Marie Antoinette—Birth of Mme. Le Brun’s daughter—The Royal
Family—Brussels—Antwerp—The charms of French society—The Opera
ball—An incident in the Terror—A Greek supper—_Le jeu de la Reine_.
In 1779 Mme. Le Brun painted for the first time the portrait of the
Queen, then in the splendour of her youth and beauty.
[Illustration:
_Madame Vigée Le Brun_
MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE]
Marie Antoinette was tall, well-formed, with perfectly shaped arms,
hands and feet, a brilliant complexion, bluish-grey eyes, delicate
though not regular features, a charming expression and a most imposing
air, which very much intimidated Mme. Le Brun during the first
sitting. But the kindness and gentleness with which the Queen talked
to the young artist soon set her at ease, and when the portrait, which
was to be presented to the Emperor Joseph II., was finished, she
was desired to make two copies of it; one to be sent to the Empress
Catherine of Russia, the other to be placed in the royal apartments,
either at Versailles or Fontainebleau. After these she painted
several portraits of the Queen, one of which, in a straw hat, was,
when exhibited in the Salon, 1786, declared by one of those malicious
slanders then becoming frequent, to be the Queen _en chemise_.
There was by this time a perfect rage to be painted by Mme. Le Brun.
At a performance at the Vaudeville, called “La Réunion des Arts,”
Painting was represented by an actress made up into an exact copy of
Mme. Le Brun, painting the portrait of the Queen.
Mme. Le Brun was present, having been expressly invited to the box
of some friends who wanted to surprise her, and was deeply gratified
and touched when all the audience rose and turned towards her with
enthusiastic applause.
Her first child, the only one that lived, was born in February, 1780.
Her extraordinary carelessness about everything but her painting,
caused her to make no sort of preparations for this event; and even
the day her child was born, although feeling ill and suffering at
intervals, she persisted in going on working at a picture of Venus
binding the wings of Love.
Mme. de Verdun, an intimate friend of hers, came to see her in the
morning, and regarding her with disapprobation, asked whether she had
got everything ready that she would require; to which Lisette, still
occupied with her picture, replied with a look of astonishment that
she did not know what she would require.
“There you are exactly!” cried her friend; “you are just like a boy.
Well, I warn you that you will be confined this evening.”
“No! No!” exclaimed Lisette, “I have a sitting to-morrow. I shan’t be
confined to-day.”
Mme. de Verdun said no more, but went away and sent the doctor.
Lisette dismissed him, but he remained concealed in the house until
night. The child was born about ten o’clock, and Lisette was at
once passionately fond of it, and as unfortunately foolish in her
management of it as she was in the way she conducted all her affairs
except her painting. She indulged and spoilt it in so deplorable a
manner that she ruined her daughter’s disposition and her own comfort
and happiness.
She had another daughter a year or two later that only lived a short
time.
Mme. Le Brun took the greatest pleasure in her intercourse with the
Queen. Having heard that she had a good voice and was passionately
fond of music, Marie Antoinette asked her to sing some of the duets of
Grétry with her; and scarcely ever afterwards did a sitting take place
without their playing and singing together.
Besides all these portraits of the Queen, Mme. Le Brun painted the
King, all the rest of the royal family except the Comte d’Artois; the
Duke and Duchess of Orléans, the Princesse de Lamballe, the Duchesse
de Polignac, and, in fact, almost everybody.
Louis XVI., who liked talking to her about her pictures, said one day—
“I know nothing about painting, but you make me like it.”
The last time Marie Antoinette ever sat to her was at Trianon,
when she painted her head for the great picture in which the Queen
is represented with her children, the first Dauphin,[20] Madame
Royale,[21] and the Duc de Normandie,[22] which was hung in the Salon
of 1788, and excited universal admiration. It was afterwards taken to
Versailles and hung in one of the _salons_ through which the Queen
always passed on her way to mass.
After the death of her eldest boy, the sight of this picture so
affected the Queen that she had it removed, taking care to explain to
Mme. Le Brun that this was done only because she could not bear to see
it, as it so vividly recalled the child whose loss was at that time
such a terrible grief to her.
The days were rapidly approaching when she would be thankful that an
early death had saved him from the fate of his brother.
In 1782 business took M. Le Brun to Flanders, and his wife, who had
never travelled, was delighted to accompany him.
They began by attending the sale of a magnificent collection of
pictures at Brussels, and were received with great kindness and
attention by the Princesse d’Aremberg, Prince de Ligne, and many of
the most distinguished persons in society.
The Prince de Ligne invited them to see his splendid gallery of
pictures, chiefly Rubens and Vandyke; they also visited him at his
beautiful country place, and after enjoying themselves in Brussels,
which was extremely gay, they made a tour in Holland. Mme. Le Brun
entered with enthusiasm into all she saw. The quiet, ancient towns of
North Holland, with their quaint streets of red-roofed houses built
along canals, with only such narrow pavements on each side that no
carts or carriages could come there, traffic being carried on by the
great barges and boats gliding down the canals, or on foot and on
horseback as the pavements permitted; and Amsterdam with its splendid
pictures; after seeing which they returned to Flanders to look again
at the masterpieces of Rubens in public and private collections.
The most important part of the tour to Mme. Le Brun was her visit to
Antwerp, then a mediæval city of extraordinary beauty and interest,
which have only, in fact, of comparatively recent years been destroyed
by the vandalism of its inhabitants. So striking was its appearance,
with its walls, gates, and forest of towers rising from the broad
Scheldt, that Napoleon, enchanted with its beauty, said it looked like
an Arab city, and he gazed upon it with admiration.
[Illustration:
_E. H. Bearne_
ANTWERP]
The walls and fortifications were demolished within the last fifty
years, and before and since then many a beautiful historic tower and
gateway, many a lovely old house and interesting bit of architecture
has vanished before the destroying mania of a stupid town council
devoid of either education to comprehend or taste to appreciate and
preserve the characteristic beauty which, if they had carefully
restored and maintained all that was possible of the old, and carried
out the new buildings in harmony with them, would have made their city
the pearl of Belgium, as Nuremberg is of Germany.
But what to Mme. Le Brun was of great importance during her stay at
Antwerp was a portrait by Rubens, the famous _Chapeau de Paille_,
then in a private collection, where she saw and was fascinated by
it. The effect of light and shade caused by the arrangement of the
two different lights, the ordinary light and the sunlight, was what
chiefly struck her, and having studied the picture with deep attention
she proceeded, on returning to Brussels, to paint her own portrait
with the same kind of effect: wearing a straw hat with a wreath of
wild flowers, and holding a palette in her hand.
It had great success at the Salon, was engraved by Müller, and was
one of those amongst her works which decided Joseph Vernet, shortly
after her return, to propose her as a member of the Royal Academy
of Painting. She was duly elected, in spite of the opposition of M.
Pierre, who was painter to the King, and a very bad painter too.
The following lines were circulated by Mme. Le Brun’s friends upon the
occasion:
“Au salon ton art vainqueur
Devrait être en lumière
Pour te ravir cet honneur,
Lise, il faut avoir le cœur
De Pierre, de Pierre, de Pierre.”
Mme. Le Brun now worked so hard that she made herself ill, often
having three sittings a day, and she soon became so thin and out of
health that her friends interfered, and by order of the doctor she
henceforth, after working all the morning and dining in the middle of
the day, took a _siesta_, which she found invaluable all her life. The
evenings were always devoted to society.
She still lived in the _rue de Cléry_, where M. Le Brun had a large,
richly furnished apartment, but as he used nearly the whole of it as
a picture gallery, his wife had only two simply furnished rooms for
herself, which, however, on her at-home nights were thronged with
everybody of any distinction, either at court or in the town, in fact,
so great was the crowd that people were to be seen sitting on the
floor, from which, on one occasion, the Maréchal de Noailles, being
very old and fat, could hardly be got up again.
Such brilliant assemblies are not to be seen in these days. Not only
the great political and social personages, but all the celebrated
literary and scientific men, poets, painters, composers, musicians,
and actors, were to be found there, and the music was the best to be
heard in Paris.
Often the composers Grétry, Sacchini and Martini had portions of
their operas performed there before their first representation at the
theatre, the singers were Garat, Asvédo, Richer, Mme. Todi, and many
well-known amateurs. Cramer and Hulmandel played the piano, Salentin
the hautbois, Viotti, Jarnovick, Maestrino, and Prince Henry of
Prussia the violin.
In those days, as Mme. Le Brun remarks in one of her letters, “people
had both time and inclination to amuse themselves,” and the love of
music was just then so strong and so general that the disputes between
the rival schools of Glück and Piccini sometimes even amounted to
quarrels. She herself was a Glückist, but the Queen and many others
preferred the Italian music to the German.
The four women who were her most intimate friends, and were always
to be found at her parties, were the Marquise de Grollier, Mme. de
Verdun, the Marquise de Sabran, and Mme. le Couteux du Molay. Of the
rest of her numerous acquaintances she would ask a few at a time to
the suppers she constantly gave. People arrived about nine o’clock,
they amused themselves with conversation, music, or acting charades,
supper was at ten and was extremely simple. As it was not considered
necessary to give costly entertainments on every occasion, people
of moderate and small fortune were able to receive and amuse their
friends as often as they liked, without half-ruining themselves. A
dish of fish, a chicken, a salad, and a dish of vegetables was the
supper Mme. Le Brun usually provided for the twelve or fifteen people
who were her guests, but those who went to these parties really amused
themselves.
“No one can judge of what society in France was,” wrote Mme. Le Brun
in her old age, “who has not seen the times when after the affairs of
the day were finished, twelve or fifteen agreeable people would meet
at the house of a friend to finish the evening there.”
The ease and gentle gaiety which pervaded these light evening repasts
gave them a charm which was never found in a dinner-party; there was
a kind of intimacy and confidence amongst the guests, who, being
perfectly well-bred people, knew how to dispense with all formality
and restraint.
Society was much smaller, people knew each other, or at any rate
knew much more about each other, than could be the case after the
revolution. The Comte d’Espinchal was the most extraordinary instance
of this essentially social life. He passed his days and nights in
going from one party or visit to another; he knew all about everything
going on, important or trivial. He appeared to know every one not
only at the parties to which he went, but in all the boxes at the
Opera, and nearly everybody he met in the streets, so that it was
quite inconvenient for him to walk in them, as he was stopped every
minute. Not only people at court and in society, but grisettes,
employés of the theatres, persons of every class; but though a perfect
mine of gossip, he never made mischief.
One evening he was at the Opera ball, then frequented by people
in good society. Masked or not, they were equally known to M.
d’Espinchal, who as he walked through the rooms saw a man whom he
actually did not know, wandering about with distracted looks. He went
up to him, asking if he could be of any use, and was told by the
perplexed stranger that he had just arrived from Orléans with his
wife, who had insisted on coming to the Opera ball, that he had lost
her in the crowd, and that she did not know the name of the _hôtel_ or
street where they were. “Calm yourself,” said M. d’Espinchal, “Madame,
your wife is sitting by the second window in the _foyer_. I will take
you to her,” which he did. The husband overwhelmed him with thanks and
asked how he could possibly have known her.
“It is perfectly simple,” replied the Count. “Madame being the only
woman at the ball whom I did not know, I concluded she had just
arrived from the provinces.”
Balls were not then the crushes they afterwards became. The company
was not nearly so numerous; there was plenty of room for those who
were not dancing to see and hear what was going on. Mme. Le Brun,
however, never cared for dancing, but preferred the houses where
music, acting, or conversation were the amusements. One of her
favourite _salons_ was that of the _chargé d’affaires_ of Saxony, M.
de Rivière, whose daughter had married her brother Louis Vigée. He
and her sister-in-law were constantly at her house. Mme. Vigée acted
very well, was a good musician, and extremely pretty. Louis Vigée was
also a good amateur actor; no bad or indifferent acting would have
been tolerated in the charades and private theatricals in which Talma,
Larive, and Le Kain also took part.
And so the time passed, each day full of interest and pleasure, in
the gayest and most delightful capital in the world; while the witty,
charming, light-hearted society who sang and danced and acted and
talked so brilliantly, felt, for the most part, no misgivings about
the future, no doubt that this agreeable, satisfactory state of things
would go on indefinitely, although they were now only a very few
years from the fearful catastrophe towards which they were so rapidly
advancing, and in which most of them would be overwhelmed. Death,
ruin, exile, horrible prisons, hardships, and dangers of all sorts
were in store for them, and those who escaped by good fortune, by the
devotion or kindness of others, and occasionally by their own courage,
foresight, or presence of mind, met each other again years afterwards
as if they had indeed passed through the valley of the shadow of death.
Amongst the latter was the singer Désaugiers, a friend of Grétry, well
known for his quick and ready answers. Being still in Paris during
the Terror, although never of Republican opinions he was obliged, of
course, to wear the tricolour cockade. One day he forgot to put it on
and presented himself without it at the gate of the Tuileries in order
to go into the gardens, but was brusquely stopped by the official, who
asked why he was not wearing it; while a crowd of sinister faces at
once began to gather round him. Désaugiers saw his danger, but with
his usual presence of mind showed neither fear nor confusion. Taking
off his hat he looked at it slowly with an air of surprise, saying as
if to himself—
“It is true! I have not my _cocarde_! No doubt I must have forgotten
it and left it on my night-cap.”
Most of the rabid mob believed him to be so fanatical a republican
that he wore the tricolour by night as well as by day; a few, who
guessed the truth, admired his presence of mind and let him escape.
Poppo, the celebrated violinist, was also seized and dragged before
the bloodthirsty _comité de salut public_.
“Votre nom?”[23]
“Poppo.”
“Votre profession?”
“Je joue du violon.”
“Que faisiez-vous au temps du tyran?”
“Je jouais du violon.”
“Que faites vous maintenant?”
“Je joue du violon.”
“Et que ferez-vous pour la nation?”
“Je jouerai du violon.”
Wonderful to say, he was acquitted.
It was only to be expected that her brilliant success, both
professional and social, would expose Lisette to a considerable amount
of gossip, scandal, and jealousy, the usual penalty of distinction
of any kind; and she was constantly being annoyed by some false
accusation or preposterous story being circulated about her.
Amongst other absurd inventions it was reported that she had given a
supper in the Greek style which had cost twenty thousand francs. This
story had been repeated first at Versailles, then at Rome, Vienna, and
St. Petersburg, by which time the sum mentioned had risen to eighty
thousand francs.
The truth was that this famous supper, which did take place, cost
about fifteen francs, and consisted of a chicken and a dish of
eels, both dressed after Greek recipes, taken from the “Voyages
d’Anacharsis,” which Louis Vigée had been reading to his sister; two
dishes of vegetables, a cake made of honey and little currants, and
some old Cyprus wine, which was a present to her.
The idea was suddenly suggested to the brother and sister by the book
they were reading, and as she expected several people to supper, she
arranged the rooms with draperies after the ancient Greek fashion,
borrowed from the Comte de Parois, who lived in the house and had a
collection of Greek things, all the vases, pitchers, pots, and cups
she wanted, arranged the table in the same style, and as her friends
arrived, proceeded to dress them one after another in Greek costumes,
which she took from the mass of costumes and draperies in her studio.
The poet Le Brun-Pindare, dressed in a long purple cloak, represented
Anacreon. The other guests were M. and Mme. Vigée, her brother, M.
de Rivière, Mme. Chalgrin, daughter of Joseph and sister of Charles
Vernet, Mme. de Bonneuil and her pretty child, afterwards Mme.
Regnault de Saint-Jean d’Angely, the Marquis de Cubières, the Comte de
Vaudreuil, M. Boutin, M. Ginguéné, and the famous sculptor Chaudet.
Mme. Le Brun was asked by several persons of importance to repeat this
supper, but always declined.
That the Marquis de Cubières was present proved to be fortunate, as
the King, vexed by the reports he heard of the enormous expense of
this supper, spoke to him about it and was promptly undeceived.
However, in the earlier days of Marie Antoinette, especially while
she was still Dauphine, the play that went on at court, and in which
she took a conspicuous part, was high enough to give rise to grave
scandal.
The Queen was in the habit of playing _pharaon_ every evening, and
on one occasion she noticed that M. de Chalabre, who kept the bank,
whilst he was picking up the money of those who had lost, took
advantage of a moment when he thought nobody was looking, to put a
_rouleau_ of fifty louis into his pocket.
When every one was leaving she signed to him to remain, and when they
were alone said to him—
“Monsieur de Chalabre, I wish to know why you took from the game
to-night a _rouleau_ of fifty louis?”
“A _rouleau_, Madame!”
“Yes, Monsieur; you put it into the right-hand pocket of your coat.”
“Since your Majesty saw me, I must inform the Queen that I removed
that _rouleau_ of gold because it is false.”
“False! Your proof, Monsieur?”
Taking the _rouleau_ out of his pocket, he tore the envelope and
showed that it was lead skilfully worked.
The Queen turned pale.
“Did you notice who put it on the table?” she asked.
M. de Chalabre at first denied, but on the Queen’s insisting confessed
that it was the young Comte de ——, whose father was an ambassador, and
was then abroad. The Queen desired him to keep the affair secret, and
the next evening when the young Count approached the tables she said,
smiling—
“Monsieur le Comte, I promised Madame, your mother, to take you under
my guardianship during her absence. Our play is too high for a young
man; you will play no more _pharaon_ at Court.”
The lad understood, blushed crimson, and retired, profoundly grateful
for being let off so easily. Neither was the lesson lost upon him;
after this he played no more.[24]
FOOTNOTES:
[20] Died 1789.
[21] Afterwards Duchesse d’Angoulême.
[22] Afterwards Dauphin and then the unfortunate Louis XVII.
[23]
“Your name?”
“Poppo.”
“Your profession?”
“I play the violin.”
“What did you do in the time of the tyrant?”
“I played the violin.”
“What do you do now?”
“I play the violin.”
“And what shall you do for the nation?”
“I shall play the violin.”
—“Salons d’Autrefois” (de Bassanville).
[24] “Salons d’Autrefois” (Bassanville).