Mrs. Gaskell spent many happy days in France, often staying
in Paris with the eccentric but faithful Madame Mohl. When
on holiday there in 1862 she kept a diary which supplied her
with the material for the three bright, chatty papers, which
appeared anonymously in _Fraser’s Magazine_ in April, May, and
June, 1864.
Our conversation drifted along to the old French custom of receiving in
bed. It was so highly correct, that the newly-made wife of the Duc de
St. Simon went to bed, after the early dinner of those days, in order
to receive her wedding-visits. The Duchesse de Maine, of the same date,
used to have a bed in the ball-room at Sceaux, and to lie (or half-sit)
there, watching the dancers. I asked if there was not some difference in
dress between the day- and the night-occupation of the bed. But Madame
A⸺ seemed to think there was very little. The custom was put an end to
by the Revolution; but one or two great ladies preserved the habit until
their death. Madame A⸺ had often seen Madame de Villette receiving in
bed; she always wore white gloves, which Madame A⸺ imagined was the only
difference between the toilet of day and night. Madame de Villette was
the adopted daughter of Voltaire, and, as such, all the daring innovators
upon the ancient modes of thought and behaviour came to see her, and pay
her their respects. She was also the widow of the Marquis de Villette,
and as such she received the homage of the ladies and gentlemen of the
_ancien régime_.
Altogether her weekly receptions must have been very amusing, from Madame
A⸺’s account. The old Marquise lay in bed; around her sat the company,
and, as the climax of the visit, she would desire her _femme de chambre_
to hand round the heart of Voltaire, which he had bequeathed to her, and
which she preserved in a little golden case. Then she would begin and
tell anecdotes about the great man; great to her, and with some justice.
For he had been travelling in the South of France, and had stopped to
pass the night in a friend’s house, where he was very much struck by the
deep sadness on the face of a girl of seventeen, one of his friend’s
daughters; and, on inquiring the cause, he found out that, in order to
increase the portion of the others, this young woman was to be sent into
a convent—a destination which she extremely disliked. Voltaire saved her
from it by adopting her, and promising to give her a dot sufficient to
insure her a respectable marriage. She had lived with him for some time
at Ferney before she became Marquise de Villette. (You will remember the
connexion existing between her husband’s family and Madame de Maintenon,
as well as with Bolingbroke’s second wife.)
Madame de Villette must have been an exceedingly _inconséquente_ person,
to judge from Madame A⸺’s very amusing description of her conversation.
Her sentences generally began with an assertion which was disproved
by what followed. Such as, “It was wonderful with what ease Voltaire
uttered witty impromptus. He would shut himself up in his library all the
morning, and in the evening he would gracefully lead the conversation to
the point he desired, and then bring out the verse or the epigram he had
composed for the occasion, in the most unpremeditated and easy manner!”
Or, “He was the most modest of men. When a stranger arrived at Ferney,
his first care was to take him round the village, and to show him all the
improvements he had made, the good he had done, the church he had built.
And he was never easy until he had given the new-comer the opportunity
of hearing his most recent compositions.” Then she would show an old
grandfather’s high-backed, leather arm-chair in which she said he wrote
his _Henriade_, forgetting that he was at that time quite a young man.
Madame A⸺ said that Madame de Villette’s receptions were worth attending,
because they conveyed an idea of the ways of society before the
Revolution.
* * * * *
February 16th, 1863.—Again in Paris! and, as I remember a young English
girl saying with great delight, “we need never be an evening at home!”
But her visions were of balls; our possibilities are the very pleasant
one of being allowed to go in on certain evenings of the week to the
houses of different friends, sure to find them at home ready to welcome
any who may come in. Thus, on Mondays, Madame de Circourt receives;
Tuesdays, Madame ⸺; Wednesdays, Madame de M⸺; Thursdays, Monsieur G⸺;
and so on. There is no preparation of entertainment; a few more lights,
perhaps a Baba, or cake savouring strongly of rum, and a little more tea
is provided. Every one is welcome, and no one is expected. The visitors
may come dressed just as they would be at home; or in full toilette,
on their way to balls and other gaieties. They go without any formal
farewell; whence, I suppose, our expression “French leave.”
Of course the agreeableness of these informal receptions depends on
many varying circumstances, and I doubt if they would answer in England.
A certain talent is required in the hostess; and this talent is not
kindness of heart, or courtesy, or wit, or cleverness, but that wonderful
union of all these qualities, with a dash of intuition besides, which we
call tact. Madame Récamier had it in perfection. Her wit or cleverness
was of the passive or receptive order; she appreciated much, and
originated little. But she had the sixth sense, which taught her when to
speak, and when to be silent. She drew out other people’s powers by her
judicious interest in what they said; she came in with sweet words before
the shadow of a coming discord was perceived. It could not have been all
art; it certainly was not all nature. As I have said, invitations are
not given for these evenings. Madame receives on Tuesdays. Any one may
go. But there are temptations for special persons which can be skilfully
thrown out. You may say in the hearing of one whom you wish to attract,
“I expect M. Guizot will be with us on Tuesday; he is just come back to
Paris”—and the bait is pretty sure to take; and of course you can vary
your fly with your fish. Yet, in spite of all experience and all chances,
some houses are invariably dull. The people who would be dreary at home,
go to be dreary there. The gay, bright spirits are always elsewhere; or
perhaps come in, make their bows to the hostess, glance round the room,
and quietly vanish. I cannot make out why this is; but so it is.
But a delightful reception, which will never take place again—a more
than charming hostess, whose virtues, which were the real source of her
charms, have ere this “been planted in our Lord’s garden”—awaited us
to-night. In this one case I must be allowed to chronicle a name—that
of Madame de Circourt—so well known, so fondly loved, and so deeply
respected. Of her accomplished husband, still among us, I will for that
reason say nothing, excepting that it was, to all appearances, the most
happy and congenial marriage I have ever seen. Madame de Circourt was a
Russian by birth, and possessed that gift for languages which is almost
a national possession. This was the immediate means of her obtaining
the strong regard and steady friendship of so many distinguished men
and women of different countries. You will find her mentioned as a dear
and valued friend in several memoirs of the great men of the time. I
have heard an observant Englishman, well qualified to speak, say she was
the cleverest woman he ever knew. And I have also heard one, who is a
saint for goodness, speak of Madame de Circourt’s piety and benevolence
and tender kindness, as unequalled among any woman she had ever known.
I think it is Dekker who speaks of our Saviour as “the first true
gentleman that ever lived.” We may choose to be shocked at the freedom
of expression used by the old dramatist; but is it not true? Is not
Christianity the very core of the heart of all gracious courtesy? I am
sure it was so with Madame de Circourt. There never was a house where
the weak and dull and humble got such kind and unobtrusive attention,
or felt so happy and at home. There never was a place that I heard of,
where learning and genius and worth were more truly appreciated, and felt
more sure of being understood. I have said that I will not speak of the
living; but of course every one must perceive that this state could not
have existed without the realisation of the old epitaph—
They were so one, it never could be said
Which of them ruled, and which of them obeyed.
There was between them but this one dispute,
’Twas which the other’s will should execute.
In the prime of life, in the midst of her healthy relish for all social
and intellectual pleasures, Madame de Circourt met with a terrible
accident; her dress caught fire, she was fearfully burnt, lingered
long and long on a sick-bed, and only arose from it with nerves and
constitution shattered for life. Such a trial was enough, both mentally
and physically, to cause that form of egotism which too often takes
possession of chronic invalids, and which depresses not only their
spirits, but the spirits of all who come near them. Madame de Circourt
was none of these folks. Her sweet smile was perhaps a shade less bright;
but it was quite as ready. She could not go about to serve those who
needed her; but, unable to move without much assistance, she sat at her
writing-table, thinking and working for others still. She could never
again seek out the shy or the slow or the awkward; but, with a pretty,
beckoning movement of her hand, she could draw them near her, and make
them happy with her gentle sensible words. She would no more be seen in
gay, brilliant society; but she had a very active sympathy with the young
and the joyful who mingled in it; could plan their dresses for them;
would take pains to obtain a supply of pleasant partners at a ball to
which a young foreigner was going; and only two or three days before her
unexpected death—for she had suffered patiently for so long that no one
knew how near the end was—she took much pains to give a great pleasure to
a young girl of whom she knew very little, but who, I trust, will never
forget her.