have now an object in doing so. All the world here will miss
you very much, and the charm with which you invested existence;
but for your own happiness, I am persuaded you have acted
wisely. Every now and then, in this life, we require a great
change; it wonderfully revives the sense of existence. I envy
you; pray, if possible, let me sometimes hear from you.”
Thackeray writes to Mrs Brookfield:—
“I have just come away from a dismal sight; Gore House full of snobs
looking at the furniture. Foul Jews; odious bombazine women, who drove
up in mysterious flys which they had hired, the wretches, to be fined (?
fine), so as to come in state to a fashionable lounge; brutes keeping
their hats on in the kind old drawing-room—I longed to knock some of them
off, and say, ‘Sir, be civil in a lady’s room.…’ There was one of the
servants there, not a powdered one, but a butler, a _whatd’youcallit_. My
heart melted towards him and I gave him a pound. Ah! it was a strange,
sad picture of _Vanity Fair_.”
The catalogue of the sale gives an idea of the “household gods”:—
“Costly and elegant effects: comprising all the magnificent furniture,
rare porcelain, sculpture in marble, bronzes, and an assemblage of
objects of art and decoration; a casket of valuable jewellery and
_bijouterie_, services of chased silver and silver-gilt plate, a
superbly-fitted silver dressing-case; collection of ancient and modern
pictures, including many portraits of distinguished persons, valuable
original drawings, and fine engravings, framed and in portfolios; the
extensive and interesting library of books, comprising upwards of 5000
volumes, expensive table services of china and rich cut glass, and an
infinity of useful and valuable articles. All the property of the Right
Hon. the Countess of Blessington, retiring to the Continent.”
So wrote Mr Phillips, “that eminent author of auctioneering
advertisements.”
The sale took place in May, and was attended by a crowd of fashionables,
and the net sum realised was £11,985, 4s. 0d. Lawrence’s portrait of
Lady Blessington, now in the Wallace Collection, fetched £336 and was
purchased by Lord Hertford, who also acquired D’Orsay’s portrait of the
Duke of Wellington for £189. Chalon’s portrait of Lady Blessington was
saved from the wreck; it is now in the National Portrait Gallery.
Lady Blessington’s French valet, Avillon, writes to her:—
“GORE HOUSE, KENSINGTON,
_May 8th, 1849_.
“MY LADY,—J’ai bien reçu votre lettre, et je me serais empressé
d’y répondre le même jour, mais j’ai été si occupé étant le
premier de la vente qu’il m’a été impossible de le faire.
J’ai vu M. P.⸺ dans l’après midi. Il avais un commis ici pour
prendre le prix des différents objets vendu le 7 May, et que
vous avez sans doute reçu maintenant, au dire des gens qui ont
assisté à la vente. Les choses se sont vendus avant agencement
et je dois ajouter que M. Phillips n’a rien négligé pour rendre
la vente intéressante a toute la noblesse d’ici.
“Lord Hertford a acheté plusieurs choses, et ce n’est que
dimanche dernier fort tard dans l’après midi, qu’il est venu
voir la maison. En un mot je pense sans exagération, que le
nombre de personnes qui sont venus a la maison pendant les 5
jours quelle a été en vue, que plus de 20,000 personnes y sont
entrées; une très grande quantité de Catalogue ont été vendus,
et nous en vendons encore tous les jours, car vous le savez,
personne n’est admis sans cela. Plusieurs des personnes qui
fréquantent la maison sont venus les deux premiers jours.…
“Le Dr. Quin est venu plusieurs fois, et á paru prendre le
plus grand intêret a ce qui se passait ici. M. Thackeray est
venu aussi, et avait les larmes aux yeux en partant. _C’est
peut-être la seule personne que j’ai vu réellement affecté a
votre depart._”
Lady Blessington and her two nieces had left for Paris on 14th April.
XXVII
PARIS FOR THE LAST TIME
Lady Blessington returned to the city where her husband had died; D’Orsay
to serve under another Napoleon than he to whom he had once aspired to
render duty. Lady Blessington took a suite of rooms in the Hôtel de la
Ville l’Evêque, but shortly moved into an _appartement_ in the Rue du
Cerq, hard by the Champs Elysées, which she furnished, partly with some
of the salvage from the sale, and where she lived very cosily upon her
jointure.
The following letter is from Henry Bulwer:—
“_May 6, 1849._
“I was very glad to get your letter. I never had a doubt (I
judged by myself) that your friends would remain always your
friends, and I was sure that many who were not Alfred’s when he
was away, would become so when he was present.[35] It would be
great ingratitude if Prince Louis forgot former kindnesses and
services, and I must say, that I do not think him capable of
this.
“I think you will take a house in Paris or near it, and I hope
some day there to find you, and to renew some of the many happy
hours I have spent in your society. I shall attend the sale,
and advise all my friends to do so. From what I hear, things
will probably sell well. I am sure that Samson will execute any
commission for you when he goes to Paris, and I gave Douro
your message, who returns it.…”
Napoleon as President, however, was a different man from a mere Prince
in Exile, and could scarcely show himself as intimate in Paris with
Lady Blessington and D’Orsay as he had done in London. Accompanied
by the Misses Power they dined at the Elysée Palace, and then social
intercourse apparently ceased. That D’Orsay had in other days been of
great assistance to Napoleon, and that Lady Blessington had been to him a
most kind hostess, there is no denying; they expected much now in return,
but Napoleon could scarcely in decency give much.
It is narrated that Napoleon said to Lady Blessington: “Are you going to
stay long in France?”
And that she with more wit than wisdom replied: “I don’t know. _Are you?_”
Lady Blessington was warmly welcomed by many of her old friends, notably
by various members of the family of de Grammont. She tried to resume in a
minor key at Paris the life she had led at Gore House; but the endeavour
failed.
A letter from Lady Blessington’s niece, Margaret Power, brings us to the
closing scene of this portion of our story:—
“On arriving in Paris, my aunt followed a mode of life differing
considerably from the sedentary one she had for such a length of time
pursued; she rose earlier, took much exercise, and, in consequence, lived
somewhat higher than was her wont, for she was habitually a remarkably
small eater; this appeared to agree with her _general_ health, for she
looked well, and was cheerful; but she began to suffer occasionally
(especially in the morning) from oppression and difficulty of breathing.
These symptoms, slight at first, she carefully concealed from our
knowledge, having always a great objection to medical treatment; but as
they increased in force and frequency, she was obliged to reveal them,
and medical aid was immediately called in. Dr Léon Simon pronounced
there was _énergie du cœur_, but that the symptoms in question proceeded
probably from bronchitis—a disease then very prevalent in Paris—that
they were nervous, and entailed no danger, and as, after the remedies
he prescribed, the attacks diminished perceptibly in violence, and her
general health seemed little affected by them, he entertained no serious
alarm.
“On the 3rd of June, she was removed from the hotel we had occupied
during the seven weeks we had passed in Paris, and entered the residence
which my poor aunt had devoted so much pains and attention to the
selecting and furnishing of, and that same day dined _en famille_
with the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche (Count d’Orsay’s nephew). On that
occasion, my aunt seemed particularly well in health and spirits, and it
being a lovely night, we walked home by moonlight. As usual, I aided my
aunt to undress—she never allowed her maid to sit up for her—and left her
a little after midnight. She passed, it seems, some most restless hours
(she was habitually a bad sleeper), and early in the morning, feeling
the commencement of one of the attacks, she called for assistance, and
Dr Simon was immediately sent for, the symptoms manifesting themselves
with considerable violence, and in the meantime, the remedies he had
ordered—sitting upright, rubbing the chest and upper stomach with ether,
administering ether, internally, etc.—were all resorted to without
effect; the difficulty of breathing became so excessive, that the whole
of the chest heaved upwards at each inspiration, which was inhaled with
a loud whooping noise, the face was swollen and purple, the eyeballs
distended, and utterance almost wholly denied, while the extremities
gradually became cold and livid, in spite of every attempt to restore the
vital heat. By degrees, the violence of the symptoms abated; she uttered
a few words; the first, ‘The violence is over, I can breathe freer’;
and soon after, ‘_Quelle heure est-il?_’ Thus encouraged, we deemed the
danger past; but, alas! how bitterly were we deceived; she gradually sank
from that moment, and when Dr Simon, who had been delayed by another
patient, arrived, he saw that hope was gone; and, indeed, she expired so
easily, so tranquilly, that it was impossible to perceive the moment when
her spirit passed away.”
D’Orsay was alone.
The autopsy showed that death was caused by enlargement of the heart.
The body was embalmed and lay in the vaults of the Madeleine until the
monument at Chambourcy, where was the seat of the de Grammonts, a few
miles from St Germain-en-Laye, was ready to receive it. The mausoleum,
designed by D’Orsay, stands upon a slight eminence; a railing of bronze
encloses a pyramid of granite rising from a square platform of black
stone. Entering the burial chamber, against the opposite wall is a copy
in bronze of Michael Angelo’s crucified Christ. On either side the
chamber stands a sarcophagus—in that to the left lies Lady Blessington.
“It stands,” writes Miss Power, “on a hillside, just above the village
cemetery, and overlooks a view of exquisite beauty and immense extent,
taking in the Seine winding through the fertile valley and the forest of
St Germain; plains, villages and far distant hills, and at the back and
side it is sheltered by chestnut trees of large size and great age; a
more picturesque spot it is difficult to imagine.” The ivy growing over
the green turf was sent from Ireland by Bernal Osborne.
On the wall above the tomb of Lady Blessington are two epitaphs, one in
Latin by Landor; the other by Barry Cornwall, which runs as follows:—
IN HER LIFETIME
SHE WAS LOVED AND ADMIRED,
FOR HER MANY GRACEFUL WRITINGS,
HER GENTLE MANNERS, HER KIND AND GENEROUS HEART.
MEN, FAMOUS FOR ART AND SCIENCE,
IN DISTANT LANDS,
SOUGHT HER FRIENDSHIP:
AND THE HISTORIANS, AND SCHOLARS, THE POETS, AND WITS, AND
PAINTERS, OF HER OWN COUNTRY,
FOUND AN UNFAILING WELCOME
IN HER EVER HOSPITABLE HOME.
SHE GAVE, CHEERFULLY, TO ALL WHO WERE IN NEED,
HELP, AND SYMPATHY, AND USEFUL COUNSEL;
AND SHE DIED
LAMENTED BY HER FRIENDS.
THEY WHO LOVED HER BEST IN LIFE, AND NOW LAMENT HER MOST,
HAVE RAISED THIS TRIBUTARY MARBLE
OVER HER PLACE OF REST.
So far truth, and it is not to be expected of an epitaph that it should
tell the whole truth.
Requiescat.
[Illustration: MAUSOLEUM OF LADY BLESSINGTON
(_From a Photograph (?) by D’Orsay_)
[TO FACE PAGE 288]
XXVIII
D’ORSAY IN DECLINE
In April 1849, D’Orsay writes to Dr Quin from Paris:—
“38 RUE DE LA VILLE L’EVEQUE.
“MON BON QUIN,—J’ai eu un départ imprévu heureusement, que je
suis _safe_ de ce côté. Il a fallu que je me décide de partir
à 3 hrs de la nuit pour ne pas manquer le Dimanche. Ces dames
vous racontent qu’une de mes prèmieres pensées ici ont été pour
vous. Vous le voyez par ce peu de mots—aimez moi toujours de
loin, car je vous aimais bien de près.—Votre meilleur ami,
“ALFRED.”
The death of Lady Blessington was a blow to him from which he never
really recovered. Writing to Madden from Chambourcy on 12th July, Miss
Power says:—
“Count d’Orsay would himself have answered your letter, but had not the
nerve or the heart to do so; although the subject occupies his mind
night and day, he cannot speak of it but to those who have been his
fellow-sufferers. It is like an image ever floating before his eyes,
which he has got, as it were, used to look upon, but which he cannot
yet bear to grasp and feel that it is real. Much as she was to us, we
cannot but feel that to him she was all; the centre of his existence,
round which his recollections, thoughts, hopes and plans turned, and just
at the moment she was about to commence a new mode of life, one that
promised a rest from the occupation and anxieties that had for some
years fallen to her share, death deprived us of her.”
The first visit that he paid to her tomb had a heart-breaking effect upon
him; at one moment he would be stunned, at another driven to frenzy by
his grief. What thoughts of past times must have assailed him: of his
first meeting with her in London so many years ago; of the long days
and nights of delight in Italy; of his marriage, perchance; of Seamore
Place, of Gore House; of hours of merriment and of sorrow; of her tried
faithfulness to him; of his occasional faithlessness. That his love for
her survived even the advance of years we cannot doubt; but the love of
man is different far from the love of woman.
In a letter, already partly quoted, to Lane, D’Orsay says, writing early
in 1850:—
“Poor Miss Power is very much affected. There is no consolation to
offer. The only one that I can imagine, is to think continually of the
person lost, and to make oneself more miserable by thinking. It is,
morally speaking, an homœopathic treatment, and the only one which can
give some relief. You cannot form an idea of the _soulagement_ that I
found, in occupying myself in the country (at Chambourcy) in building
the monument which I have erected to dear Lady Blessington’s memory. I
made it so solid and so fine, that I felt all the time that death was
the reality and life only the dream of all around me. When I hear anyone
making projects for the future, I laugh, feeling as I do now, that we may
to-morrow, without five minutes’ notice, have to follow those we regret.
I am prepared for that, with a satisfactory resignation.”
D’Orsay wrote to Forster on April 23rd, 1850:—
“Miss Power has told you how much I love you, and how often
we talk about you. The fact is, I am full of reminiscences,
and they are such a medley of displeasure and pleasure that
I hesitate to write even to those who are most likely to
understand me. Just think that I have not even yet written to
Edward Bulwer. You’ll understand, I’m sure. To-day I dined with
Lamartine and Victor Hugo at Girardin’s.…
“Do not let Fonblanque think I have forgotten him? Give a
thousand friendly wishes from me to Dickens and his wife,
and embrace my godson for me. I count also on your speaking
kindly of me to Macready and his wife, and to the good Maclise.
It seems to me almost as if I had only gone away to-day, my
recollections are so vivid; it is truly a daguerreotype of the
heart that nothing can efface. I adore old England, and long
to return there. Never did man so suffer as I have done for my
loss.[36]
“I wonder at those religious people who hold religion so high
that they quickly find consolation. They do not understand, the
idiots, that there is a great, a greater faith in a true sorrow
which does not heal.
“Adieu, _mon brave ami_, count always on my affection,
“D’ORSAY.”
He found comfort in the companionship of Lady Blessington’s two nieces,
Margaret and Ellen. To a certain extent he avoided mixing in society, but
we hear of him now and again.
In 1850 he rented a large studio and some smaller rooms in the house
of Theodore Gudin, the marine painter, to which he conveyed all his
belongings, and where he settled down to work and sedate entertaining.
Here Thackeray visited him:—
“To-day I went to see D’Orsay, who has made a bust of Lamartine,[37] who
… is mad with vanity. He has written some verses on his bust, and asks:
‘Who is this? Is it a warrior? Is it a hero? Is it a priest? Is it a
sage? Is it a tribune of the people? Is it an Adonis?’ meaning that he is
all these things,—verses so fatuous and crazy I never saw. Well, D’Orsay
says they are the finest verses that ever were written, and imparts to
me a translation which Miss Power has made of them; and D’Orsay believes
in his mad rubbish of a statue, which he didn’t make; believes in it in
the mad way that madmen do,—that it is divine, and that he made it; only
as you look in his eyes, you see that he doesn’t quite believe, and when
pressed hesitates, and turns away with a howl of rage. D’Orsay has fitted
himself up a charming _atelier_, with arms and trophies, pictures and
looking-glasses, the tomb of Blessington, the sword and star of Napoleon,
and a crucifix over his bed; and here he dwells without any doubts or
remorses, admiring himself in the most horrible pictures which he has
painted, and the statues which he gets done for him.”
Lord Lamington gives a curious account of a visit:—
I “found his room all hung with black curtains, the bed and
window-curtains were the same; all the souvenirs of one so dear were
collected around him.”
Of the friends that rallied around him, Madden names as among the most
faithful the ex-King Jérôme and his son, Prince Napoleon, and Emile
de Girardin. Of the man of the bust, D’Orsay writes, in April 1850:
“Lamartine me disait hier: ‘Plus je vois de représentants du peuple, plus
j’aime mes chiens.’”
Early in February 1851 we find Dickens in Paris, stopping at the Hôtel
Wagram; D’Orsay dined with him on the 11th and Dickens went in return to
the _atelier_ the next day. “He was very happy with us,” he writes, “and
is much improved both in spirits and looks.”
In May 1850 Abraham Hayward was in Paris, and dined at Philippe’s with
a highly-distinguished company, including Brougham, Alexandre Dumas,
Lord Dufferin, the Hon. W. Stuart, a Mr Dundas of Carron, Hayward
himself and D’Orsay. Lord Dufferin, who, however, gives 1849 as the
date, describes this dinner as “noisy but amusing.” The object of the
dinner was the bringing together of Brougham and Dumas:—“Brougham
was punctual to the hour, and they were formally introduced by Count
d’Orsay, who, observing some slight symptoms of stiffness, exclaimed:
‘_Comment, diable, vous, les deux grands hommes, embrassez-vous donc,
embrassez-vous._’ They fraternised accordingly _à la française_, Brougham
looking very much during the operation as if he were in the grip of a
bear, though nobody could look more cordial and satisfied than Dumas. The
dinner was excellent. Some first rate _Clos de Vougeot_, of which Dumas
had an accurate foreknowledge, sustained the hilarity of the company;
the conversation was varied and animated; each of the distinguished
guests took his fair share, and no more than his fair share; and it was
bordering on midnight when the party separated.”
The price of the dinner was twenty francs a head, not including the wine,
and D’Orsay and Hayward were jointly responsible for the _menu_. “The
most successful dishes were the _bisque_, the _fritures Italiennes_, and
the _gigot à la Bretonne_,” so says Hayward.
In his latest days he still retained a keen zest for the good things of
the table, as is shown by this letter of his to Hayward:—
“PARIS, _1st May 1852_.
“I must confess with regret that the culinary art has sadly
fallen off in Paris; and I do not very clearly see how it is to
recover, as there are at present no great establishments where
the school can be kept up.
“You must have remarked, when you were here, that at all the
first-class _restaurants_ you had nearly the same dinner; they
may, however, be divided into three categories. Undoubtedly,
the best for a great dinner and good wine are the Frères
Provençaux (Palais Royal); Philippe (Rue Mont Orgueil), and the
Café de Paris; the latter is not always to be counted upon,
but is excellent when they give you a _soigné_ dinner. In the
second class are Véry (Palais Royal), Vefour (Café Anglais),
and Champeaux (Place de la Bourse), where you can have a most
_conscientious_ dinner, good without pretension; the situation
is central, in a beautiful garden, and you must ask for a
_bifstek à la Châteaubriand_. At the head of the third class we
must place Bonvallet, on the Boulevard du Temple, near all the
little theatres; Defieux, chiefly remarkable for corporation
and assembly dinners.… The two best places for suppers are
the Maison d’Or and the Café Anglais; and for breakfasts,
Tortoni’s, and the Café d’Orsay on the Quai d’Orsay. In the
vicinity of Paris, the best _restaurant_ is the Pavilion Henri
Quatre, at St Germains, kept by the old cook of the Duchesse
de Berri. At none of these places could you find dinners now
such as were produced by Ude; by Soyer, formerly with Lord
Chesterfield; by Rotival, with Lord Wilton; or by Perron, with
Lord Londonderry.… You are now _au fait_ of the pretended
French gastronomy. It has emigrated to England, and has no wish
to return. We do not absolutely die of hunger here, and that is
all that can be said.”
A few other friends were faithful. There was Eugene Sue, a much read
man in his day, but his name drags on a precarious existence now as the
author of _The Mysteries of Paris_ and _The Wandering Jew_. Probably
his chief claim to immortality will be found to be his friendship
with D’Orsay, who indeed inspired him with the central figure of “Le
Viscomte de Letocère, ou L’Art de Plaire.” He was quite a dandy in his
way, though of course not comparable in degree with D’Orsay, and,
strange combination, was a bit of a Communist. He gave vent to the true
saying that “No one had any right to superfluity”—not even excepting
D’Orsay?—“while any one was in want of necessaries.” Yet this is a
description of his manner of “doing himself:”—
“It is impossible to convey an idea of this luxury, of the sumptuousness
of those caprices, of those whims of all kinds: here a dining-room, where
the sideboards display plate, porcelain, and crystal, with pictures and
flowers, to add to the pleasures of the table all the pleasures of the
eyes; there an inner gallery, where pictures, statuettes, drawings,
and engravings, reproduce subjects the most calculated to excite the
imagination. Here is a library full of antiques, whose bookcases contain
works bound with unheard-of luxury, where objects of art are multiplied
with an absence of calculated affectation, which appears as if wishing
to say they came there naturally. Daylight, shaded by the painted glass
windows, and curtains of the richest stuff, gives to this place an
air of mystery, invites to silence and to study, and produces those
eccentric inspirations which M. Sue gives to the public. A desk, richly
carved, receives sundry manuscripts of the romance-writer, the numerous
_homages_ sent to Monsieur, as the valet expresses himself, from all
the corners of the globe.… Everywhere may be seen gold, silver, silk,
velvet, and soft carpets.… A vast drawing-room, furnished and decorated
with all imaginable care, exactly reproduces that of one of the heroines
of romance of Monsieur Eugene Sue, and there have been carved on the
woodwork of a Gothic mantelpiece medallions representing the Magdalen
falling at the feet of our Saviour, who tells her that her sins will
be forgiven her, because her love has been strong.… A small gallery,
lined with odoriferous plants, leads to a circular walk, which surrounds
a garden cultivated in the most expensive manner, and there is a fine
piece of water, with numerous swans in it. The walk is a _chef-d’œuvre_
of comfort, for it is alike protected from the wind and the rain, being
covered with a dome. It is enclosed with balustrades, covered with
creeping plants of the choicest nature. It is a sort of terrestrial
paradise … and beyond it is a park, admirably laid out with kiosques,
rustic cottages, elegant bridges, and a preserve for pheasants, which
secures myriads of birds for the shooting excursions of the illustrious
Communist, whose keepers exercise a severe look-out to prevent any person
from touching the game.” A paradise almost worthy of being the home of
D’Orsay!
Sue rightly appreciated D’Orsay, and wrote thus of him to Lady
Blessington: “Je quitte Alfred avec une vraie tristesse; plus je le
connais, plus j’apprecie ce bon, ce vaillant cœur, si chaud, si génereux
pour ceux qu’il aime.”