FAMILY AFFAIRS
PONIATOWSKI, LAST KING OF POLAND -- HIS AMIABLE CHARACTER -- THE
AUTHORESS'S FACULTY OF PRESAGING DEATH -- PONIATOWSKI, THE NEPHEW
-- MME. LEBRUN RECEIVED AS A MEMBER OF THE ST. PETERSBURG ACADEMY
-- HER DAUGHTER'S UNTOWARD MARRIAGE -- RESULTING IN ESTRANGEMENT
BETWEEN MOTHER AND CHILD.
I will now speak of a man I frequently saw for whom I entertained a
lively friendship, and who, after wearing a crown, was then living in
St. Petersburg as a private gentleman. This was Stanislaus Augustus
Poniatowski, Poland's last king. In my early youth I had heard this
prince, who had not then ascended the throne, talked of by people in
the habit of meeting him at Mme. Geoffrin's, where he often went to
dinner. All his companions of that date praised his amiability and his
good looks. For his good or his harm--it is difficult to decide
which--he made a journey to St. Petersburg. Catherine II. showed him
every distinction, and helped him with all her might to become King of
Poland. Poniatowski was crowned in September of the year 1764. But
this same Catherine destroyed her own work and overthrew the monarch
she had so heartily helped. The ruin of Poland once determined, Replin
and Stachelberg, the Russian envoys, became the actual rulers of this
unfortunate kingdom, and so remained until the day it ceased to exist.
Their court became more numerous than that of the Prince, whom they
continually insulted with impunity, and who was king in name only.
Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski was kind-hearted and very brave, but
perhaps he wanted the necessary energy to hold down the spirit of
rebellion reigning in his country. He did everything to make himself
agreeable to the nobility and the people, and he partly succeeded. But
there were so many disorderly interior elements, in addition to the
scheme of the three great neighbouring powers for the seizure of
Poland, that it would have been a miracle had he triumphed. He
ultimately succumbed and retired to Grodno, where he lived on a
pension allowed him by Russia, Prussia and Austria, who had divided
his kingdom between them.
After the death of Catherine II., the Emperor Paul invited Poniatowski
to St. Petersburg, to be present at his coronation. During the whole
ceremony, which was very long, the ex-king was allowed to stand,
which, in view of his advanced years, pained everybody there. Paul
afterward behaved more civilly when he asked him to stay at St.
Petersburg, and lodged him in a marble palace to be seen on a fine
quay of the Neva.
The King of Poland was now suitably housed. He created an agreeable
social circle for himself, largely composed of French, to whom were
added some other foreigners he wished to honour. He was so extremely
good as to seek me out, to bid me to his private parties, and he
called me his "dear friend," as Prince Kaunitz did at Vienna. Nothing
touched me more than to hear him repeat that it would have made him
glad to have me at Warsaw while he was still king. I was aware, in
fact, how at that time, some one having told him I was going to
Poland, he had replied that he would treat me with the greatest
distinction. But I am sure that every allusion to the past must have
been very painful to him.
He was very tall; his handsome face expressed gentleness and
kindness; his voice was resounding, and his walk erect without
conceit; his conversation had a particular charm, since he loved and
knew literature to a high degree. He was so passionately fond of the
arts, that at Warsaw, when he was king, he perpetually went to visit
the best artists. He was more considerate than can possibly be
imagined. I recollect being given a proof that makes me feel rather
ashamed when I think of it. Sometimes, when I am painting, I refuse to
see any one in the world but my model, which more than once has made
me rude to people coming to disturb me at my work. One morning, when I
was occupied with finishing a portrait, the King of Poland came to see
me. Having heard the noise of horses at my door, I fully suspected it
was he who was paying me a call, but I was so absorbed in my task that
I lost my temper so far as to cry out, at the moment he opened my
door, "I am not at home!" The King, without a word, put on his cloak
again and went away. When I had laid down my palette and recalled in
cold blood what I had done, I reproached myself so strongly that the
same evening I went to the King of Poland for the purpose of
proffering my excuses and asking pardon. "What a reception you gave me
this morning!" he said as soon as he set eyes on me. He then
immediately went on: "I quite understand how a very busy artist
becomes impatient if disturbed, and so you may believe that I am not
at all angry with you." He obliged me to remain to supper, and there
was no further mention of my delinquency.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS
Painted for the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, where the Picture Now
Hangs.]
I rarely missed the little suppers of the King of Poland. Lord
Witworth, the English Ambassador to Russia, and the Marquis de Riviere
were likewise faithful attendants. We all three preferred these
intimate gatherings to the large mobs, because after supper there was
always a delightful round of chat, enlivened especially by the King,
who knew a host of interesting anecdotes. One evening, when I had
followed the usual invitation, I was struck by the singular change I
observed in our dear Prince's appearance; his left eye particularly
looked so dull that I was frightened. At leaving, I said on the
staircase to Lord Witworth and to the Marquis de Riviere, on whose arm
I was, "Do you know, I am very anxious about the King?" "Why so?" they
asked. "He seemed remarkably well; he talked as he always does." "I
have the misfortune to be a good soothsayer," I replied. "I read
uncommon trouble in his eyes. The King will soon die." Alas! I had
only prophesied too well, for the next day the King went down with an
attack of apoplexy, and a few days later was buried in the citadel
close to Catherine. I did not learn of his death without feeling a
very real sorrow, which was shared by all who had known the King of
Poland. I am rarely mistaken in the meaning of the ocular expression.
The last time I saw the Duchess de Mazarin, who was in perfect health,
and in whom nobody observed the least change, I said to my husband,
"In another month the Duchess will not be alive." And my prophecy came
true.
Stanislaus Poniatowski never married; he had a niece and two nephews.
His oldest nephew, Prince Joseph Poniatowski, is well known through
his military talents and the great bravery which have earned for him
the name of the "Polish Bayard." When I knew him at St. Petersburg he
might have been twenty-five to twenty-seven years old. Though his
forehead was already devoid of hair, his face was remarkably handsome.
All his features, admirably regular, were indicative of a noble soul.
He had exhibited such prodigious valour and so much military science
in the late war against the Turks that the public voice already
proclaimed him a great captain, and I was surprised upon seeing him
how any one could win so high a reputation at that early age. At St.
Petersburg all vied with each other in welcoming and making much of
him. At a great supper given him, to which I was bidden, all the women
urging him to have his portrait painted by me, he answered with a
modesty conspicuous in his character, "I must win several more battles
before I can be painted by Mme. Lebrun."
When I again saw Joseph Poniatowski at Paris I at first did not
recognise him, so much was he changed. Into the bargain he was wearing
a hideous wig that completed his metamorphosis. His renown had,
however, reached such a point that there was no need for him to be
distressed at having lost his good looks. He was then preparing to go
to war in Germany under Napoleon, to whom he, as a Pole, had become a
faithful ally. The heroism he displayed in the campaign of 1812 and
1813 is sufficiently known, as well as the tragic occurrence that
ended his noble career.
Joseph Poniatowski's brother resembled him in no way; he was lanky,
chilly, and dry. I got a close view of him at St. Petersburg, and
remember that one morning he came to my house to look at Countess
Strogonoff's portrait, and that he concerned himself about nothing but
the frame. He nevertheless manifested great pretensions as a picture
fancier, permitting his opinions to be guided by an artist who drew
very well, but whose chief distinction was to imitate Raphael's
sketches, in consequence of which he harboured a sovereign disdain for
the French school.
The King of Poland's niece, Mme. Menicheck, showed herself obliging to
me on many occasions, and it was a great pleasure to meet her again in
Paris. At St. Petersburg she made me do the likeness of her daughter,
then quite a child, whom I painted playing with her dog, as well as
the portrait of her uncle, the King of Poland, in a Henri IV. costume.
The first portrait I did of that charming prince I kept for myself.
One of the pleasantest reminiscences of my travels is that of my
reception as a member of the Academy of St. Petersburg. Count
Strogonoff, then Director of the Fine Arts, apprised me of the
appointed day for my installation. I ordered a uniform of the Academy,
in the shape of an Amazonian dress: a little violet bodice, a yellow
skirt, and a black hat and feathers. At one o'clock I arrived in a
room leading to a long gallery, at the end of which I perceived Count
Strogonoff at a table. I was requested to go up to him. For this
purpose I was obliged to traverse the long gallery in question, where
tiers of benches had been placed which were full of spectators. But as
I luckily recognised a number of friends and acquaintances in the
crowd, I reached the other end of the gallery without feeling too much
confusion. The Count addressed me in a very flattering little speech,
and then presented me, on behalf of the Emperor, with a diploma
nominating me a member of the Academy. Everybody thereupon burst into
such applause that I was moved to tears, and I shall never forget that
touching moment. That evening I met several persons who had witnessed
the affair. They mentioned my courage in passing through that gallery
so full of people. "You must suppose," I answered, "that I had guessed
from their faces how kindly they were prepared to greet me." Very soon
after I did my own portrait for the Academy of St. Petersburg. I
represented myself painting, palette in hand.
In dwelling on these agreeable memories of my life, I am trying to
postpone the moment when I must speak of the sorrows, the cruel
anxieties which disturbed the peace and happiness I was enjoying at
St. Petersburg. But I must now enter upon the sad particulars.
My daughter had attained the age of seventeen. She was charming in
every respect. Her large blue eyes, sparkling with spirit, her
slightly tip-tilted nose, her pretty mouth, magnificent teeth, a
dazzling fresh complexion--all went to make up one of the sweetest
faces to be seen. Her figure was not very tall; she was lithe without,
however, being lean. A natural dignity reigned in all her person,
although she had as much vivacity of manner as of mind. Her memory was
prodigious: everything remained that she had learned in her lessons or
in the course of her reading. She had a delightful voice, and sang
exquisitely in Italian, for at Naples and St. Petersburg I had given
her the best singing masters, as well as instructors of English and
German. Moreover, she could accompany herself on the piano or the
guitar. But what enraptured me above everything else was her happy
disposition for painting, so that I cannot say how proud and satisfied
I was over the many advantages she commanded. I saw in my daughter the
happiness of my life, the future joy of my old age, and it was
therefore not surprising that she gained an ascendancy over me. When
my friends said, "You love your daughter so madly that it is you who
obey her," I would reply, "Do you not see that she is loved by every
one?" Indeed, the most prominent residents of St. Petersburg admired
and sought her out. I was not invited without her, and the successes
she won in society were far more to me than any of my own had ever
been.
Since I could but very rarely leave my studio of a morning, I
sometimes consented to confide my daughter to the Countess
Czernicheff, in order that she might take part in sledging
expeditions, which amused her greatly, and the Countess would
sometimes also take her to spend the evening at her house. There she
met a certain Nigris, Count Czernicheff's secretary. This M. Nigris
had a fairly good face and figure; he might have been about thirty. As
for his abilities, he drew a little, and wrote a beautiful hand. His
soft ways, his melancholy look, and even his yellowish paleness, gave
him an interesting and romantic air, which so far affected my
daughter that she fell in love with him. Immediately the Czernicheff
family put their heads together and began an intrigue to make him my
son-in-law. Being informed what was happening, my grief was deep, as
may well be imagined; but unhappy as I was at the thought of giving my
daughter, my only child, to a man without talents, without fortune,
without a name, I made inquiries about this M. Nigris. Some spoke well
of him, but others reported badly, so that the days went by without my
being able to fix upon any decision.
In vain did I attempt to make my daughter understand how unlikely in
every way this marriage was to make her happy. Her head was so far
turned that she would take nothing from my affection and experience.
On the other hand, people who had determined to get my consent
employed all possible means to wring it from me. I was told that M.
Nigris would carry off my daughter and that they would marry at some
country inn. I had little faith in this elopement and secret marriage,
because M. Nigris had no fortune, and the family that befriended him
was not blessed with superfluous money. I was threatened with the
Emperor, and I answered, "Then I will tell him that mothers have truer
and older rights than all the emperors in the world!" It will scarcely
be credited that the persons intriguing against me were so sure of
making me yield under persecution that they were already throwing out
allusions to a marriage portion. As I was supposed to be very rich,
the ambassador from Naples came to see me and asked a sum which far
exceeded my possessions. I had left France with eighty louis in my
pocket, and a portion of my savings I had since lost through the Bank
of Venice.
I could have endured the malignant and stupid slanders which the cabal
spread, and which were repeated to me from all sides; it pained me
much more to see my daughter becoming alienated and withdrawing all
her confidence from me. Her old governess, Mme. Charrot, who had
already made the great mistake of allowing her to read novels without
my knowledge, had totally dominated her mind and embittered her
against me to such a degree that all a mother's love was impotent to
fight against her sinister influence. At last my daughter, who had
become thin and changed, fell ill altogether. I was then, of course,
obliged to surrender, and wrote to M. Lebrun, so that he might send
his approval. M. Lebrun had in recent letters spoken of his wish to
marry our daughter to Guerin, whose successes in painting had been
bruited loud enough to reach my ears. But this plan, which had such
attractions for me, now could not be carried out. I informed M.
Lebrun, making him feel that, having but this one dear child, we must
sacrifice everything to her desires and her happiness.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MME. LEBRUN'S DAUGHTER
In the Bologna Gallery.]
The letter gone, I had the satisfaction of seeing my daughter recover;
but alas! that satisfaction was the only one she gave me. Owing to the
distance, her father's answer was long delayed, and some one convinced
her that I had only written to M. Lebrun to prevent him from assenting
to what she called her felicity. The suspicion hurt me cruelly;
nevertheless, I wrote again several times, and, after letting her read
my letters, gave them to her, so that she might post them herself.
Even this great condescension on my part was not enough to undeceive
her. With the distrust toward me that was incessantly being poured
into her, she said to me one day, "I post your letters, but I am sure
you write others to the contrary." I was stunned and heartbroken, when
at that very moment the postman arrived with a letter from M. Lebrun
giving his consent. A mother might then, without being accused of
exaction, have expected some excuses or thanks; but in order to have
it understood how entirely those wicked people had estranged my
daughter's heart, I will confess that the cruel child showed not the
least gratitude at what I had done for her in immolating all my
wishes, hopes and dislikes.
The wedding was nevertheless enacted a few days later. I gave my
daughter a very fine wedding outfit and some jewellery, including a
bracelet, mounted with some large diamonds, on which was her father's
likeness. Her marriage portion, the product of the portraits I had
painted at St. Petersburg, I deposited with the banker Livio.
The day after my daughter's wedding I went to see her. I found her
placid and unelated over her bliss. Being at her house again a
fortnight later, I made the inquiry, "You are very happy, I trust, now
that you are married to him?" M. Nigris, who was talking with some one
else, had his back turned to us, and, since he was afflicted with a
severe cold, had a heavy great coat on his shoulders. She replied, "I
confess that fur coat is disenchanting; how could you expect me to be
smitten with such a figure as that?" Thus a fortnight had sufficed for
love to evaporate.
As for me, the whole charm of my life seemed to be irretrievably
destroyed. I even felt no joy in loving my daughter, though God knows
how much I still did love her, in spite of all her wrongdoing. Only
mothers will fully understand me. Soon after her marriage she took the
smallpox. Although I had never had that frightful disease, no one
succeeded in preventing me from hastening to her side. Her face was so
swelled up that I was seized with terror. But it was only for her that
I feared, and as long as the illness lasted I thought not of myself
for a single moment. At last I was glad to see her restored without
being marked in the least.
I then resolved to leave for Moscow. I wanted a change from St.
Petersburg, where I had been suffering to such a degree that my health
was affected. Not that after the wedding the wretched stories which
had been brought up against me left any impression. On the contrary,
the people who had blackened my character most repented of their
injustice. However, I was unable to shake off the memory of the past
months. I felt miserable, but kept my trouble to myself; I complained
of no one. I observed silence, even with my dearest friends, on the
subject of my daughter and the man she had given me for a son, going
so far as reticence toward my brother, to whom I had written
frequently since being apprised by him of another misfortune. Indeed,
this period of my life was devoted to tears: we had lost our mother.
Hoping, then, to obtain relief from so much sorrow through distraction
and a change of scene, I hastened the life-sized portrait I was then
doing of the Empress Maria, as well as several half-length portraits,
and left for Moscow on the 15th of October, 1800.