UNMERRY ENGLAND
LONDON -- ITS HISTORIC PILES -- AND DULL SUNDAYS -- AND TACITURN
PEOPLE -- PICTURES BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS -- HIS MODESTY -- HOW
TO DRY PICTURES IN A DAMP CLIMATE -- THE ARTISTIC VIEW OF A
CERTAIN POPULAR BEAUTY -- THE PRINCE OF WALES -- HIS ALLEGED
ATTENTIONS TO MME. LEBRUN -- THE AUTHORESS LECTURES AN UNFRIENDLY
CRITIC -- NEWS OF ONE OF NAPOLEON'S "ATROCIOUS CRIMES."
I started for London on the 15th of April, 1802. I knew not a word of
English. True, I was accompanied by an English maid, but the girl had
long been serving me badly, and I was obliged to dismiss her very
shortly after my arrival in London, because she did nothing but eat
bread and butter all day. Luckily I had brought some one besides, a
charming person to whom ill-fortune made the home she had found under
my roof very precious. This was my faithful Adelaide, who lived with
me on the footing of a friend, and whose attentions and counsels have
always been most valuable to me.
On disembarking at Dover I was at first somewhat affrighted at the
view of a whole population assembled on the shore. But I was reassured
when informed that the crowd was simply composed of curious idlers,
who were following their usual habits in coming down to see the
travellers land.
The sun was going down. I at once hired a three-horse chaise, and made
off forthwith, for I was not without apprehensions, seeing I had been
told I might very likely encounter highwaymen. I took the precaution
of putting my diamonds into my stockings, and was glad I had done so
when I perceived two horsemen advancing toward me at a gallop. What
capped the climax of my fears was to see them separate, in order--as I
imagined--to present themselves at the two windows of my carriage. I
confess I was seized with a violent fit of trembling, but that was the
worst that happened.
Vast and handsome though London may be, that city affords less food
for the artist's interest than Paris or the Italian towns. Not that
you do not find a great number of rare works of art in England. But
most of them are owned by wealthy private persons, whose country
houses and provincial seats they adorn. At the period I mention,
London had no picture gallery, that now existing being the result of
legacies and gifts to the nation made within a few years. In default
of pictures, I went to look at the public edifices. I returned several
times to Westminster Abbey, where the tombs of the kings and queens
are superb. As they belong to different ages they offer great
attractions to artists and fanciers. I admired, among others, the tomb
of Mary Stuart, in which the remains of that ill-fated Queen were
deposited by her son, James I. I spent much time in that part of the
church devoted to the sepulture of the great poets, Milton, Pope, and
Chatterton. This last-named is known to have poisoned himself while
dying of starvation, and I reflected that the money laid out upon
rendering him these posthumous honours might have sufficed, when he
was alive, to insure him comfortable days.
St. Paul's Cathedral is also very fine. Its dome is an imitation of
that of St. Peter's, at Rome. At the Tower of London I saw a very
interesting collection of armour, dating from the various centuries.
There is a row of royal figures on horseback, among them Elizabeth,
mounted on a courser and ready to review her troops. The London museum
contains a collection of minerals, birds, weapons and tools from the
South Sea Islands, due to the famous Captain Cook.
The streets of London are wide and clean. Broad side pavements make
them very convenient for foot-passengers, and one is the more
surprised to witness scenes upon them that ought to be proscribed by
civilisation. It is not rare to see boxers fighting and wounding each
other to the point of drawing blood. Far from such a spectacle seeming
to shock the people looking on, they give them glasses of gin to
stimulate their zeal.
Sunday in London is as dismal as the climate. Not a shop is open;
there are no plays, nor balls, nor concerts. Universal silence reigns,
and as on that day no one is allowed to work nor even to play music
without incurring the risk of having his windows broken by the
populace, there is no resource for killing time but the public walks.
These, indeed, are very well frequented.
The chief amusement of the town is the assembling of good company,
called a "rout." Two or three hundred individuals walk up and down the
rooms, the women arm-in-arm, for the men usually keep aside. In this
crowd one is pushed and jostled without end, so that it becomes very
fatiguing. But there is nothing to sit on. At one of these routs I
attended, an Englishman I knew in Italy caught sight of me. He came up
to me and said, in the midst of the profound silence that reigns at
all these parties, "Don't you think these gatherings are enjoyable?"
"You enjoy yourselves with what would bore us," I replied. I really
did not see what pleasure was to be got out of stifling in such a
crowd that you could not even reach your hostess.
[Illustration: GIRL WITH MUFF.]
Nor are the walks in London any livelier. The women walk together on
one side, all dressed in white; they are so taciturn, and so perfectly
placid, that they might be taken for perambulating ghosts. The men
hold aloof from them, and behave just as solemnly. I have sometimes
come upon a couple, and have amused myself, if I happened to follow
them awhile, by watching whether they would speak to each other. I
never saw any who did.
I went to the principal painters, and was mightily astonished to see
that they all had a large room full of portraits with nothing but the
heads done. I asked them why they thus exhibited their pictures before
finishing them. They all answered that the persons who had posed were
satisfied with being seen and mentioned, and that besides, the sketch
made, half the price was paid in advance, when the painter was
satisfied, too.
At London I saw many pictures by the renowned Reynolds; their
colouring is excellent, resembling that of Titian, but they are mostly
unfinished, except as to the head. I, however, admired a "Child
Samuel" by him, whose completeness and colouring both pleased me.
Reynolds was as modest as he was talented. When my portrait of M. de
Calonne arrived at the London custom-house, Reynolds, who had been
apprised of the fact, went to look at it. When the box was opened he
stood absorbed in the picture for a long space and praised it warmly.
Thereupon some nincompoop ejaculated, "That must be a fine portrait;
Mme. Lebrun was paid eighty thousand francs for it!" "I am sure,"
replied Reynolds, "I could not do it as well for a hundred thousand."
The London climate was the despair of this artist because of the
difficulty it offers to drying pictures, and he had invented, I heard,
a way of mixing wax with his colours, which made them dull. In truth,
the dampness in London was such that, to dry the pictures I painted
there, I had a fire constantly burning in my studio until the moment I
went to bed. I would set my pictures at a certain distance from the
fireplace, and often would leave a rout to go and ascertain whether
they wanted moving nearer the grate or farther away. This slavery was
unavoidable and unendurable.
Concerts were very much the fashion in London, and I preferred them to
the routs, though these afforded an opportunity to the well-received
foreigner--and fortunately I was one--of meeting all the best English
society. Invitations are not by letter, as in France. Only a card is
sent, with the inscription, "At home such and such a day."
The most fashionable woman in London at this time was the Duchess of
Devonshire. I had often heard of her beauty and her influence in
politics, and when I called upon her she greeted me in the most
affable style. She might then have been about forty-five years old.
Her features were very regular, but I was not struck by her beauty.
Her complexion was too high, and ill-fortune had ordained that one of
her eyes should be blind. As at this period the hair was worn over the
forehead, she concealed the eye under a bunch of curls, but that was
insufficient to hide such a serious defect. The Duchess of Devonshire
was of fair size, her degree of stoutness being exactly appropriate to
her age, and her unconstrained manner became her exceedingly well.
Not long after my arrival in London, the Treaty of Amiens was
abrogated, and all French who had not lived in England over a year
were compelled to leave the country at once. The Prince of Wales, to
whom I was presented, assured me that I was not to be included in this
edict, that he would oppose my expulsion, and that he would
immediately ask his father, the King, for a permit allowing me to
remain. The permit, stating all necessary particulars, was granted
me. It mentioned that I was at liberty to travel anywhere within the
kingdom, that I might sojourn wherever I pleased, and also that I must
be protected in the seaport towns I might elect to stop at--a favour
which old French residents of England had great difficulty in securing
at this juncture. The Prince of Wales went to the limit of politeness
by bringing the document to me in person.
The Prince of Wales might then have been about forty, but he looked
older, which was to be accounted for by his stoutness. Tall and
well-built, he had a handsome face; his features were all regular and
distinguished. He wore a wig very artistically disposed, the hair
parted on the forehead like the Apollo di Belvedere's, and this suited
him to perfection. He was proficient in all the bodily exercises, and
spoke French very well and with the greatest fluency. He was
elaborately elegant--magnificently so, to the extent of prodigality.
At one time he was reputed to have debts to the amount of
L300,000--which were finally paid by his father and Parliament. As he
was one of the handsomest men in the United Kingdom, he was the idol
of the women.
It was but a little while before my departure that I did his portrait.
I painted him at almost full length, in uniform. Several English
painters became enraged against me on hearing that I had begun this
picture and that the Prince allowed me all the time I asked to finish
it, for they had long and vainly been waiting for the same concession.
I was aware that the Queen-mother said her son was making love to me,
and that he often came to lunch at my house. Never did the Prince of
Wales enter my door in the forenoon except for his sittings.
As soon as his likeness was done the Prince gave it to Mme.
Fitzherbert. She had it put in a rolling frame, like a large bedroom
mirror, so as to move it into any of her rooms--something which I
thought highly ingenious.
The anger of the English artists toward me did not stop at talk. A
certain M. ----, a portrait painter, published a work in which he
vehemently belittled French painting in general and my own in
particular. Sundry parts of the book were translated to me, and they
appeared so unjust and absurd that I could not help springing to the
defense of the famous painters whose countrywoman I was. Accordingly,
I wrote to this M. ---- as follows:
"_Sir_: I understand that in your work on painting you speak of
the French school. As, from what is reported to me concerning
your remarks, I gather that you have not the least idea of that
school, I think I must give you some information that you may
find serviceable. I presume, in the first place, that you do not
attack the great artists who lived in the reign of Louis XIV.,
such as Lebrun, Lesueur, Simon Vouet, etc., and Rigaud, Mignard,
and Largilliere, the portrait painters. As for the artists of the
day, you do the French school the greatest injustice in rating it
by its achievements of thirty years ago. Since then it has made
enormous strides in a branch totally different from that
signalising its decline. Not, however, that the man who ruined it
was not gifted with a very superior talent. Boucher was a born
colourist. He had discrimination in composing and good taste in
the choice of his figures. But of a sudden he stopped working
except for the dainty chambers of women, when his colouring
became insipid, his style affected; and, this example once set,
all painters tried to follow it. His defects were carried to the
extreme, as always happens; things went from bad to worse, and
art seemed irretrievably destroyed. Then came an able painter,
called Vien, whose style was simple and severe. He was
appreciated by true art-lovers, and regenerated our school. We
have since produced David, young Louis Drouais--who died at Rome,
aged twenty-five, just as he seemed to give promise of becoming
a second Raphael--Gerard, Gros, Girodet, Guerin, and a number of
others I might cite.
"It is not surprising that after criticising the works of David,
which you evidently do not know at all, you do me the honour of
criticising mine, which you know no better. Being ignorant of the
English language, I had not been able to read what you wrote
about my painting, and when I was told, without being given the
particulars, that you had abused me soundly, I answered that,
however much you might disparage my pictures, all the worst you
could say of them would be less than I think. I do not suppose
that any artist imagines he has attained perfection, and, far
from any such presumption on my part, I have never yet been quite
satisfied with any work of mine. Nevertheless, being now more
fully informed, and knowing that your criticism bears principally
on a point that appears important to me, I believe my duty is to
repudiate it in the interest of art.
"Patience, the only merit you allow me, is unfortunately not one
of the virtues of my character. Only, it is true that I am loath
to leave my work. I consider it is never complete enough, and, in
the fear of leaving it too imperfect, my conscience makes me
think about it a long time and touch it up repeatedly.
"It seems that my lace shocks you, although I have painted none
for fifteen years. I vastly prefer scarfs, which you, sir, would
do well yourself to employ. Scarfs, you may believe me, are a
boon to painters, and had you used them you would have acquired
good taste in draping, in which you are deficient. As for those
stuffs, those eloquent cushions, those velvets, to be seen in my
_shop_, it is my opinion that one should pay as much attention as
possible to all such accessories. On this point I have Raphael as
an authority, who never neglected anything of this kind, who
wished everything to be explicit, to be rendered minutely--that
is the language of art--even to the smallest flowers in the
grass. I can, furthermore, quote the example of ancient
sculpture, in which not the most trifling accessories are found
neglected: the draped scarfs which lie so snugly upon nude
figures, and of which mere fragments are bought by real fanciers
to-day, the ornamentation on breastplates, the buskins--all that
is carried out with perfect finish.
"And now, sir, allow me to remark that the word _shop_, which
term you apply to my studio, is scarcely worthy of an artist. I
show my pictures without having money asked at the door. I have
even, to avoid that practise" [then in vogue among the painters
of London], "set aside one day each week for persons of good
standing and such persons as these may see fit to present to me.
I may, therefore, beg you to observe that the word _shop_ is
improper, and that severity never excuses a man from being
polite.
"I have the honour to be, etc."
This letter, which I read to some friends, remained no secret to
London society, and the laugh was not on the side of M. ----, who, all
enmity aside, did not know how to do drapings.
I met a number of compatriots in England whom I had known for years. I
had the felicity of meeting the Count d'Artois once more, at a party
given by Lady Percival, who received a number of exiles. He had grown
stouter, and I really thought him very handsome. A few days later he
honoured me by coming to see my studio. I was out, and I only returned
just as he was going away. But he was good enough to come back and
compliment me upon my portrait of the Prince of Wales, with which he
seemed highly pleased. The Count d'Artois did not go out much into
society. Having but a modest income, he yet saved money, with which he
helped the poorest of the French. His goodness of heart incited him
to sacrifice all his pleasures for charitable purposes.
[Illustration: MADAME VIGEE LEBRUN.]
This Prince's son, the Duke de Berri, often came to see me of a
morning. He sometimes appeared with small pictures under his arm,
which he had bought at a very low price. What proves how good a judge
of painting he was is that these pictures were splendid Wouvermans.
But it needed a very fine feeling to detect their merit under the
grime that covered them. The Duke de Berri also had a passion for
music.
I was at the play in London when the murder of the Duke d'Enghien was
announced. Hardly had the news spread through the theatre, when all
the women in the boxes turned their backs to the stage, and the piece
would not have gone on if somebody had not come in to state the report
a false one. We then all resumed our seats, and the play continued,
but as we went out it was, alas! all confirmed. We even learned some
particulars of this atrocious crime, which will always leave a
terrible blood-stain on Napoleon's career.
Next day we attended the funeral mass celebrated for the noble victim.
All of the French, our Princes included, and a large number of English
ladies were present. The Abbe de Bouvant gave a most touching
discourse on the lot of the unhappy Duke d'Enghien. The sermon ended
with an invocation to the Almighty to spare our dear Princes from a
like fate. Alas! the prayer was not heard, for we lived to see the
Duke de Berri fall by the dagger of a dastardly assassin.