from London, Bonaparte made the Count de Ségur Master of Ceremonies,
which gave them an easy life. I remember how, about this time, going
to see the Countess Ségur toward eight in the evening, and finding her
alone, she said to me: "You would scarcely believe I have had twenty
people to dinner. They all went after the coffee." I was, indeed,
rather surprised, because before the Revolution most of the guests you
had to dinner would remain with you until evening, which I thought
much more proper than the new method.
At the same time Mme. de Ségur invited me to a large musical party
at which all the notables of the day came together. Here I had
occasion to observe another innovation, which seemed to me no better
than the first. I was astonished, when I entered the room, to find all
the men on one side and all the women on the other--like hostile
forces, you would have said. Not a man came over to our side excepting
the master of the house, the Count de Ségur, impelled by his old
habits of gallantry to pay the ladies a few compliments. Mme. de
Canisy was announced, a very handsome woman, with the figure of a
painter's model. And then we lost our only knight, for the Count went
to lay himself at the feet of this beauty, and did not leave her the
whole evening.
[Illustration: MME. COURCELLES.]
I was seated next to Mme. de Bassano, who had been praised highly to
me, and whom I had thus been anxious to see. She seemed very much
wrapped up in the diamond monogram given me by the Queen of Naples
when I bade that Princess farewell. Moreover, considering me probably
as an interloper, since I was neither a minister's wife nor a lady of
the court, she spoke not a single word to me, which did not, however,
prevent me from looking at her repeatedly and judging her extremely
pretty.
The first artist I went to see was M. Vien, who had formerly been
created first painter to the King, and whom Bonaparte had recently
nominated Senator. He was then eighty-two years old. M. Vien may be
regarded as heading the restoration of the French school. After this
visit I went to M. Gérard's, already famous for his pictures,
"Belisarius" and "Psyche." He had just finished a fine portrait of
Mme. Bonaparte reclining on a sofa, which was to add yet more to his
reputation in this style of painting. Mme. Bonaparte's portrait made
me wish to see that which Gérard had done of Mme. Récamier. So I went
to that lovely woman's house, delighted with the chance of making her
acquaintance.
One woman there was who rivalled Mme. Récamier in respect of beauty.
This was Mme. Tallien. Besides her great beauty, she had great
goodness of heart; in the Revolution a host of victims condemned to
death owed their lives to the influence she exercised upon Tallien.
The rescued ones called her "Our Lady of Good Help." She received me
most graciously. Later, after marrying the Prince de Chimay, she
inhabited a palatial house at the end of the Rue de Babylone, where
she and her husband diverted themselves with giving plays. They both
acted very well. She invited me to see one of these pieces, and came
to several of my evening parties. I had the felicity, too, at this
time, of knowing Ducis, whose admirable character equalled his rare
talent. The ease and simplicity of all his ways contrasted so well
with the splendid imagination with which Heaven had gifted him that I
have never known a more lovable man than this excellent Ducis. The
sole regret of his friends was that they were unable to induce him to
settle in Paris. But he disliked the city, and the author of "Oedipus"
and "Othello" demanded shepherds and pastures to make his life
agreeably consistent. The solitary mode of existence he rejoiced in
caused me a surprise, or rather a fright, which I shall never forget.
After my return from London I went to see him at Versailles, whither,
as I was aware, he had retired. It was in the evening; I knocked at
his door, and it was opened to me by Mme. Peyre, the architect's
widow, candle in hand. I thought she had died long ago, and I uttered
a scream. While I tried to collect my wits she related how she had
lately been married to Ducis. At last I understood, and composed
myself. She led me to her husband, whom I found alone in a little room
on the top floor of the house, buried in books and manuscripts.
Nothing in this abode seemed to me either pastoral or pleasant, but by
the aid of his imagination Ducis turned this attic, which he called
his "lookout," into a place of delight.
I met Mme. Campan again with much pleasure. She was then playing a
somewhat important part in what was soon to become the reigning
family. One day she asked me to dinner at Saint Germain, where her
boarding-school was established. At table I sat near Mme. Murat,
Napoleon's sister, but we were so placed that I could see only her
profile, particularly as she did not turn her head in my direction. In
the evening the young ladies of the school gave us a performance of
"Esther," in which Mlle. Augué, who afterward married Marshal Ney,
enacted the leading rôle very well. Bonaparte was one of the
spectators. He was seated in the first row, and I posted myself in the
second, in a corner, but near enough to observe him conveniently.
Though I was in a dark spot, Mme. Campan came to tell me, between two
acts, that he had guessed who I was.
I was glad to notice a bust of Marie Antoinette in Mme. Campan's room.
I felt grateful to her because of this, and she confided to me that
Bonaparte approved of it, which I thought very proper on his part. It
is true that at this period there seemed no need for him to have any
fears relating either to the past or the future. His victories evoked
enthusiasm from the French, and even from foreigners. He had many
admirers among the English especially, and I recall one day, when I
went to dine with the Duchess of Gordon, she showed me Bonaparte's
portrait, saying in French, "There is my zero." As she pronounced
French very badly, I understood that she meant "hero," and we both
laughed heartily over my explanation of "zero."
The large number of strangers I knew in Paris, and the desire to
dispel an unconquerable melancholy, prompted me to give some evening
parties. Princess Dolgoruki was anxious to meet the Abbé Delille. So I
requested his presence at supper with several other people worthy of
listening to him. Though this charming poet had gone blind, he had
nevertheless kept his cheerfulness of disposition. He recited some of
his beautiful lines to us, and we were all enchanted by them. On
another occasion I arranged a supper at which all the great personages
of the day were present, and among the ambassadors was M. de
Metternich. Then I gave a ball, to which Mme. Hamelin, M. de Trénis,
and other renowned dancers came. Mme. Hamelin was regarded as the best
dancer in Paris society. Certainly she was exquisitely graceful and
fleet of foot. I remember how, at this ball, Mme. Dimidoff danced the
Russian waltz so entrancingly that we stood on our chairs to watch
her.
Having a suitable room in my house on the Rue Gros Chenet, I conceived
the idea of putting in a stage and giving plays. The spectators
included all persons of distinction.
In all these gatherings I aimed at paying back the Russians and
Germans in Paris a few of the favours they had so thoughtfully and
amiably rendered me in their own country. Almost every day I saw
Princess Dolgoruki, who had been such an angel to me in St.
Petersburg. She enjoyed being in Paris very well. One evening I found
the Viscount de Ségur at her house. I had often seen him before the
Revolution; he was then young and fashionable, and made a thousand
conquests through his personal graces. When I saw him again at the
Princess's his face was expressionless and wrinkled; he wore a wig
with symmetrical curls at each side, leaving his forehead bald.
Another twelve years and the wig aged him so that I could barely
recognise him excepting by his voice. Princess Dolgoruki came to see
me the day of her presentation to Bonaparte. I asked her what she
thought of the First Consul's court. "It is not a court," she replied,
"but a power." The thing must of course have appeared to her in that
light, being accustomed to the court of St. Petersburg, which is so
large and brilliant, whereas at the Tuileries she found few women and
a prodigious number of military men of all grades.
Among all the amusements that residence in Paris afforded me, I was
none the less pursued by innumerable black thoughts, which assailed me
even in the midst of pleasures. To put an end to such a painful state
of mind, I determined to take a journey. More than once, while I was
at Rome, the newspapers had had it that I was at London, but the fact
was I had never seen that city. Accordingly, I resolved to go there.
CHAPTER XVI
UNMERRY ENGLAND
LONDON -- ITS HISTORIC PILES -- AND DULL SUNDAYS -- AND TACITURN
PEOPLE -- PICTURES BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS -- HIS MODESTY -- HOW
TO DRY PICTURES IN A DAMP CLIMATE -- THE ARTISTIC VIEW OF A
CERTAIN POPULAR BEAUTY -- THE PRINCE OF WALES -- HIS ALLEGED
ATTENTIONS TO MME. LEBRUN -- THE AUTHORESS LECTURES AN UNFRIENDLY
CRITIC -- NEWS OF ONE OF NAPOLEON'S "ATROCIOUS CRIMES."
I started for London on the 15th of April, 1802. I knew not a word of
English. True, I was accompanied by an English maid, but the girl had
long been serving me badly, and I was obliged to dismiss her very
shortly after my arrival in London, because she did nothing but eat
bread and butter all day. Luckily I had brought some one besides, a
charming person to whom ill-fortune made the home she had found under
my roof very precious. This was my faithful Adelaide, who lived with
me on the footing of a friend, and whose attentions and counsels have
always been most valuable to me.
On disembarking at Dover I was at first somewhat affrighted at the
view of a whole population assembled on the shore. But I was reassured
when informed that the crowd was simply composed of curious idlers,
who were following their usual habits in coming down to see the
travellers land.
The sun was going down. I at once hired a three-horse chaise, and made
off forthwith, for I was not without apprehensions, seeing I had been
told I might very likely encounter highwaymen. I took the precaution
of putting my diamonds into my stockings, and was glad I had done so
when I perceived two horsemen advancing toward me at a gallop. What
capped the climax of my fears was to see them separate, in order--as I
imagined--to present themselves at the two windows of my carriage. I
confess I was seized with a violent fit of trembling, but that was the
worst that happened.
Vast and handsome though London may be, that city affords less food
for the artist's interest than Paris or the Italian towns. Not that
you do not find a great number of rare works of art in England. But
most of them are owned by wealthy private persons, whose country
houses and provincial seats they adorn. At the period I mention,
London had no picture gallery, that now existing being the result of
legacies and gifts to the nation made within a few years. In default
of pictures, I went to look at the public edifices. I returned several
times to Westminster Abbey, where the tombs of the kings and queens
are superb. As they belong to different ages they offer great
attractions to artists and fanciers. I admired, among others, the tomb
of Mary Stuart, in which the remains of that ill-fated Queen were
deposited by her son, James I. I spent much time in that part of the
church devoted to the sepulture of the great poets, Milton, Pope, and
Chatterton. This last-named is known to have poisoned himself while
dying of starvation, and I reflected that the money laid out upon
rendering him these posthumous honours might have sufficed, when he
was alive, to insure him comfortable days.
St. Paul's Cathedral is also very fine. Its dome is an imitation of
that of St. Peter's, at Rome. At the Tower of London I saw a very
interesting collection of armour, dating from the various centuries.
There is a row of royal figures on horseback, among them Elizabeth,
mounted on a courser and ready to review her troops. The London museum
contains a collection of minerals, birds, weapons and tools from the
South Sea Islands, due to the famous Captain Cook.
The streets of London are wide and clean. Broad side pavements make
them very convenient for foot-passengers, and one is the more
surprised to witness scenes upon them that ought to be proscribed by
civilisation. It is not rare to see boxers fighting and wounding each
other to the point of drawing blood. Far from such a spectacle seeming
to shock the people looking on, they give them glasses of gin to
stimulate their zeal.
Sunday in London is as dismal as the climate. Not a shop is open;
there are no plays, nor balls, nor concerts. Universal silence reigns,
and as on that day no one is allowed to work nor even to play music
without incurring the risk of having his windows broken by the
populace, there is no resource for killing time but the public walks.
These, indeed, are very well frequented.
The chief amusement of the town is the assembling of good company,
called a "rout." Two or three hundred individuals walk up and down the
rooms, the women arm-in-arm, for the men usually keep aside. In this
crowd one is pushed and jostled without end, so that it becomes very
fatiguing. But there is nothing to sit on. At one of these routs I
attended, an Englishman I knew in Italy caught sight of me. He came up
to me and said, in the midst of the profound silence that reigns at
all these parties, "Don't you think these gatherings are enjoyable?"
"You enjoy yourselves with what would bore us," I replied. I really
did not see what pleasure was to be got out of stifling in such a
crowd that you could not even reach your hostess.
[Illustration: GIRL WITH MUFF.]
Nor are the walks in London any livelier. The women walk together on
one side, all dressed in white; they are so taciturn, and so perfectly
placid, that they might be taken for perambulating ghosts. The men
hold aloof from them, and behave just as solemnly. I have sometimes
come upon a couple, and have amused myself, if I happened to follow
them awhile, by watching whether they would speak to each other. I
never saw any who did.
I went to the principal painters, and was mightily astonished to see
that they all had a large room full of portraits with nothing but the
heads done. I asked them why they thus exhibited their pictures before
finishing them. They all answered that the persons who had posed were
satisfied with being seen and mentioned, and that besides, the sketch
made, half the price was paid in advance, when the painter was
satisfied, too.
At London I saw many pictures by the renowned Reynolds; their
colouring is excellent, resembling that of Titian, but they are mostly
unfinished, except as to the head. I, however, admired a "Child
Samuel" by him, whose completeness and colouring both pleased me.
Reynolds was as modest as he was talented. When my portrait of M. de
Calonne arrived at the London custom-house, Reynolds, who had been
apprised of the fact, went to look at it. When the box was opened he
stood absorbed in the picture for a long space and praised it warmly.
Thereupon some nincompoop ejaculated, "That must be a fine portrait;
Mme. Lebrun was paid eighty thousand francs for it!" "I am sure,"
replied Reynolds, "I could not do it as well for a hundred thousand."
The London climate was the despair of this artist because of the
difficulty it offers to drying pictures, and he had invented, I heard,
a way of mixing wax with his colours, which made them dull. In truth,
the dampness in London was such that, to dry the pictures I painted
there, I had a fire constantly burning in my studio until the moment I
went to bed. I would set my pictures at a certain distance from the
fireplace, and often would leave a rout to go and ascertain whether
they wanted moving nearer the grate or farther away. This slavery was
unavoidable and unendurable.
Concerts were very much the fashion in London, and I preferred them to
the routs, though these afforded an opportunity to the well-received
foreigner--and fortunately I was one--of meeting all the best English
society. Invitations are not by letter, as in France. Only a card is
sent, with the inscription, "At home such and such a day."
The most fashionable woman in London at this time was the Duchess of
Devonshire. I had often heard of her beauty and her influence in
politics, and when I called upon her she greeted me in the most
affable style. She might then have been about forty-five years old.
Her features were very regular, but I was not struck by her beauty.
Her complexion was too high, and ill-fortune had ordained that one of
her eyes should be blind. As at this period the hair was worn over the
forehead, she concealed the eye under a bunch of curls, but that was
insufficient to hide such a serious defect. The Duchess of Devonshire
was of fair size, her degree of stoutness being exactly appropriate to
her age, and her unconstrained manner became her exceedingly well.
Not long after my arrival in London, the Treaty of Amiens was
abrogated, and all French who had not lived in England over a year
were compelled to leave the country at once. The Prince of Wales, to
whom I was presented, assured me that I was not to be included in this
edict, that he would oppose my expulsion, and that he would
immediately ask his father, the King, for a permit allowing me to
remain. The permit, stating all necessary particulars, was granted
me. It mentioned that I was at liberty to travel anywhere within the
kingdom, that I might sojourn wherever I pleased, and also that I must
be protected in the seaport towns I might elect to stop at--a favour
which old French residents of England had great difficulty in securing
at this juncture. The Prince of Wales went to the limit of politeness
by bringing the document to me in person.
The Prince of Wales might then have been about forty, but he looked
older, which was to be accounted for by his stoutness. Tall and
well-built, he had a handsome face; his features were all regular and
distinguished. He wore a wig very artistically disposed, the hair
parted on the forehead like the Apollo di Belvedere's, and this suited
him to perfection. He was proficient in all the bodily exercises, and
spoke French very well and with the greatest fluency. He was
elaborately elegant--magnificently so, to the extent of prodigality.
At one time he was reputed to have debts to the amount of
£300,000--which were finally paid by his father and Parliament. As he
was one of the handsomest men in the United Kingdom, he was the idol
of the women.
It was but a little while before my departure that I did his portrait.
I painted him at almost full length, in uniform. Several English
painters became enraged against me on hearing that I had begun this
picture and that the Prince allowed me all the time I asked to finish
it, for they had long and vainly been waiting for the same concession.
I was aware that the Queen-mother said her son was making love to me,
and that he often came to lunch at my house. Never did the Prince of
Wales enter my door in the forenoon except for his sittings.
As soon as his likeness was done the Prince gave it to Mme.
Fitzherbert. She had it put in a rolling frame, like a large bedroom
mirror, so as to move it into any of her rooms--something which I
thought highly ingenious.
The anger of the English artists toward me did not stop at talk. A
certain M. ----, a portrait painter, published a work in which he
vehemently belittled French painting in general and my own in
particular. Sundry parts of the book were translated to me, and they
appeared so unjust and absurd that I could not help springing to the
defense of the famous painters whose countrywoman I was. Accordingly,
I wrote to this M. ---- as follows:
"_Sir_: I understand that in your work on painting you speak of
the French school. As, from what is reported to me concerning
your remarks, I gather that you have not the least idea of that
school, I think I must give you some information that you may
find serviceable. I presume, in the first place, that you do not
attack the great artists who lived in the reign of Louis XIV.,
such as Lebrun, Lesueur, Simon Vouet, etc., and Rigaud, Mignard,
and Largillière, the portrait painters. As for the artists of the
day, you do the French school the greatest injustice in rating it
by its achievements of thirty years ago. Since then it has made
enormous strides in a branch totally different from that
signalising its decline. Not, however, that the man who ruined it
was not gifted with a very superior talent. Boucher was a born
colourist. He had discrimination in composing and good taste in
the choice of his figures. But of a sudden he stopped working
except for the dainty chambers of women, when his colouring
became insipid, his style affected; and, this example once set,
all painters tried to follow it. His defects were carried to the
extreme, as always happens; things went from bad to worse, and
art seemed irretrievably destroyed. Then came an able painter,
called Vien, whose style was simple and severe. He was
appreciated by true art-lovers, and regenerated our school. We
have since produced David, young Louis Drouais--who died at Rome,
aged twenty-five, just as he seemed to give promise of becoming
a second Raphael--Gérard, Gros, Girodet, Guérin, and a number of
others I might cite.
"It is not surprising that after criticising the works of David,
which you evidently do not know at all, you do me the honour of
criticising mine, which you know no better. Being ignorant of the
English language, I had not been able to read what you wrote
about my painting, and when I was told, without being given the
particulars, that you had abused me soundly, I answered that,
however much you might disparage my pictures, all the worst you
could say of them would be less than I think. I do not suppose
that any artist imagines he has attained perfection, and, far
from any such presumption on my part, I have never yet been quite
satisfied with any work of mine. Nevertheless, being now more
fully informed, and knowing that your criticism bears principally
on a point that appears important to me, I believe my duty is to
repudiate it in the interest of art.
"Patience, the only merit you allow me, is unfortunately not one
of the virtues of my character. Only, it is true that I am loath
to leave my work. I consider it is never complete enough, and, in
the fear of leaving it too imperfect, my conscience makes me
think about it a long time and touch it up repeatedly.
"It seems that my lace shocks you, although I have painted none
for fifteen years. I vastly prefer scarfs, which you, sir, would
do well yourself to employ. Scarfs, you may believe me, are a
boon to painters, and had you used them you would have acquired
good taste in draping, in which you are deficient. As for those
stuffs, those eloquent cushions, those velvets, to be seen in my
_shop_, it is my opinion that one should pay as much attention as
possible to all such accessories. On this point I have Raphael as
an authority, who never neglected anything of this kind, who
wished everything to be explicit, to be rendered minutely--that
is the language of art--even to the smallest flowers in the
grass. I can, furthermore, quote the example of ancient
sculpture, in which not the most trifling accessories are found
neglected: the draped scarfs which lie so snugly upon nude
figures, and of which mere fragments are bought by real fanciers
to-day, the ornamentation on breastplates, the buskins--all that
is carried out with perfect finish.
"And now, sir, allow me to remark that the word _shop_, which
term you apply to my studio, is scarcely worthy of an artist. I
show my pictures without having money asked at the door. I have
even, to avoid that practise" [then in vogue among the painters
of London], "set aside one day each week for persons of good
standing and such persons as these may see fit to present to me.
I may, therefore, beg you to observe that the word _shop_ is
improper, and that severity never excuses a man from being
polite.
"I have the honour to be, etc."
This letter, which I read to some friends, remained no secret to
London society, and the laugh was not on the side of M. ----, who, all
enmity aside, did not know how to do drapings.
I met a number of compatriots in England whom I had known for years. I
had the felicity of meeting the Count d'Artois once more, at a party
given by Lady Percival, who received a number of exiles. He had grown
stouter, and I really thought him very handsome. A few days later he
honoured me by coming to see my studio. I was out, and I only returned
just as he was going away. But he was good enough to come back and
compliment me upon my portrait of the Prince of Wales, with which he
seemed highly pleased. The Count d'Artois did not go out much into
society. Having but a modest income, he yet saved money, with which he
helped the poorest of the French. His goodness of heart incited him
to sacrifice all his pleasures for charitable purposes.
[Illustration: MADAME VIGÉE LEBRUN.]
This Prince's son, the Duke de Berri, often came to see me of a
morning. He sometimes appeared with small pictures under his arm,
which he had bought at a very low price. What proves how good a judge
of painting he was is that these pictures were splendid Wouvermans.
But it needed a very fine feeling to detect their merit under the
grime that covered them. The Duke de Berri also had a passion for
music.
I was at the play in London when the murder of the Duke d'Enghien was
announced. Hardly had the news spread through the theatre, when all
the women in the boxes turned their backs to the stage, and the piece
would not have gone on if somebody had not come in to state the report
a false one. We then all resumed our seats, and the play continued,
but as we went out it was, alas! all confirmed. We even learned some
particulars of this atrocious crime, which will always leave a
terrible blood-stain on Napoleon's career.
Next day we attended the funeral mass celebrated for the noble victim.
All of the French, our Princes included, and a large number of English
ladies were present. The Abbé de Bouvant gave a most touching
discourse on the lot of the unhappy Duke d'Enghien. The sermon ended
with an invocation to the Almighty to spare our dear Princes from a
like fate. Alas! the prayer was not heard, for we lived to see the
Duke de Berri fall by the dagger of a dastardly assassin.
CHAPTER XVII
PERSONS AND PLACES IN BRITAIN
ENGLISH PALACES -- AND SCENERY -- SUBURBAN PRINCES -- RICHMOND
TERRACE -- AN ECCENTRIC MARGRAVINE -- THE CHARM OF THE ISLE OF
WIGHT -- THE BRITONS A STOLID NATION -- THEIR INDIFFERENCE TO
RAIN.
Although the kind treatment I received induced me to stay three years
in London, whereas I had intended to pass but three months, the
climate of that town seemed very melancholy to me. It even disagreed
with my health, and I seized every opportunity to take a breath of
pure air in the lovely vales and dales of England, where I could at
least see some sunlight. I began, shortly after my arrival, by
spending a fortnight with Mme. Chinnery at Gillwell, where I found the
celebrated Viotti. The house was most luxurious, and I was given a
charming welcome. On reaching the place I saw that the gate was
garlanded with flowery wreaths twined about the pillars. On the
staircase, similarly decorated, stood at intervals little marble
cupids, holding vases filled with roses. In short, it was a springtime
fairy pageant. So soon as I had entered the drawing-room, two little
angels, Mme. Chinnery's son and daughter, sang a delicious piece of
music to me, composed for me by that good-natured Viotti. I was truly
touched by this affectionate greeting; indeed, the fortnight I spent
at Gillwell were days of joy and gladness. Mme. Chinnery was a
beautiful woman, with much mental subtlety and charm. Her daughter,
then fourteen years of age, played the piano astonishingly, so that
every evening this young girl, Viotti, and Mme. Chinnery, herself an
excellent musician, gave us a delightful concert.
I recollect that my hostess's son, though yet a child, had a veritable
passion for study. He could not be made to lay his books aside. When
his hours of recreation came, and I told him to go out and play with
his sister, he would reply, "I am playing." At the age of eighteen the
young man had already earned so much credit that at the Restoration he
was charged with reviewing all the accounts of the expenditure
occasioned by the stay of the English army in France.
I was not tardy in making other excursions to the surroundings of
London, and these excursions absorbed all the time I could spare for
pleasure.
At Windsor, the royal residence, I admired only the park, which is
very fine. The King enjoyed walking on a splendid terrace, whence a
magnificent and extensive view is to be got. Hampton Court is another
royal castle. Here I saw superb stained-glass windows, which are very
old, and which I thought superior to any I had seen hitherto. I also
found some grand pictures and some large cartoons, done by Raphael,
which I could not admire enough. The cartoons were on the floor, so
that I knelt before them such a long time that the custodian was
surprised. In the galleries I was shown armour and weapons dating back
to remote ages; then, in the gardens, gorgeous yellow rose-bushes, and
finally a gigantic vine, enclosed in a hothouse, that in some year or
other yielded 1,500 pounds of grapes.
I went with Prince Bariatinski and a few other Russians to pay a visit
to the famous Doctor Herschel. This renowned astronomer lived in
strict seclusion at some distance from London. His sister, who was
always with him, aided him in his astronomical researches, and one was
fully worthy of the other, both in learning and noble simplicity.
Near the staircase we found a telescope almost large enough to walk
about in. The Doctor greeted us with the warmest cordiality. He was
obliging enough to let us see the sun through a dark glass, pointing
out the two spots discernible upon it, one of which is considerable in
size. At night he showed us the planet he had discovered that bears
his name. We also inspected at his house a chart of the moon, very
detailed, with the mountains, ravines and rivers represented which
make that planet resemble the globe we inhabit. In fact, the whole
stretch of our visit went by without a dull moment; my Russian
companions, Adelaide and myself were all delighted with it.
One cannot speak about the environs of London without calling to mind
several fine English watering-places.
Matlock, for instance, offers the precise aspect of a Swiss landscape.
On one side of the promenade are highly effective rocks, grown with
variegated shrubs, and on the other rich meadows. This English
vegetation is truly lovely; it all presents an enchanting view to the
eye of those who love nature's beauty. I remember following the bank
of a stream so dainty and limpid that I could not tear myself away
from it.
Tunbridge Wells, where one also takes the waters, is likewise a very
picturesque place. It is true that although one may enjoy the morning
rambles in the beautiful neighbourhood, in the evenings one is much
wearied by the social gatherings, which are quite numerous. People
came together for meals, and after supper, as after dinner, every one
would rise and sing "God Save the King," a prayer for His Majesty,
which moved me to tears through the sad comparison it prompted me to
make between England and France.
Brighton was still better known than either Tunbridge Wells or
Matlock. Brighton, where the Prince of Wales had then taken up his
residence, is a rather pretty town opposite Dieppe, with the shores
of France visible. At the time I was there the English feared a
descent by the French. The generals were perpetually reviewing the
militia, who were forever marching about with drums beating, making an
infernal din. I took some delightful walks at Brighton by the
seashore. One day I witnessed a singular phenomenon; the fog was so
thick that the ships off the coast looked as if they were suspended in
the air.
I spent a few days at Knowles Castle, which, after once belonging to
Queen Elizabeth, is now the property of Lady Dorset. At the gate of
this castle I saw two huge elm trees, reported to be more than 1,000
years old, which, nevertheless, still bore leaves, especially at the
top. The park, whose boundary touches a forest, is remarkably
picturesque. The castle contains some very fine pictures; the
furniture is still the same as in the day of Elisabeth. In Lady
Dorset's sleeping apartment the curtains of the bed are all sprinkled
with gold and silver stars, and the dressing-table is of solid silver.
Lady Dorset, an extremely wealthy lady, had married Sir A. Wilford,
whom I had known as English Ambassador at St. Petersburg. He had no
fortune, but was a fine figure of a man, with noble and distinguished
mien. The first time we all met for dinner Lady Dorset said to me:
"You will be very much bored, as we never talk at table." I reassured
her upon this point. I told her this was also my own habit, having for
years nearly always eaten alone. She must have been enormously fond of
this custom of hers, for at dessert her son, eleven or twelve years
old, came in, and she hardly spoke to him; she finally sent him away
without giving him the least sign of affection. I could not help
thinking of the reputation Englishwomen bear: that usually, when their
children are grown up, they care little about them--which has been
taken to mean that they love only their little ones.
At London I renewed acquaintance with the amiable Count de Vaudreuil.
I found him greatly changed and fallen off, through all that he had
suffered for France. He had married his niece in England, and I went
to see her at Twickenham, where she was settled. The Countess de
Vaudreuil was young and pretty. She had exquisite blue eyes, a sweet
face, and the most striking freshness. Her invitation to pass a few
days at Twickenham I accepted, and while there I did a portrait of her
two sons.
His Highness the Duke d'Orléans lived near-by; the Count de Vaudreuil,
whom the Duke d'Orléans had shown special marks of favour, took me to
see him. We found that prince, whose chief delight was his studies,
seated at a long table covered with books, one of them lying open
before him. During the visit he pointed out to me a landscape painted
by his brother, the Duke de Montpensier, whose acquaintance I also
made while staying with Mme. de Vaudreuil. As for the youngest of
these princes, the Duke de Beaujolais, I only met him out walking; he
seemed to have a passably good face and to be very lively. The Duke de
Montpensier sometimes came for me, and we would go out sketching
together. He took me to the terrace at Richmond, whence the view is
magnificent. From that eminence you survey a considerable part of the
river's course. We also went over the lovely meadow where the trunk of
the tree under which Milton sat may still be seen. It was there, so I
was informed, that he composed his poem of "Paradise Lost."
Altogether, the surroundings of Twickenham were highly interesting;
the Duke de Montpensier knew them to perfection, and I congratulated
myself on having him for my guide, the more as this young prince was
exceedingly kind and sympathetic.
I had engaged to paint a portrait of the Margravine of Anspach, who
asked me to stay with her for a few days in the country so that I
might redeem my promise. As I had heard that the Margravine was an
eccentric woman, who would not allow me a moment's peace, would have
me waked at five every morning, and do a thousand equally intolerable
things, I accepted her invitation only after stipulating certain
terms. First I requested a room where I should hear no noises, on the
ground that I wished to get up late. Then I warned her that in case we
went driving anywhere I never talked in a carriage, and that I
preferred walking alone. The good lady agreed to everything and kept
her word religiously. If I accidentally came upon her in her park,
where she would often be working like a day-labourer, she pretended
not to see me, and let me pass without opening her mouth. Perhaps the
Margravine of Anspach had been slandered, or perhaps she was obliging
enough to put constraint upon herself for my sake; at all events, I
felt so much at ease while under her roof that, when I was bidden to
another country-place belonging to her, called Blenheim, I went
without hesitation. There the park and the house were far better than
at Armesmott, and the time went by in a most agreeable manner.
Charming evening parties, plays, music--nothing lacked; indeed, though
pledged to stay but one week, I remained, instead, three.
I made some expeditions on the water with the Margravine. On one
occasion we landed at the Isle of Wight, which stands high on a rock,
and reminds one of Switzerland. This island is noted for the mild and
gentle ways of its inhabitants. They all live together, I was told,
like a single family, enjoying perfect peace and happiness. Possibly
now, since a large number of regiments have been in the island, it is
no longer the same in respect to the quiet life, but it is a fact that
at the time of my visit all the population were well-dressed, civil
and benevolent. Besides the suavity I observed in the people, the
scenery was so entrancing that I should have liked to spend my life
in that beautiful spot. Only the Isle of Wight, and Ischia, near
Naples, have ever made me feel such a desire.
I also went to Lord Moira's country seat. Although I have forgotten
the name of his house, I remember how comfortable everything was and
what wonderful cleanliness prevailed all over. Lord Moira's sister,
Lady Charlotte, kind and courteous, did the honours with infinite
tact. It was, therefore, unfortunate that the place bored one. At
dinner the women left the table before dessert; the men remained to
drink and talk politics. I can truthfully state, however, that at no
gathering I attended did the men get drunk. This convinces me that, if
the custom ever existed in England, it has now ceased as far as good
society is concerned. I may also remark that I dined several times at
Lord Moira's with the Duke de Berri, and that the Duke never took
anything else than water, far from drinking too much wine, as has
since been alleged.
After dinner we met together in a large hall, where the women sat
apart, occupied with embroidery or tapestry-work, and not uttering a
sound. The men, on their side, took books to hand, and observed like
silence. One evening I asked Lord Moira's sister, since the moon was
shining brightly, whether we might not walk in the park. She replied
that the shutters were closed and that caution demanded they should
not be reopened, because the picture-gallery was on the ground floor.
As the library contained collections of prints, my only resource was
to seize upon these collections and go through them, abstaining, in
obedience to the general example, from a single word of speech. In the
midst of such a taciturn company, fancying myself alone one day, I
happened to make an exclamation on coming to a handsome print, which
astonished all the rest to the last degree. It is, nevertheless, a
fact that the total absence of conversation does not preclude the
possibility of pleasant chat in England. I know a number of English
who are extremely bright; I may even add that I never encountered one
who was stupid.
The season was too far advanced when I was at Lord Moira's to allow of
my taking long walks. Lady Charlotte proposed to go driving with me,
but she went in a sort of cariole as hard as a cart, which I could
only endure for a short while. The English are used to braving their
weather. I often met them in the pouring rain, riding without
umbrellas in open carriages. They are satisfied with wrapping their
cloaks about them, but this has its drawbacks for strangers
unaccustomed to such a watery state of things. Homeward bound in these
English drives, I would sometimes stop on a hill four or five miles
from London, hoping for a view of that stupendous city, but the fog
lying upon it was always so thick that I never was able to distinguish
anything but the tips of its spires.
CHAPTER XVIII
BONAPARTES AND BOURBONS
BACK IN PARIS -- THE DEVOTION OF MME. GRASSINI -- CAPRICIOUS,
EXACTING MME. MURAT -- ASPECTS OF CHRISTIAN WARFARE -- "KILL ALL
THOSE PEOPLE!" LOUIS XVIII. ENTERS THE CAPITAL -- THE BARRENNESS
OF NAPOLEON'S VICTORIES -- HIS SUCCESSOR'S ATTAINMENTS -- BOURBON
CHARACTERISTICS -- THE AUTHORESS LOSES HER HUSBAND, DAUGHTER AND
BROTHER -- CONCLUSION.
Although I had come to England with the intention of remaining but
five or six months, I had now stayed nearly three years, held, not
solely by my interests as a painter, but also by the kind treatment
bestowed upon me. I have often heard it said that the English are
lacking in hospitality, but I am far from sharing that opinion, and
harbour grateful memories of the cordiality I met with in London.
Though receiving more social invitations than I could possibly accept,
I nevertheless succeeded--and this was said to be very difficult--in
forming an intimate circle to my taste. I achieved it through allying
myself with Lady Bentinck and her sister, the Villiers young ladies,
Mme. Anderson, and Lord Trimlestown, who, an accomplished amateur in
the arts, cultivates painting and literature with taste and talent,
and who, now in Paris, keeps his friendship for me. I should,
therefore, not have decided to return to France so soon had I not
learned that my daughter had arrived at Paris. I keenly longed to see
her again, the more as I was secretly informed that her father
allowed her to form connections that to me seemed improper for a young
woman, and hence I hastened my departure. It surely needed a deep
motive to resist the appeals which friends and even acquaintances were
kind enough to make. As at this period Bonaparte, who had proclaimed
himself Emperor, prohibited all English people in France, after the
rupture of the Peace of Amiens, from leaving, Lady Herne, well known
for her artistic proclivities, said that I ought to be kept back as a
hostage.
At the moment I was to get into the post-chaise that was to convey me
to the inn near my place of embarkation, the charming Mme. Grassini
appeared on the scene. I thought she had simply come to bid me
farewell, but she declared she wished to take me to the inn, and made
me get into her carriage, which I found full of pillows and packages.
"What is all this for?" I inquired. "You are not aware, then," she
replied, "that you are going to the worst inn of the world? You may
have to wait there a week or more if the wind is not favourable, and I
have made up my mind to stay with you." I can hardly say how moved I
was at this token of affection. The beautiful woman was leaving the
pleasures of London and her friends, to say nothing of the host of
admirers always in her train, merely to keep me company. To me this
seemed lovable, and I have never forgotten it.
It was a great joy to me to see my friends once more, and especially
my daughter. Her husband, whom she had accompanied to France, was
charged by Prince Narischkin with the mission of engaging musical
artists for St. Petersburg. He left a few months later, but alone--for
love, alas! had long since vanished--and my daughter remained, to my
great satisfaction. To her misfortune and mine, my child had a very
quick temper; besides, I had not been able to instil into her
completely my own distaste for bad company. Add to this that--whether
through my own fault or not--her power over my mind was great, and I
had none over hers, and it will be understood how she sometimes made
me shed bitter tears. Still, she was my daughter. Her beauty, her
gifts, her cleverness rendered her as fascinating as possible, and,
though I mourned because I could not persuade her to come to live with
me, since she persisted in seeing certain people I would not receive,
I at any rate saw her every day, and that in itself was a great
blessing.
One evening I arranged some living pictures of a kind which had won
warm approval in St. Petersburg, and, being careful to place behind
the gauze none but handsome men and pretty women, the result was
charming. Another day I painted on a screen several head-dresses of
historic characters, making holes under them for the insertion of a
face. The conversation passing with those who put in their heads
amused us vastly. Robert, who took part in all our gaieties like a
schoolboy, put his face under Ninon's head-dress, which made us laugh
like mad. All these particulars may seem childish to-day, when evening
parties are taken up with talking politics or playing cards, but some
of us had not yet lost the habit of enjoying ourselves, and the fact
is, we enjoyed ourselves very much. After all, these pleasures were
well worth the cards of Parisian and the stifling routs of London
drawing-rooms.
One of the first people I met, upon my return from London, was Mme. de
Ségur, and I frequently went to see her. One day her husband told me
that my journey to England had displeased the Emperor, who had curtly
remarked, "Mme. Lebrun went to see her friends." But Bonaparte's
resentment against me could not have been violent, since, a few days
after speaking thus, he sent M. Denon to me with an order to paint his
sister, Mme. Murat. I thought I could not refuse, although I was
only to be paid 1,800 francs--that is to say, less than half of
what I usually asked for portraits of the same size. This sum was the
more moderate, too, because, for the sake of satisfying myself as to
the composition of the picture, I painted Mme. Murat's pretty little
girl beside her, and that without raising the price.
[Illustration: GENEVIÈVE ADÉLAÏDE HELVETIUS, COUNTESS D'ANDLAU.]
I could not conceivably describe all the annoyances, all the torments
I underwent in painting this picture. To begin with, at the first
sitting, Mme. Murat brought two lady's maids, who were to do her hair
while I was painting her. However, upon my remark that I could not
under such circumstances do justice to her features, she vouchsafed to
send her servants away. Then she perpetually failed to keep the
appointments she made with me, so that, in my desire to finish, I was
kept in Paris nearly the whole summer, as a rule waiting for her in
vain, which angered me unspeakably. Moreover, the intervals between
the sittings were so long that she sometimes changed her mode of doing
her hair. In the beginning, for instance, she wore curls hanging over
her cheeks, and I painted them accordingly; but some time after, this
having gone out of fashion, she came back with her hair dressed in a
totally different manner, so that I was forced to scrape off the hair
I had painted on the face, and was likewise compelled to blot out a
brow-band of pearls and put cameos in its place. The same thing
happened with her dress. One I had painted at first was cut rather
open, as dresses were then so worn, and furnished with wide
embroidering. The fashion having changed, I was obliged to close in
the dress and do the embroidering anew. All the annoyances that Mme.
Murat subjected me to at last put me so much out of temper that one
day, when she was in my studio, I said to M. Denon, loudly enough for
her to hear, "I have painted real princesses who never worried me, and
never made me wait." The fact is, Mme. Murat was unaware that
_punctuality is the politeness of kings_, as Louis XIV. so well said.
Delivered of the vexations arising from Mme. Murat's portrait, I
resumed the peaceful life I was accustomed to, but my desire for
travel was not yet stilled: I had never seen Switzerland. I therefore
resolved to leave Paris once more, and soon was making for the
mountains.
In the period succeeding my Swiss travels I at length acquired an
inclination for rest. This, together with a taste I had always had for
the country, prompted me to leave for Louveciennes before the breaking
of the first buds, and consequently I was established there by the
time the allies were making their second descent upon Paris. It is
well known that the villages fared much worse than the towns at the
hands of the foreign troops. I shall never forget the night of March
31, 1814.
Ignorant that danger was so near, I had not as yet considered flight.
It was eleven o'clock in the evening, and I had just gone to bed, when
Joseph, my Swiss man servant, who spoke German, entered my room, in
the belief that I should need protection. The village was being
invaded by the Prussians, who were sacking all the houses, and Joseph
was followed by three soldiers with villainous faces, who approached
my bed with brandished swords. Joseph tried to fool them by saying in
German that I was Swiss and an invalid. But paying no attention to
him, they began by taking my gold snuff-box, which was on my
night-stand. Then they felt under my quilt, to find out whether I had
any money concealed, one of them calmly slicing off a piece of the
quilt with his sword. Another, who seemed to be French, or at least
spoke our language perfectly, said, "Give her back the box"; but far
from acceding, his companions went to my desk and seized upon
everything it contained. Afterward, the soldiers pillaged my
cupboards. At last, after putting me through four hours of mortal
fright, these terrible people quit my house. Nor was this my only
experience of the kind. With the return of the foreigners in 1815,
some English came to Louveciennes. They robbed me of a number of
articles, among them a magnificent large lacquer box that I sorely
regretted losing, since it had been given me in St. Petersburg by my
old friend, Count Strogonoff.
After the nocturnal visit by the Prussians I wanted to go to Saint
Germain, but the road was not safe enough, so I took refuge with a
good person living at Marly, near Mme. Du Barry's pavilion. Other
women, frightened like myself, had already chosen this place. We all
dined together and slept six in a room--as far as sleep was possible.
The nights went by with continual alarms, and I felt the liveliest
anxiety for my poor servant, to whom I owed my life. The faithful
fellow had insisted on staying in my house to hold the soldiers in
check. I had the greatest fears on his account, as the village was
entirely given up to plunder. The peasants camped in the vineyards and
slept on straw in the open air, after being robbed of all their
possessions. Several of them sought us out, lamenting their
misfortunes, and these mournful tales were recited in Mme. Du Barry's
splendid garden, near the "Temple of Love," amid flowers and under the
brightest of skies! I was so appalled by their stories and by the
incessant cannonading and fusillading that one evening I attempted to
go down into a cellar and stay there. But I hurt my leg, and was
obliged to come up again.
The last affair happened at Roquencourt. There was also fighting near
Mme. Hocquart's house, very near the place where I was. We learned
that after the combat the Prussians had sacked from top to bottom the
house of a very Bonapartist lady, who during the fighting screamed
from her terrace to the French, "Kill all those people!" The victors,
having heard her, broke into the house, and smashed all the mirrors
and the furniture as well, while the lady, in her chemise and without
shoes, was fleeing to Versailles, where she found shelter.
Ultimately, Louis XVIII. entered Paris, ready to forgive and forget. I
went to see him pass on the Quai des Orfèvres. He was in a carriage,
seated beside the Duchess d'Angoulême. The constitution he had
announced had been greeted with joyful acclamation; the delight of the
people was great and universal. Flags hung from all the windows on the
line of march. Cries of "Long live the King!" rose to the skies, and
were so loud and heartfelt that I was moved beyond anything I can say.
In the Duchess d'Angoulême's face was to be read in turn her pleasure
at such a welcome and the painful memories assailing her. Her smile
was sweet but sad--a most natural thing, because she was following the
road her mother had followed in going to execution, and she knew it.
However, the exultation evoked by the King's appearance and hers went
far to console that afflicted heart. The plaudits pursued them to the
Tuileries, where the crowds filling the gardens gave vent to the same
transports. They sang, they danced in front of the palace, and when
the King showed himself at the window of the large balcony and kissed
his hands over and over again to the people, their joy knew no bounds.
That evening there was a grand court reception at the Tuileries; an
immense number of women attended. The King spoke to them all most
graciously and to some of them even recalled various incidents
creditable to their families.
Possessed of an extreme desire to get a close view of Louis XVIII., I
mingled with the crowd that gathered on Sunday in the corridor to see
him go by on his way to mass. I was opposite the windows, with the
rest, so that the King could easily distinguish me. When he did, he
stepped over to me, gave me his hand in the most affable manner, and
said a thousand flattering things about the pleasure he felt in
meeting me once more. As he remained thus holding my hand for several
moments and addressing none of the other women, the onlookers must no
doubt have taken me for a very great lady, because, no sooner had the
King passed than a young officer, seeing that I was alone, offered me
his arm, and would not leave me until he had escorted me to my
carriage.
Most of the people who came back with our Princes were either friends
or acquaintances of mine. It was very sweet, after all those years of
exile, to meet again in the country of our birth. But, alas! This
happiness endured only a few months, for, while we were rejoicing at
our lot, Bonaparte was landing at Cannes. At midnight, on the 19th of
March, 1815, Louis XVIII. and the whole royal family left Paris.
Napoleon entered the next day, at eight of the evening, resuming
possession of the Tuileries, the troops filling the courtyards, giving
our Princes' palace the aspect of a castle taken by assault. Without
offense to the memory of a great captain and the brave generals and
soldiers who helped him to win such fine victories, one may well ask
what Bonaparte's victories have led to, and whether an inch of the
ground remains to us that cost us so much blood. What proves how tired
the people were of those eternal wars was their lack of enthusiasm
during the Hundred Days. The King returned to Paris on the 8th of
July, 1815, amid almost unanimous rejoicings, since, after all our
misfortunes, Louis XVIII. brought back peace.
Henceforth it was seen how this Prince combined wisdom and ability
with his more brilliant mental qualities. Times were critical, and
Louis XVIII. was assuredly the ruler to suit the period. With much
courage and coolness he united elevation of soul and great subtlety of
mind; all his ways were royal. He gave readily and liberally; he was
fond of patronising art and letters, which he himself cultivated; his
features were by no means devoid of beauty, and so noble was their
expression that, infirm though he was, the first sight of him called
forth involuntary respect. His favourite recreation was talking about
literature with clever people. In his youth he had written very pretty
verses, and his style was that of an accomplished man of letters.
Knowing Latin perfectly, he liked to converse in that language with
our most learned Latinists. His memory was prodigious; he could always
repeat the most striking passages of a book read rapidly, of a piece
seen once. Ducis, who before the Revolution had occupied a post in
Monsieur's household, came out from his retreat at Versailles to
present his homage to the King. Louis at once recognised him, welcomed
him warmly, and recited the best lines of his "Oedipus," scarcely
remembered by the aged author.
His Majesty was himself the author of several political writings and
an account of a "Journey to Coblentz." There are also attributed to
him the text of the opera "The Caravan" and "The Lutenist of Lübeck,"
a prose play in one act, given at the Théâtre Français. He had a
strong attachment for the Théâtre Français. He often went to that
playhouse, and especially admired the acting of Talma. Whenever that
great actor, happening to be on duty for the week, carried a torch
before the King to his box, Louis would regularly stop to talk with
him a long time. These conversations were in English, spoken by both
as well as their own language. It was reported to me that Talma had
said, "I prefer Louis XVIII.'s courtesy to Bonaparte's pension."
Courtesy, in fact, is the greatest charm of princes; it doubles the
value of the slightest favour. In this regard His Highness the Count
d'Artois was in no way behind his brother. By no means forgotten are
the innumerable apt sayings, bearing the corner-mark of kindness,
with which he won men's hearts. After his accession to the
throne--upon the death of Louis XVIII.--I chanced to be at the Louvre
the day he was giving medals to the painters and sculptors. Before
presenting them he said, in the most sympathetic manner, "They are not
encouragements, but rewards." All the artists were touched by the
delicate compliment implied in these words.
As for the Duke de Berri, if he had not quite the same courtesy as his
father, he was as clever, especially in that timely quickness of wit
so useful to princes. I select one example out of a thousand. The
first time he reviewed some troops he heard a few cries from the ranks
of "Long live the Emperor!" "Quite right, my friends," was his
immediate remark; "every one must live." Upon which the same soldiers
exclaimed, "Long live the Duke de Berri!"
His goodness of heart went so far that not only did he interest
himself in everything that concerned his friends, but behaved toward
the domestics of his household as the father of a family might have
done. He was worshipped by his servants, and employed his influence to
encourage them in good conduct and in making whatever savings they
could. One day, as he was about to enter his carriage, a little
kitchen scullion came running up to him with, "Your Highness, I have
saved fifteen francs this year!" "Well, my boy, that makes thirty,"
said the Duke, giving him the sum the boy had mentioned. The Duke de
Berri kept his revenues in good order; his heaviest expenses were
occasioned by his taste for the arts, a predilection shared by his
amiable wife. The Duchess de Berri was fond of encouraging young
artists; she would buy their pictures and often order more. Her
liberality in paying never made her forget the duty of politeness
incumbent upon rank. She showed model civility in all her dealings
with men of talent.
Of the Duchess d'Angoulême I would not venture to speak. What could I
say that would not fall short of the truth? The merits of this
Princess are known to the whole world, and I fear I should but weaken
the future verdict of history. It is equally well known that fate
united her with a Prince whose high soul worthily appreciated her.
Such was the family brought back to us by the Restoration. It is for
politicians to explain how so many virtues and excellencies were
insufficient to preserve the throne to them--my grateful heart cannot
but regret them.
Under Bonaparte, the large portrait I had made of the Queen and her
children had been relegated to a corner of the palace of Versailles. I
left Paris one morning to take a glance at it. Arrived at the royal
gate, a guard escorted me to the room which contained the picture, and
which was forbidden the public. The custodian who admitted us
recognised me from having seen me in Rome, and exclaimed, "Oh, how
glad I am to welcome Mme. Lebrun here!" He hastened to turn my picture
round, which was facing the wall, since Bonaparte, after learning that
many came to look at it, had ordered its removal. The order, as is
plain, was very badly obeyed, since the exhibition of the picture
continued, and this to such a degree that the custodian, when I wanted
to give him a trifle, persisted in declining it, saying that I had
earned him enough money. When the Restoration came, this picture was
reëxhibited at the Salon. I was keeping for myself another picture
representing the Queen, done during the reign of Bonaparte. I had
painted Marie Antoinette ascending to heaven; to her left, on some
clouds, are Louis XVI. and two angels, symbolising the two children he
had lost.
[Illustration: LOUISE MARIE ADÉLAÏDE DE BOURBON.]
As soon as the peace of my country seemed assured, I abandoned all
thoughts of leaving it again, and divided my time between Paris and
the country. My liking for my pretty house at Louveciennes was
undiminished. I spent eight months of the year there, and in those
surroundings my life flowed as smoothly as possible. I painted, I
busied myself about my garden, I took long, solitary walks, and on
Sundays I received my friends. So fond was I of Louveciennes that,
wishing to bequeath the place something to remember me by, I painted a
picture of Saint Genoveva for the church. Mme. de Genlis was good
enough to dedicate a poem to me in acknowledgment. If I gave away
pictures, some were given me, and that in the heartiest manner. I had
frequently expressed a desire that my friends should commemorate
themselves on the panels of my drawing-room at Louveciennes. One fine
summer's morning, at four o'clock, while I was asleep, the Prince de
Crespy, the Baron de Feisthamel, M. de Rivière, and my niece, Eugenia
Lebrun, set silently to work. By ten o'clock each frame was filled. My
surprise may be imagined when, upon coming down to breakfast, I
entered the room and found it adorned with these delightful paintings
as well as with garlands of flowers. It was my birthday. Tears came
into my eyes--the only thanks I was able to offer.
In 1819 His Highness the Duke de Berri signified his wish to buy my
"Sibyl," which he had seen in my studio at London, and although I
perhaps prized this most of all my works, I speedily complied with his
request. Some years later I painted Her Highness the Duchess de Berri,
who gave me sittings at the Tuileries with the politest punctuality,
and besides showed me a friendliness than which none could have been
greater. I shall never forget how, while I was painting her one day,
she said, "Wait a moment." Then, getting up, she went to her library
for a book containing an article in my praise, which she was obliging
enough to read aloud from beginning to end. During one of these
sittings the Duke de Bordeaux brought his mother a copybook in which
his master had written "Very good." The Duchess gave the boy two
louis. The little Prince, who might have been about six, began to jump
for joy, shouting, "This will do for my poor--and for my old woman
first of all!" When he was gone the Duchess told me that her son
referred to a poor soul he often met when he went out and of whom he
was particularly fond.
While the Duchess sat for me I would become irritated at the number of
people who came to make calls. She took note of this and was so
considerate as to say, "Why did you not ask me to pose at your house?"
Which she did for the two final sittings. I confess that I never could
think of such affecting warmth of heart without comparing the time I
devoted to this genial Princess with the melancholy hours Mme. Murat
had made me spend. I painted two portraits of the Duchess de Berri. In
the first she is wearing a red velvet dress, and in the other one of
blue velvet. I have no idea what has become of these pictures.
I must now speak of the sad years of my life during which, in a brief
space, I saw the beings dearest to me depart this world. First, I lost
M. Lebrun. True that for a long time I had entertained no relations
whatever with him, yet I was none the less mournfully affected by his
death. You cannot without regret be separated forever from one to whom
so close a tie as marriage has bound you. This blow, however, was far
less than the cruel grief I experienced at the death of my daughter. I
hastened to her as soon as I heard of her illness, but the disease
progressed rapidly, and I cannot tell what I felt when all hope of
saving her was gone. When, going to see her the last day, my eyes fell
upon that dreadfully sunken face, I fainted away. My old friend Mme.
de Noisville rescued me from that bed of sorrow; she supported me, for
my legs would not carry me, and took me home. The next day I was
childless! Mme. de Verdun came with the news, and vainly tried to
soften my despair. All the wrongdoing of the poor little one
vanished--I saw her again, I still see her, in the days of her
childhood. Alas! she was so young! Why did she not survive me?
It was in 1819 that I was bereft of my daughter, and in 1820 I lost my
brother. So many successive shocks plunged me into such deep dejection
that my friends, grieving for my state, urged me to try the
distraction of a journey. I therefore decided to visit Bordeaux. I did
not know that town, and hence the anticipation changed the current of
my thoughts. Nor was I disappointed. My health benefited by the
journey, and I returned to Paris less dark in spirit.
From that day to this I have travelled no more. After my return from
Bordeaux I resumed my daily habits and my work, which of all
distractions I have always found the best. Although having had the
misfortune to lose so many dear ones, I did not remain forsaken. I
have mentioned Mme. de Rivière, my niece, who, through her affection
and her ministrations, is the blessing of my life. I must also speak
of my other niece, Eugenia Lebrun, now Mme. Tripier Le Franc. Her
studies at first prevented me from seeing her as often as I should
have liked to, for since her earliest youth her disposition, her
mental qualities, and her great gift for painting had promised to be a
joy to me. I took pleasure in guiding her, in lavishing my counsels
upon her, and in watching her progress. I am well rewarded to-day,
when she has realised all my hopes by her lovely character and her
very remarkable talent for painting. She has followed the same course
as myself in the adoption of portrait painting, and is earning
success merited by fine colouring, by great sincerity, and,
particularly, by perfect resemblance. Still young, she can but add to
a reputation which in her diffidence and modesty she has scarcely
ventured to foresee. Mme. Tripier Le Franc and Mme. de Rivière have
become my daughters. They bring back all of a mother's feelings to me,
and their tender devotion spreads a beautiful charm over my existence.
It is among these two dear creatures and the friends who have been
spared me that I hope to end peacefully a wandering and even a
laborious but honest life.
THE END
APPENDIX
LIST OF MME. VIGÉE LEBRUN'S PAINTINGS
[This list is as complete and accurate as the material available for
its compilation allowed. The authoress's own catalogue of her works,
which necessarily formed the principal source of information, is
itself conspicuous for errors and omissions. To rectify all of these
beyond doubt and make an absolutely perfect list would have been
impossible.]
FROM 1768 TO 1772
1 Mme. Lebrun's mother, large pastel.
1 The same, back view.
2 Mme. Lebrun's brother as a schoolboy.
1 M. Le Sèvre.
3 M., Mme. and Mlle. Bandelaire.
1 M. Bandelaire, half-length pastel.
1 M. Vandergust.
1 Mlle. Pigale, milliner to the Queen.
1 Her clerk.
1 Mme. Lebrun's mother in white cloak.
1 Mme. Raffeneau.
1 Baroness d'Esthal.
2 Her two children.
1 Mme. d'Aguesseau with her dog.
1 Mme. Suzanne.
1 Countess de la Vieuville.
1 M. Mousat.
1 Mlle. Mousat.
1 Mlle. Lespare.
2 Mme. de Fossy and her son.
2 Viscount and Viscountess de la Blache.
1 Mlle. Dorion.
1 M. Tranchart.
1 Marquis de Choiseul.
1 Count de Zanicourt.
Studies of heads and copies from Raphael, Van Dyck, Rembrandt, etc.
1773
1 M. and Mme. de Roissy.
1 M. de la Fontaine.
1 Count Du Barry.
5 Count de Geoffré.
1 Marshal de Stainville.
3 Mme. de Bonneuil.
1 Mme. de Saint-Pays.
1 Mme. Paris.
1 M. Perrin.
2 Copy of Marquis de Vérac.
1 An American lady.
1 Mme. Thilorié, half-length.
1 Copy of the same.
1 Mme. Tétare.
1 Copy of the Bishop of Beauvais.
1 M. de Vismes.
1 M. Pernon.
1 Mlle. Dupetitoire.
1 Mlle. Baillot.
1774
1 Abbé Giroux.
1 Little Roissy.
1 Copy of Chancellor d'Aguesseau.
1 Copy of M. de la Marche.
1 Mme. Damerval.
1 Count de Brie.
1 Mme. Maingat.
1 Baroness de Lande.
1 Mme. Le Normand.
1 Mme. de la Grange.
1 M. Méraut.
1 Viscount de Boisjelin.
1 M. de Saint-Malo.
1 M. Desmarets.
1 Countess d'Harcourt.
2 Mlle. de Saint-Brie and Mlle. de Sence.
1 Countess de Gontault.
1 Mlle. Robin.
1 M. de Borelly.
1 M. de Momanville.
2 The Rossignol sisters.
1 Mme. de Belgarde.
1775
1 Mme. de Monville with her child.
1 Mme. Denis.
1 Count Schouvaloff.
1 Count de Langeas.
1 Mme. Mongé.
1 Mme. Tabari.
1 Mme. de Fougerait.
1 Mme. de Jumilhac.
1 Marquise de Roncherol.
1 Prince de Rochefort.
1 Mlle. de Rochefort.
1 M. de Livoy.
1 Mme. de Ronsy.
1 M. de Monville.
1 Mlle. de Cossé.
1 Mme. Augeard.
1 Copy of Mme. Damerval.
1 Mme. Deplan.
1 M. Caze.
1 M. Goban.
1 Mlle. de Rubec.
1 M. de Roncherol.
1 Prince de Rohan, the elder.
1 Prince Julius de Rohan.
1 M. Ducluzel.
2 Count and Countess de Cologand.
1 Mlle. Julie, who married Talma.
1 Mme. Courville.
1 Marquis de Gérac.
1 Mme. de Laborde.
1 Mlle. de Givris.
1 Mlle. de Ganiselot.
1 M. de Veselay.
1776
1 Princess de Craon.
1 Marquis de Chouart.
1 Prince de Montbarrey.
1 Baron Gros, painter, as a child.
1 Princess de Talleyrand.
1 Count des Deux-Ponts.
1 Mme. de Montbarrey.
1 A banker.
2 M. and Mme. Toullier.
1 Princess d'Arenberg.
1 M. de Saint-Denis.
12 Monsieur, the King's brother.
2 M. and Mme. de Valesque.
1 Little Vaubal.
1 Mme. de Lamoignon.
4 M. de Savalette.
1 Prince of Nassau.
1 Mme. de Brente.
1 Lady Berkely.
1 Mme. Saulot.
1 Countess Potocka.
2 Mme. de Verdun.
1 Mme. de Montmorin.
1 Her daughter.
1777
1 Marquis de Crèvecoeur.
1 Baron de Vombal.
1 Mme. Perrin.
1 M. Oglovi.
1 M. Saint-Hubert.
1 Mme. de Nolstein.
1 Mme. de Beaugoin.
2 Mlle. Dartois.
1 Mme. Le Normand.
1 M. de Finnel.
1 M. de Lange.
1 Mme. de Montlegiets
1 Mme. de la Fargue.
1778
1 Duchess de Chartres.
1 Mme. de Teuilly.
1 M. de Saint-Priest, ambassador.
2 M. and Mme. Dailly.
2 M. and Mme. Domnival.
1 Mme. Mongé.
1 Mme. Degéraudot.
1 Marquis de Cossé.
1 Marquis d'Armaillé.
1 Duke de Cossé.
1 Mlle. de Ponse.
1 Monsieur, the King's brother.
1 Marquise de Montemey.
1 Mme. de Foissy.
2 The Brongniart children.
1 M. de Rannomanovski.
1 Mme. de Roissy.
1 Mme. de Bec de Lièvre.
1 Copy of portrait of the Queen.
2 Madame, wife of Monsieur.
1 Copy of portrait of Mme. Du Barry.
1 Mlle. Lamoignon.
1 Head of Mme. Vigée Lebrun.
1 Copy of portrait of Marie Antoinette.
1 Mme. Filorier.
1779
1 Marquis de Vrague.
1 Countess de Virieu.
1 Mme. Richard.
1 Mme. de Mongé.
1 Large portrait of the Queen for the Empress of Russia.
2 Half-length portraits of Marie Antoinette.
2 Copies of the same.
1 Mme. de Savigny.
2 The same with her son.
2 M. and Mme. de Lastic.
1 Woman as a Jewess for M. de Cossé.
1 Mme. Dicbrie.
2 Copies of busts of Marie Antoinette.
2 Mme. Ducluzel.
1 Mme. de Verdun.
1 Count de Dorsen, the younger.
2 M. and Mme. de Montesquiou.
1 Portrait of the Queen, for M. de Sartines.
1 Mme. de Palerme.
1 A little American.
1 Mlle. de la Ferté.
1 Head, looking down, for M. de Cossé.
1 Duke d'Orléans.
1 Marquise de Montesson.
2 Copies of the Duke d'Orléans.
2 Copies of large portrait of Marie Antoinette for M. de Vergennes.
1 Mme. de Vannes.
1 Countess de Tournon.
1 Prince de Montbarrey.
1780
1 Mme. Lessout.
1 Large picture of Marie Antoinette.
1 The same.
4 Mme. de Verdun and family.
1 Mme. de Montesquiou.
1 Mme. de Montaudran.
1 Mme. Foulquier.
2 Mme. Genty.
1 Duchess de Mazarin.
1781
1 Young girl smelling a rose.
1 Mme. Young.
1 Count de Cossé.
1 Princess de Croyes.
1 Mme. de Saint-Alban.
1 M. de Landry.
2 Portraits of Mme. Vigée Lebrun.
1 Monsieur, brother of the King.
1 Copy of same.
1 Duchess de Chaulnes.
1 Mme. Dumoley.
1 M. Dumoley, the younger.
1 Countess Du Barry.
1 Sketch for a picture of Juno.
1 Venus, study of a head.
1 Mme. d'Harvelay.
5 Studies of heads.
2 Mlle. de Laborde.
1 Mlle. Devaron.
1 Mme. Moreton.
1 Copy of M. Moreton.
1 Mme. de la Porte.
3 Princess Lamballe.
1782
1 Madame, sister of the King.
1 Copy of same.
1 Duchess de Polignac.
1 Copy of same.
1 Baron de Montesquiou.
1 Mme. de Verdun.
1 Mme. de Chatenay.
3 Prince Henry of Prussia.
1783
1 Marquise de la Guiche.
1 Mme. Grant.
1 Landgrave de Salm.
1 Mme. de Mailly.
2 Countess d'Artois.
2 Countess de Simiane.
2 Duchess de Guiche.
1 Marie Antoinette with hat.
2 The same in full dress.
2 Mme. Elisabeth, sister of the King.
1 Copy of same.
1 Mlle. Lavigne.
3 Copies of the Queen with hat.
4 The Queen in velvet dress.
4 Copies of same.
1 The Dauphin.
1 Mme. Royale, daughter of the King.
1784
1 Count de Vaudreuil.
5 Copies of same.
1 Countess de Grammont-Caderousse.
1 Countess de Serre.
1 M. de Beaujon.
1785
1 M. de Beaujon.
1 Princess de Carignan.
1 Mme. Fodi.
1 M. de Calonne.
1 Countess de Ségur.
1 Copy of same.
1 Count de Ségur.
1 Copy of same.
1 Baroness de Crussol.
1 M. de Saint-Hermine.
1 Grétry.
1 Countess de Clermont-Tonerre.
1 Countess de Virieu.
1 Viscountess de Vaudreuil.
2 Copies of the Queen in full dress.
1 Mme. Vigée.
1 Copy of M. de Calonne.
1 M. de Beaujon.
1786
1 Mme. Fouquet's little daughter.
1 Mme. de Tott.
1 Little d'Espagnac.
1 Mme. de la Briche's little daughter.
1 Mme. de Puységur.
1 Mme. Raymond.
1 Mme. Daudelot.
1 Mme. Davaray.
1 Countess de Sabran.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her daughter.
1787
1 Mlle. Lebrun reading the Bible.
1 Mme. de Rougé and two sons.
1 Mme. Dugazon, as _Nina_.
1 Cailleau, as a huntsman.
2 His two children.
1 Mlle. Lebrun in profile.
1 The same, looking at a mirror.
1 Mme. de la Grange.
1 Marie Antoinette and her children.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun.
2 Countess de Béon.
1 M. Le Jeune.
3 The Dauphin, Madame, and the Duke de Normandie.
1 Aunt of Mme. Verdun.
1 Duchess de Guiche, holding a wreath of flowers.
1 Pastel of same.
2 Duchess de Polignac with straw hat.
1 The same, singing at a piano.
1 Mme. de Chatenay.
1 Mme. Du Barry, full-length.
1 The same, in dressing-gown.
1 Mme. de Polignac.
1788
1 Duke de Polignac.
1 His father.
1 Robert, landscape painter.
1 Mme. Dumoley.
1 Mme. de la Briche.
1 Countess de Beaumont.
1 Little Baron d'Escars.
1 Little Prince Lubomirski.
1 The same, in pursuit of fame.
1 Little Brongniart.
1 Marquise de Grollier.
1 Le Bailly de Crussol.
1 Mme. de la Guiche, as a dairymaid.
1 Count d'Angevilliers.
1789
1 M. de Chatelux, from memory.
1 The Duke de Normandie, full-length.
1 Mme. Péregaux.
1 Mme. de Ségur, profile.
1 Large portrait of Marie Antoinette for the Baron de Breteuil.
1 Duchess de la Rochefoucauld.
1 Cupid.
1 Duchess d'Orléans.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun and daughter, for M. d'Angevilliers.
1 Mme. de Grollier.
1 Le Bailly de Crussol.
1 Mme. d'Aumont.
2 Mme. de Polignac.
2 Mme. de Guiche, pastel.
1 Mme. de Pienne.
1 Mme. de Châtre.
1 Mme. de Fresne-d'Aguesseau.
1 Marshal de Ségur.
1 Madame and the Dauphin.
1 Robert, the landscape painter.
1 Mlle. Lebrun, small oval.
1 Mme. Chalgrin.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun, pastel.
1 Joseph Vernet.
1 Prince of Nassau, full length.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun, with daughter in arms.
1 Mme. Raymond with her child.
2 Mme. de Simiane.
2 Mme. Rousseau.
1 Mme. Duvernais.
1 Mme. de Saint-Alban.
1 Mme. Savigni.
1 Mlle. Dorion.
1 Mme. Du Barry.
DONE AT ROME
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun, for the Academy of Lucca.
1 The same for the gallery at Florence.
1 Copy of same, for Lord Bristol.
1 Miss Pitt.
1 Mlle. Roland.
1 Mme. Silva, a Portuguese.
1 Countess Potocka.
2 Princesses Adelaide and Victoria, House of Bourbon.
VARIOUS LANDSCAPES, OILS AND CRAYONS DONE AT NAPLES
1 Countess Skavronska, three-quarter length.
2 The same, half-length.
1 Lady Hamilton, as a reclining bacchante.
1 The same, as a sibyl, full-length.
1 The same, as a bacchante dancing.
1 Head of the same as a sibyl.
1 Princess Maria Theresa, who married Emperor Francis II.
1 Princess Maria Louisa, who married the Grand Duke of Tuscany.
1 Princess Marie-Christine, of Naples.
1 Paesiello, composer.
1 Prince Resonico.
1 Lord Bristol, three-quarter length.
1 Bailiff of Litta.
1 Queen of Naples.
Studies of Vesuvius and several landscapes.
DONE AT TURIN AND OTHER PLACES
1 Head, in oils, for the Academy of Parma.
1 Small portrait for the Institute of Bologna.
1 Mme. de Gourbillon.
1 Her son.
1 Mlle. Lebrun, as a bather.
1 Mlle. Porporati.
1 Copy of portrait of Raphael at Florence.
Various landscapes from nature.
DONE AT VENICE
1 Mme. Marini.
DONE AT VIENNA
1 Mme. Bistri, a Pole.
1 Mlle. de Caquenet.
1 Countess Kinska, three-quarter length.
1 The same, half-length.
1 Countess de Buquoi.
1 Countess Rasomovska.
1 Countess Palfi.
1 Princess Lichtenstein.
1 Count Strogonoff, half-length.
1 The same, hands showing.
1 Count Czernicheff, in black domino.
1 Countess Zamoiska, dancing.
1 Young Countess de Fries as Sapho.
1 Duchess de Guiche in blue turban.
2 Portraits of Prince Schotorinski, one with cloak.
1 Mme. de Schoenfeld, wife of Saxon Minister, with her child.
1 Prince Henry Lubomirski, playing on a lyre, with two naiades listening.
1 Princess Lichtenstein, as Iris.
1 Princess Esterhazy, sitting by the sea.
1 Princess Louise Galitzin.
1 Mme. Mayer.
1 Little girl bathing.
1 Countess Severin Potocka.
1 Princess of Wurtemberg.
1 Small picture for Count Wilsech.
1 Countess de Braonne, to the knees.
1 Small portrait for Mme. de Carpeny.
1 Duchess de Polignac, from memory, after her death.
1 Young Edmund de Polignac.
1 Princess Sapieha.
PASTELS DONE AT VIENNA
1 Count Woina, son of the Polish Ambassador.
1 Mlle. Caroline Woina, his sister.
1 Young Countess Metzy de Polignac.
1 Young Countess Thérèse de Hardik.
2 The two brothers of the Duchess de Guiche.
1 Brother of Mlle. de Fries, half-length.
2 Countess de Rombec, half-length.
1 Count Julius de Polignac.
1 Princess Linovska.
1 Lady Gaisford.
1 The de Choisy sisters.
1 Mlle. Schoen.
1 Agenor, infant son of the Duchess de Polignac.
1 His brother, Count de Fries.
1 Countess de Thun.
1 Countess d'Harrack.
1 Small drawing of the same.
1 M. de Rivière.
1 M. Thomas, architect.
1 Countess de Rombec.
1 Marquis de Rivière.
Landscapes near Vienna, from nature.
DONE IN RUSSIA
1 Mme. Dimidoff.
1 Princess Mentchikoff, with her child, three-quarter length.
1 Countess Potocka, with dove, reclining.
1 Young Countess Schouvaloff, half-length.
1 The young Grand Duchesses Helen and Alexandrina.
2 Grand Duchess Elizabeth, arranging flowers in a basket.
2 Half-length copies of the same.
2 Half-length pictures of her, one hand showing.
1 Countess Orloff.
1 Marshall Soltikoff.
2 Grand Duchess Anne, half-length.
2 Countess Scavronska, copied from portrait done at Naples.
1 Countess Strogonoff, with her child.
1 Count Strogonoff, half-length.
4 Countess Sammakloff, with her children.
1 Countess Apraxin.
1 Princess Isoupoff.
1 Her son.
2 Countess Voranxoff.
1 Countess Golovin, one hand showing.
1 Countess Tolstoï, leaning against a rock.
2 Princess Alexis Kurakin and her husband.
2 King Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski, one in Henry IV. costume, the other in velvet cloak.
1 His great-niece, playing with a little dog.
1 Princess Michael Galitzin.
1 Emperor Alexander I., of Russia.
1 Empress Elizabeth, his wife.
1 Empress Maria of Russia, wife of the Emperor Paul.
2 Countess Diedrichstein and her husband.
1 Princess Bauris Galitzin, three-quarter length.
1 Lord Talbot, half-length.
1 Princess Sapieha, with tambour, dancing.
1 Daughter of Princess Isoupoff.
1 Mme. Kutusoff, half-length.
1 Baron Strogonoff.
1 Mlle. Kasisky.
1 Princess Alexander Galitzin.
1 Mme. Kalitcheff.
1 Count Potocka.
1 Count Litta.
1 Princess Viaminski.
1 Young Prince Bariatinski.
2 Prince Alexander Kurakin, half-length.
1 Mme. Vigée Lebrun, in black, to the knees, holding palette, for the Academy of St. Petersburg.
DONE AT BERLIN
2 Pastels of the Queen of Prussia.
1 Mme. de Souza, Portuguese Ambassadress.
1 Portrait of a lady.
DONE AT DRESDEN
3 Emperor Alexander, copied from portrait done at St. Petersburg.
1 Daughter of the Countess Potocka.
1 A German lady.
DONE IN ENGLAND
1 Miss Dorset.
1 Mme. Chinnery.
2 Her children.
1 Miss Dillon.
1 Mme. Villiers.
1 Margravine of Anspach.
1 Mme. Baring.
1 Prince of Wales.
1 Mme. de Polastron.
1 Countess Diedrichstein.
2 Infant son of Mme. de Polastron.
1 Lord Byron.
1 Prince Bariatinski.
1 An American lady.
1 Son of Margravine of Anspach.
3 Portraits of Mme. Vigée Lebrun.
3 Mme. Grassini, two of them in oriental costume, the other half-length.
1 Portrait of an Irish lady.
1 Lady Georgina, daughter of Lady Gordon.
1 Prince Biron of Courland, as a huntsman.
1 Two sons of Countess de Vaudreuil.
Views of the seacoast in crayons, and several landscapes.
DONE AT PARIS AFTER RETURNING
1 Queen of Prussia, from picture done at Berlin, large half-length.
1 Prince Ferdinand of Prussia.
1 Prince Augustus Ferdinand, his son.
1 Princess Louise Radzivill, his sister.
1 Princess Tufakin.
1 Mme. Catalani, singing at a piano.
1 Mme. Murat, with her daughter.
4 Portraits of Mme. Vigée Lebrun for friends.
3 Mme. Grassini.
1 M. Ragani, her husband.
1 Viscountess de Vaudreuil.
2 Count de Vaudreuil, her uncle.
2 Duchess de Guiche.
1 Young Princess Potemski, half-length.
1 Mme. Constans.
1 Countess d'Andlau, with hands showing.
1 Duke de Berri.
2 Countess de Rosambeau and Countess d'Orglande, daughters of Countess d'Andlau.
2 The two d'Andlau brothers.
1 Viotti, famous violinist.
1 Marquise de Grollier, painting flowers.
1 M. de Crussol, large half-length picture.
1 Mlle. de Grénonville.
1 Mme. Davidoff.
1 Marquis de Rivière, for King Charles X., half-length.
1 Count de Coëtlosquet.
1 Mme. de Pront, his niece.
2 Duchess de Berri.
1 Mlle. de Sassenay.
1 M. Raoul Rochette.
1 M. Sapey.
1 Mme. Lafont.
1 Mlle. de Rivière.
1 Alfred de Rivière.
1 Baron de Feisthamel, painting.
1 Baron de Crespy le Prince, drawing.
1 Mme. Ditte.
1 Mme. de Rivière, both hands showing.
1 Profile of Mme. Vigée Lebrun, for a medallion for the City of St. Petersburg, on which Angelica Kauffman was also to appear.
SUNDRY PICTURES
1 Poetry, Painting and Music.
1 Spanish Scene.
1 Love asleep under a tree.
1 Young girl, surprised in her shirt.
1 Young girl, caught writing.
1 Innocence seeking refuge in the arms of Justice.
1 Venus binding the wings of Love.
1 Juno asking girdle from Venus.
1 Bacchante with tiger-skin.
1 Peace bringing back Plenty.
1 Apotheosis of the Queen.
1 Shipwrecked woman.
1 Cataract of Narva.
1 Amphion playing on the lyre.
1 An old man with his son.
About 200 Swiss and English landscapes.
SUNDRY PORTRAITS
1 Mme. Ducrest de Villeneuve.
1 Marquise de Jancourt.
1 Countess de Provence.
1 Woman painting.
1 Mme. Molé-Raymond, of the Comédie-Française, with muff.
1 The infant Duke de Berri.
1 Lady playing the harp.
1 Countess Czartoryska.
1 Mme. Courcelles.
1 Davich Khan.
1 His son.
1 Prince de Rochefort.
1 Cardinal Fleury, from an engraving.
1 La Bruyère, from an engraving.
1 Mme. de Suffrein, from memory.
1 Abbé Delille, from memory.
1 Countess de Las Casas, from memory.
INDEX
d'Abrantès, Duchess, 113
d'Alembert, 19
Alexander, as Emperor of Russia, 160, 161
Alexandrina, Duchess, 115
Alexandrina, Grand Duchess, 96
Amiens, Treaty of, 186
Amsterdam, 33
"Anacharsis," 38
d'Angevilliers, M., 30
d'Angoulême, Duchess, 206, 210
Anne, Grand Duchess, 97
Anspach, Margravine of, 196, 197
Archimandrite, the, 107, 129, 130
d'Aremberg, Duchess, 21
d'Aremberg, Princess, 32
Arnault, Abbé, 8
Arnould, Mlle., 41, 45
d'Artois, Count, 30, 44, 87, 190, 208
d'Artois, Countess, 30
Assassination of Paul, Emperor of Russia, 156, 160
Asvedo, 36
Auber, the crown jeweller, 21
Augué, Mlle., 179
Augustus, Prince of England, 73
Bariatinski, Prince, 87, 98
Bariatinski, Princess, 110
Barrière du Trône, 55
Bassano, Mme. de, 177
Beaujolais, Duke de, 196
Beaujon, M. de, 41
Beaumarchais, M. de, 48
Beauvoisin Bridge, 56
Berlin, arrival at, 167
Bernis, de, Cardinal, 57, 63
Berri, Duke de, 69, 191, 198, 209, 211
Berri, Duchess de, 211, 212
Bertin, Mlle., 65
Bezborodko, Prince, 151, 152
Bombelles, Marquis de, 72
Bonaparte, 176, 179, 201, 202
Bonaparte, Lucien, 174, 176
Bonneuil, Mme. de, 24, 174
Boquet, Mlle., 7, 8, 12, 13
Boufflers, Chevalier de, 36, 37
Bourbon, Duke de, 69
Bournonville, General, 170
Boutin, M., 39
Branicka, Countess, 95
Briard, 8
Brighton, 194, 195
Brionne, Countess de, 11, 19, 78
Brongniart, 52
Brongniart, Mme., 52
Brongniarts, 175
Brussels, 33
Budweis, 81
Buturlin, Count, 152
Café Turc, 13
Calonne, M. de, 41
Campan, Mme., 179
Canaletto's pictures, 77
Canillos, Mme. de, 21
Canisy, Mme. de, 177
Caravaggio's pictures, 77
Catherine II., 80, 85, 86, 87, 96, 97, 98;
her reign a boon to Russia, 112;
her simple mode of life, 114;
her death, 116
Chalgrin, Mme., 13
Champs Élysées, 14
Chartres, Duchess de, 11, 22
Chaudet, 39
Chimay, Prince de, 178
Chinnery, Mme., 192, 193
Choiseul, Duke de, 19
Clotilda, Queen of Sardinia, 74
Cobentzel, Count, 91, 92, 93, 116
Coliseum, The, 14, 60
Comédie Française, 14
Condé, Prince de, 126
Contat, Mlle., 44, 54
Conti, Princess de, 47
Constantine, Grand Duke, 97
Couteux du Molay, le, 37
Cramer, 36
Cubières, Marquis de, 39, 40
Dalayrac's "Underground," 91
Daughter of Mme. Lebrun, death of, 212, 213
Davesne, 6
Davich Kahn, 25
De la Ribaussière, 91
Delayrac, 46
Delille, Abbé, 37, 180, 181
Denis, 61
Denis, Mme., 63
Denon, M., 72
Devonshire, Duchess of, 186
Diderot, 7
Diedrichstein, Count, 115
Dimidoff, M., 127
Dimidoff, Mme., 180
Dolgoruki, Princess, 91, 92, 101, 114, 116, 117, 161, 179, 180
Domenichino, 22
Dorset, Lady, 195
Doyen, 5, 7, 125, 126
Du Barry, Mme., her portrait is painted by Mme. Lebrun, 50;
account of her death, 51
Ducis, 178
Ducrest de Villeneuve, Countess, 127, 147, 148
Dugazon, 44
Dugazon, Mme., 46
Dumesnil, Mlle., 42
Duroc, General, 170
Duvivier, M., accompanies Mme. Lebrun to Naples, 63
Égalité, Philippe, 47
Elisabeth, Mme., 30
Elisabeth, Princess, wife of Alexander, 85, 96, 97, 98
d'Enghien, Duke, 191
d'Entraigues, Count, 45
Esterhazy, Count, 84, 85, 87
Esterhazy, Countess, 85
"Fantoccini," Carlo Perico's, 14
Faubourg, Saint Antoine, 55
Faubourg, Saint Germain, 11
Filleul, M., 13
Fitzherbert, Mme., 187
Fleury, Cardinal, 19
Fleury, Duchess de, 62, 68
France, return to, 172
Francis II., Emperor of Austria, 70, 78
Frogères, 123
"Gallery of the Titans," 56
Galitzin, Prince, 149, 150
Garat, 36
Gardel, 45
Gennevilliers, 47
Geoffrin, Mme., 10
Genis, Mme. de, 211
Gérard, M., 177
Gerbier, 18
Gluck, 8, 36, 45
Gluckists, 36
Golovin, Countess, 101
Gourbillon, Mme. de, 75
Grammont-Caderousse, Duchess de, 22
Grassini, Mme., 201
Grétry, 18, 36, 49
Greuze, 9, 174
Greville, Lord, 67
Grollier, Marquise de, 36
Guiche, Countess de la, 41, 79
Guimard, Mlle., 46
Hamelin, Mme., 180
Hamilton, Sir William, 65, 67
Hamilton, Lady, 66, 67, 68, 69
Hampton Court, 193
Harlequin, 60
Harte, Mme. (Lady Hamilton), 65, 66
Helen, Grand Duchess, 96
Helvetius, 7
Henry of Prussia, Prince, 36
Hermitage, the, 113
Herschel, Doctor, 193, 194
Hulmondel, 36
Hydromel, 108
"Iphigenia," 89
Jarnovick, 36
Jouberthon, Mme., 174
Knowles Castle, 195
Krestovski, Island of, 110
Krudener, Baroness de, 169
Kurakin, Prince Alexander, 149
Kurakin, Princess, 91, 161
Kutaisoff, 157, 160
Laborde, Mlle. de, 54
La Bruyère, 19
La Harpe, 22
Lamballe, Princess de, 31
Lambeth, M., 30
Langeron, Count de, 127
Larive, 38
Laruette, Mme., 38
Latour, 4, 18
Lauzun, Duke de, 19
Lebrun, Eugenia, 211, 213
Lebrun, Mme., daughter of, 136, 140;
letter of, 188-190
Lebrun, M., his marriage to Mlle. Vigée, 20;
his appropriation of her earnings, 41;
his death, 212
Lebrun, the poet, 37, 38
Lekain, 18, 38, 42
Le Moine, 18
Lichtenstein, Prince, 77
Lichtenstein, Princess, 80
Ligne, Prince de, 32, 79, 80, 85, 94, 113
London, journey to, 182;
streets of, 184;
Sunday in, 184;
artists of, 185;
climate of, 185
Longchamps, 13
Lorraine, Princess de, 11, 19
Louis XVIII., 30, 31, 206-208
Louveciennes, sacking of, 204, 205
Louvre, the, 9
Lubomirska, Prince, 42
Lubomirska, Princess, 42
Luxembourg Palace, 8, 15
Lyon, Emma (Lady Hamilton), 66
Madame, the Wife of Louis XVIII., 75
Maestricht, 33
Maestrino, 36
Maria, Empress of Russia, portrait of, 128;
beauty of, 128;
children of, 129
Marie Antoinette, 17, 22;
her portrait is painted by Mme. Lebrun, 25, 30;
reference to portrait, 126;
bust of, 179
Marie, Grand Duchess, 97
Maria Theresa, wife of Emperor Francis II., 78
Marly-le-Roi, 17
"Marriage of Figaro," the, 44
Mars, Mlle., 44
Martini, 36
Matlock, 194
Mazarin, Duchess de, 23, 134
Melissimo, 111;
his luxurious house, 111;
elaborate entertainment for Mme. Lebrun, 111
Metternich, M. de, 180
Metternich, Prince, 79
Moira, Lord, 198
Monaco, Princess Joseph de, 62, 68, 73
Montesquiou, Marquis de, 31
Montgerou, Mme. de, 36
Montesson, Mme. de, 47
Montpensier, Duke de, 196
Moscow, journey to, 142, 143;
size of, 144;
cemeteries of, 144;
palaces of, 149;
banker of, 150;
departure from, 154
Müller, 34
Murat, Mme., 179, 203
Naples, Queen of, 67, 70, 71, 72
Narischkin, Prince, 89
Narva, 164
Nassau, Prince, 79
Nelson, Lord, 69
Neva, the breaking up of ice in, 106;
blessing of, 107
Nicholas, Grand Duke of Russia, 129
Nivernais, Duke de, 49
Noailles, Marshal de, 35
d'Orléans, Duke, 47, 196
Orloff, Count, 10, 90, 148
Opéra-Comique, 46
Palais Royal, 9, 12, 36
Paris, comparison with other cities, 175
Parois, Count de, 39
Paul, 103, 116, 117;
accession of, 119;
tyranny of, 120;
personal appearance of, 125;
assassination of, 156
Pergola, Lake of, 109
Pérouse, M. de la, 14, 62
Peter III., his funeral, with that of Catherine, 117
Peter, Mme. Lebrun's servant, 104, 109
Peyre, Mme., 178
Pezé, Mme. de, 37
Piccini, 36, 45
Piccinists, 36
Pierre, M., opposition to Mme. Lebrun's election to Royal Academy of Painting, 34
Pitt, Miss, 57
Poinsinet, 5
Polignac, Duchess de, 79
Poniatowski, Prince Joseph, 134, 135
Poniatowski, Stanislaus Augustus, 131-133
Pope Pius VI., 58
Porporati, 76
Posilippo, 70, 71
Potemkin, account of his extravagances, 93, 94;
his death, 95
Potocka, Countess, 57
Potsdam, 167
Poussin's pictures, 39
"Rape of the Sabines," 69
Prater, the, 77
Préville, 45
Prince of Wales, the, 186, 187
Prussia, Queen of, 167, 168
Radziwill, Prince, 169
Raincy, 47
Raphael, 9, 22
Raphael's "Madonna," Dresden gallery, 81
Rasomovski, Count, 78
Raucourt, Mlle., first appearance, 43
Récamier, Mme., 177, 178
Reimburg, Frederic, his collection of pictures of Lady Hamilton, 67
Rembrandt, 9
Repnin, Prince, 95
Reynolds, 185
Richelieu, Duke, 127
Richer, 36
Riga, 165
Rivière, Marquis de, 38, 133, 134
Rivière, Mme. de, 211, 214
Rohan-Rochefort, Princess, 18, 19
Rohan, Cardinal de, 19
Roissy, Mme. de, 18
Romazoff, 90
Rombec, Countess de, 79
Rome, palaces and churches, 58;
manner of lighting streets, 59;
general use of daggers, 61
Roquencourt, 205
Rougé, Marquise de, 37
Royale, Mme. 30
Rubens, 8, 9, 32, 34, 77
Rulhières, M. de, 19
Russia, rigour of climate, 100, 102
Russian hospitality, 90;
entertainments, 100;
characteristics, 103, 104, 105;
servants, 107, 108
Saardam, 33
Sabran, Marquise de, 36
Sacchini, 36, 45
Saint Georges, 12
Saint Huberti, Mme., 45
Saint Ouen, 49
Salentin, 36
Sardinia, King of, 76
Scaramouche, 60
Schoenbrunn, Park of, 78
Schouvaloff, Count, 10
Ségur, Count de, 94, 113, 114, 115, 177, 180
Ségur, Mme. de, 176, 202
Skavronska, Count, 64, 65
Skavronska, Countess, 65
Soltikoff, Marshall, 146
Soltikoff, Mme., 147, 148
Sombreuil, M. de, 53
Sombreuil, Mlle. de, 53
Souza, Mme. de, 21
St. Angelo, Castle of, 59
St. Paul's, 58, 184
St. Peter's, Pope's blessing at, 58
St. Petersburg, description of, 81, 82
Stachelburg, Count, 114
"Straw Hat," by Rubens, 34
Strogonoff, Baroness de, 41, 146
Strogonoff, Count, 88, 89, 96, 103, 104, 136, 161
Strogonoff, Mlle., 127
Sudermania, Duke of, 115
Suvaroff, General, 113
Sweden, King of, 22, 115
Switzerland, journey to, 204
Talleyrand, Baron de, 70
Tallien, Mme., 178
Talma, 38, 43
"The Unwitting Philosopher," 44
Tippoo Sahib, Emperor, 24
Titian's pictures, 77
Todi, Mme., 36
Tuileries, 8, 15
Tunbridge Wells, 194
Turin, Mme. Lebrun goes to, 74;
filled with refugees from Paris, 76
Tuscany, Grand Duke of, 70
Vallayer-Coster, Mme., 34
Van Dyck, 9, 32, 77
Van Loo, painting by, 33
Vaudreuil, M. de, 39, 40, 49, 196
Verdun, Mme. de, 36
Vernet, Joseph, 8, 10, 34
Versailles, 30, 55
Vestris, the elder, 45
Vien, M., 177
Vien, Mme., 34
Vigée, Mme. Lebrun's brother, 38
Villeroi, Duchess de, 76
Villette, Marquise de, 48
Viotti, 36, 192
Wilford, Sir A., 195
Windsor, 193
Witworth, Lord, 133, 134
Zelaguin, Island of, 11
Zouboff, Plato, 95, 156
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