Decline of Mrs. Jordan’s health—Description of her cottage and grounds
at Boulogne-sur-Mer—Madame Ducamp and her servant Agnes—Their account
of Mrs. Jordan’s habits and manners—Removal of that lady to Versailles
and subsequently to St. Cloud—Account of her illness and last moments.
The circumstances which induced Mrs. Jordan to repair to the continent
were of such a nature, that the reader need not think it extraordinary
that a deep impression was made upon her health; not indeed in the shape
of actual disease, but by the workings of a troubled spirit, pondering
and drooping over exaggerated misfortunes. Estranged, though only
temporarily, from those she loved, and from that profession the resort
to which had never failed to restore her animation and amuse her fancy,
mental malady soon communicated its contagion to the physical
organisation, and sickness began to make visible inroads on the
heretofore healthy person of that lamented lady.
She established herself first at Boulogne-sur-Mer. A cottage was
selected by her at Maquetra, about a quarter of a mile from the gate of
the fortress. Often have I since, as if on classic ground, strolled down
the little garden which had been there her greatest solace. The cottage
is very small, but neat, commodious, and of cheerful aspect. A flower
and fruit garden of corresponding dimensions, and a little paddock
(comprising much less than half an acre) formed her demesne. In an
adjoining cottage resided her old landlady, Madame Ducamp, who was in a
state of competence, and altogether an original. She had married a
gardener, much younger and of humbler birth than herself. I think she
had been once handsome: her story I never heard fully; but it appeared
that she had flourished during the Revolution. She spoke English when
she pleased; and, like most Frenchwomen, when _d’âge mûr_, was
querulous, intrusive, and curious _beyond limitation_, with as much
_professed_ good-nature as would serve at least fifty of our old English
gentlewomen. She was not, in truth, devoid of the reality as well as the
semblance of that quality: but she _overacted_ the philanthropist, and
consequently did not deceive those accustomed to look deeper than the
surface. This good lady is still _in statu quo_, and very likely to
remain so.
Under colour of taking her vacant cottage for a friend, a party of my
family went to Maquetra, to learn what we could respecting Mrs. Jordan’s
residence there. The old lady recollected her name, but pronounced it in
a way which it was scarcely possible for us to recognise. A long
conversation ensued, in some parts as interesting, and in others nearly
as light as the subject could admit of.—Madame Ducamp repeated to us a
hundred times, in five minutes, that she had “beaucoup, _beaucoup_ de
vénération pour cette _chère, chère_ malheureuse dame Anglaise!” whom
she assured us, with a deep sigh, was “sans doute _un ange supérieur_!”
She was proceeding to tell us every thing she knew, or I suppose could
invent, when, perceiving a child in the garden pulling the flowers, she
abruptly discontinued her eulogium, and ran off to drive away the
intruder; having done which, she returned to resume: but too late! in
her absence her place had been fully and fairly occupied by Agnes, an
ordinary French girl, Madame Ducamp’s _bonne_ (servant of _all work_),
whom we soon found was likely to prove a much more truth-telling person
than her mistress.
Agnes informed us, with great feeling, that “the economy of that
charming lady was very strict: _nécessairement, je crains_,” added she,
with a slow movement of her head and a truly eloquent look. They had
found out (she said) that their lodger had been once _riche et
magnifique_; but when there she was _very—very_ poor indeed! “But,”
exclaimed the poor girl, her eye brightening up and her tone becoming
firmer, “that could make no difference to me! _si j’aime,—j’aime! J’ai
servi cette pauvre dame avec le même zèle (peut-être encore plus) que si
elle eut été une princesse!_”
This frank-hearted display of poor Agnes’s sentiments was extremely
affecting; it was, however, not in fact called for, since Mrs. Jordan
might have commanded, during the whole period of her continental
residence, any sums she thought proper. She had money in the bank, in
the funds, and in miscellaneous property, and had just before she came
over received some thousands. But she was become nearly careless as well
of pecuniary as other matters, and took up a whim (for it was nothing
more) to affect poverty,—thus deceiving the world, and giving, herself,
a vantage-ground to the gossiping and censorious.
Agnes’s information went on to show that Mrs. Jordan’s whole time was
passed in anxious expectation of letters from England, and on the
English post-days she was peculiarly miserable. We collected from the
girl that her garden and guitar were her only resources against that
consuming melancholy which steals even the elements of existence, and
plunges both body and mind into a state of morbid languor—the fruitful
parent of disease, insanity, and death.
At this point of the story Madame Ducamp would no longer be restrained,
and returned to the charge with redoubled assertions of her own
friendship to “the poor lady,” and _bonne nature_ in general.
“Did you know her, Monsieur?” said she: “alas! she nearly broke _my_
heart by trying to break _her own_!”
“I have heard of her since I arrived here, Madame,” replied I
cautiously.
“Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur,” rejoined Madame Ducamp, “if you had known her
as well as Agnes and I did, you would have loved her just as much. I am
sure she had been accustomed to _grandeur_, though I could never
_découvrir la cause de sa ruine_. Ah!” pursued Madame, “she was _aimable
et honnête_ beyond description; and though _so very poor_, paid her
_louage_ like a goddess.” At this moment some other matter, perhaps
suggested by the word _louage_, came across the old woman’s brain, and
she again trotted off. The remaining intelligence which we gathered from
Agnes related chiefly to Mrs. Jordan’s fondness for music and perpetual
indulgence therein, and to her own little achievements in the musical
way on a guitar, which she produced,—whereby, she told us with infinite
_naïveté_, she had frequently experienced the gratification of playing
and singing _Madame to sleep_! She said that there was some little
mutual difficulty in the first place as to understanding each other,
since the stranger was ignorant of the French language, and she herself
“had not the honour” to speak English. “However,” continued Agnes, “we
formed a sort of language of our own, consisting of looks and signs, and
in these _Madame_ was more eloquent than any other person I had ever
known.” Here the girl’s recollections seemed fairly to overcome her; and
with that apparently exaggerated sensibility which is, nevertheless,
_natural_ to the character of her country, she burst into tears,
exclaiming, “_Oh Ciel! oh Ciel!—elle est morte! elle est morte!_”[36]
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Footnote 36:
The intermixed French phrases which I have retained in sketching this
conversation at Maquetra may perhaps appear affected to some; and I
frankly admit there are few things in composition so disagreeable to
me as a jumble of words culled from different tongues, and
constituting a _mélange_ which advances no just claim to the title of
any language whatever. But those who are accustomed to the familiar
terms and expressive ejaculations of French colloquy, know that the
idiomatic mode of expression _only_ can convey the _true_ point and
spirit of the dialogue, and more particularly does this observation
apply to the variegated traits of character belonging to French
females.
The conversation with Agnes consisted, on her part, nearly of broken
sentences throughout—I may say, almost of looks and monosyllables! at
all events, of simple and expressive words in a combination utterly
unadapted to the English tongue. Let a well-educated and unprejudiced
gentleman hold converse on the same topics with an English and a
French girl, and his remarks as to the difference will not fail to
illustrate what I have said.
Far—very far be it from me to depreciate the fair ones of our own
country. I believe that they are steadier and better calculated to
describe _facts_, or to advise in an emergency: but they must not be
offended with me for adding, that in the _expression_ of every
feeling, either of a lively or tearful nature, as well as in the
graces of motion, their elastic neighbours are immeasurably superior.
Even their _eyes_ speak idioms which our less pliable _language_
cannot explain. I have seen humble girls in France who speak more in
one second than many of our finest ladies could utter in almost a
century! _Chaqu’un a son goût_, however; and I honestly confess, that
a sensitive French girl would make but an ill-assorted match with a
thorough-bred John Bull!
-----
I cannot help thinking that the deep and indelible impression thus made
by Mrs. Jordan upon an humble unsophisticated servant girl exemplifies
her kind and winning manners better than the most laboured harangues of
a whole host of biographers.
Madame Ducamp meanwhile had been fidgeting about, and arranging every
thing to show off her cottage to the greatest advantage; and without
further conversation, except as to the price of the tenement, we parted
with mutual “assurances of the highest consideration.”
I renewed my visits to the old woman; but her stories were either so
fabulous or disconnected, and those of Agnes so unvaried, that I saw no
probability of acquiring further information, and lost sight of Mrs.
Jordan’s situation for a considerable time after her departure from
Boulogne. I thought it, by-the-bye, very extraordinary that neither the
mistress nor maid said a word about any attendant of Mrs. Jordan, even
although it was not till long after that I heard of Col. Hawker and Miss
K * * * * having accompanied her from England. After Mrs. Jordan left
Boulogne, it appears that she repaired to Versailles, and subsequently,
in still greater privacy, to St. Cloud, where, _totally_ secluded, and
under the name of Johnson, she continued to await, with agitated
impatience, in a state of extreme depression, the answers to some
letters, by which was to be determined her future conduct as to the
distressing business that had led her to the continent. Her solicitude
arose not so much from the real importance of this affair as from her
indignation and disgust at the ingratitude which she had experienced,
and which by drawing aside the curtain from before her unwilling eyes,
had exposed a novel and painful view of human nature.
At that period I occupied a large hotel adjoining the Bois de Boulogne.
Not a mile intervened between us; yet, until long after Mrs. Jordan’s
decease, I never heard she was in my neighbourhood. There was no
occasion whatever for such entire seclusion; but the anguish of her mind
had by this time so enfeebled her, that a bilious complaint was
generated, and gradually increased. Its growth did not appear to give
her much uneasiness—so dejected and lost had she become. Day after day
her misery augmented, and at length she seemed (we were told) actually
to regard the approach of dissolution with a kind of placid welcome!
The apartments she occupied at St. Cloud were in a house in the square
adjoining the palace. This house appeared to me large, gloomy, cold, and
inconvenient; just the sort of place which would tell in description in
a romance. It seemed almost in a state of dilapidation. I could not, I
am sure, wander over it at night without a superstitious feeling. The
rooms were numerous, but small; the furniture scanty, old, and tattered.
The hotel had obviously once belonged to some nobleman; and a long,
lofty, flagged gallery stretched from one wing of it to the other, which
looked over a large uncultivated garden, and a charming country beyond.
But Mrs. Jordan’s chambers were wretched: no English comforts solaced
her latter moments! In her little drawing-room, a small old sofa was the
best piece of furniture: on this she constantly reclined, and on it she
expired.[37]
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Footnote 37:
When I first saw Mrs. Jordan’s abode at St. Cloud, it was on a dismal,
chilly winter’s day, and I was myself in corresponding mood. Hence
perhaps every cheerless object was exaggerated, and I wrote on the
spot the above description. I have again viewed the place: again
beheld with melancholy interest the sofa on which Mrs. Jordan breathed
her last. There it still, I believe, remains; but the whole premises
have been repaired, and an English family has now one wing, together
with an excellent garden, before overgrown with weeds: the two
melancholy cypress-trees I first saw upon the little terrace yet
remain. The surrounding prospect is undoubtedly very fine; but I would
not, even were I made a present of that mansion, consent to reside in
it _one month_;—in winter, not one _night_!
-----
The account given to us of her last moments, by the master of the house,
was very affecting: he likewise thought she was poor, and offered her
the use of money, which offer was of course declined. Nevertheless, he
said, he always considered her apparent poverty, and a magnificent
diamond ring which she wore, as quite incompatible, and to him
inexplicable. I have happened to learn since that she gave four hundred
guineas for that superb ring. She had also with her, as I heard, many
other valuable trinkets; and on her death, seals were put upon all her
effects, which I understand still remain unclaimed.
From the time of her arrival at St. Cloud, it appears, Mrs. Jordan had
exhibited the most restless anxiety for intelligence from England. Every
post gave rise to increased solicitude, and every letter she received
seemed to have a different effect on her feelings. Latterly she appeared
more anxious and miserable than usual: her uneasiness increased almost
momentarily, and her skin became wholly discoloured. From morning till
night she lay sighing upon her sofa.
At length an interval of some posts occurred during which she received
no answers to her letters, and her consequent anxiety, my informant
said, seemed too great for mortal strength to bear up against. On the
morning of her death this impatient feeling reached its crisis. The
agitation was almost fearful: her eyes were now restless, now fixed; her
motion rapid and unmeaning; and her whole manner seemed to bespeak the
attack of some convulsive paroxysm. She eagerly requested Mr. C * * *,
_before_ the usual hour of delivery, to _go for her letters_ to the
post. On his return, she started up and held out her hand, as if
impatient to receive them. He told her _there were none_. She stood a
moment motionless; looked toward him with a vacant stare; held out her
hand again, as if by an involuntary action; instantly withdrew it, and
sank back upon the sofa from which she had arisen. He left the room to
send up her attendant, who however had gone out, and Mr. C * * *
returned himself to Mrs. Jordan. On his return, he observed some change
in her looks that alarmed him: she spoke not a word, but gazed at him
steadfastly. She wept not—no tear flowed: her face was one moment
flushed—another livid: she sighed deeply, and her heart seemed bursting.
Mr. C * * * stood uncertain what to do: but in a minute he heard her
breath drawn more hardly, and as it were sobbingly. He was now
thoroughly terrified: he hastily approached the sofa, and leaning over
the unfortunate lady, discovered that those _deep-drawn sobs_ had
immediately preceded the moment of Mrs. Jordan’s dissolution. She was
already no more!
Thus terminated the worldly career of a woman at the very head of her
profession, and one of the best-hearted of her sex! Thus did she expire,
after a life of celebrity and magnificence, in exile and solitude, and
literally of _a broken heart_! She was buried by Mr. Forster, now
chaplain to the ambassador.
Our informant told this little story with a feeling which evidently was
not affected. The French have a mode of narrating even trivial matters
with gesticulation and detail, whereby they are impressed on your
memory. The slightest incident they repeat with emphasis; and on this
occasion Mr. C * * * completed his account without any of those
digressions in which his countrymen so frequently indulge.
Several English friends at Paris, a few years ago, entered into a
determination to remove Mrs. Jordan’s body to Père la Chaise, and place
a marble over her grave. The subscription, had the plan been proceeded
in, would have been ample; but some (I think rather mistaken) ideas of
delicacy at that time suspended its execution. As it is, I believe I may
say, “Not a stone tells where she lies!”