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'Orleans, the father of Philippe Egalite, 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 Riviere 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 Comedie-Francaise. 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 Etoile 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 Orleans 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 Barriere du
Trone. 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
Perouse to make a journey round the world."