the most distinguished noblemen of the Court and other persons of
consideration; the second was a _réunion_ of authors, artists, and
savants, a company not unworthy of comparison with that which assembled
in the salon of Madame Geoffrin; while the third, says Bachaumont, “was
a veritable orgy, to which were invited the most abandoned courtesans,
and where luxury and debauchery were carried to their furthest limits.”
But what were these suppers compared with the entertainments which the
_danseuse_ gave at her superb country-house at Pantin, in which, she
had constructed a charming miniature theatre, built in the form of two
demi-ellipses? The _salle_ was 157 ft. 9 in. in length, and 21 ft. 8 in.
in breadth, while the distance from the bottom of the orchestra to the
ceiling was 22 ft. It had seating accommodation for two hundred and
thirty-four spectators, exclusive of the accommodation provided by the
boxes, of which there were six. Several of these boxes were protected by
grills, in order that exalted personages might enjoy the performances
without being recognised.
Here, in 1768, was performed Collé’s _Partie de Chasse de Henri IV._,
before a distinguished company, for all aristocratic Paris disputed for
invitations to Mlle. Guimard’s entertainments, and people spoke of
“going to Pantin” as they spoke of going to Versailles.
The success of this comedy was so great that two other performances were
to have been given at the following Christmas; but the public had begun
to murmur at the frequent absences of the best actors and actresses of
the capital, and the representations were forbidden by an order from the
Gentlemen of the Chamber, which prohibited the members of the
Comédie-Française and the Comédie-Italienne from performing anywhere,
save in their own theatres.
[Illustration: MARIE MADELEINE GUIMARD
From an engraving by GERVAIS after the painting by BOUCHER]
All the pieces performed at Pantin were not nearly so unobjectionable in
character as Collé’s charming comedy; indeed the dialogue, songs, and
dances of the majority of them were exceedingly free, and in some cases
disgracefully licentious[77]; while the farewell address pronounced
from the stage, at the temporary closing of the theatre in September
1770, was one of the most outrageous pieces of _double entendre_ ever
uttered in public.[78]
Mlle. Guimard’s house at Pantin has long since disappeared; even its
site is a matter for conjecture, and no contemporary description of it
unfortunately exists. Some of its contents, however, have come, from
time to time, into the market, from which we know that it must have been
one of the most charmingly-appointed houses of the time, with its
painted wainscots, its marble floors, its fluted pilasters, and its
exquisitely decorated panels; a house worthy for a queen to inhabit
instead of a _danseuse_.
The generosity of the Prince de Soubise and the devoted La Borde, lavish
though it was, failed to suffice Mlle. Guimard, who, to meet her
ever-increasing expenditure, found herself reluctantly compelled to
associate with them a third lover.[79] This time she turned in the
direction of the Church; M. de Jarente, Bishop of Orléans, was the happy
man!
It was a prudent choice; M. de Jarente held the “_feuille des
bénéfices_” which meant that he controlled the greater part of the
ecclesiastical patronage of the realm. How he had discharged that
important trust previous to his _liaison_ with the notorious ballerina
we are unable to say. How he discharged it after he had succumbed to her
charms is but too well known: the _feuille des bénéfices_ became “the
fief of the Opera”; the ante-chamber of Mlle. Guimard was crowded with
ecclesiastics soliciting the honour of an audience, and abbeys,
priories, and chapels were knocked down to the highest bidder. And the
_danseuse_, reclining gracefully on her _chaise longue_, was heard to
inquire ironically of a friend about to present to her a young abbé who
had come to ask for a benefice: “Is this man of good moral character?”
* * * * *
But, with all her faults and follies, Madeleine Guimard was not without
redeeming qualities. Of her, as of Madame du Barry, it might be said
that, if her wealth was ill-gotten, it was not always ill-spent. No more
charitable woman breathed; her purse was always open to the necessitous,
and she was never happier than when relieving the wants of others. Grimm
relates that during the terrible January of 1768, when whole families of
the poorer inhabitants of Paris were perishing from cold and hunger,
Mlle. Guimard begged the Prince de Soubise to give her her New Year’s
gift in money, instead of the jewellery which was his customary offering
to his enchantresses. Then, one evening, she left her house, alone and
simply dressed, taking with her the 6000 livres which that good-natured
libertine had sent her,[80] and distributed the money, together with a
considerable sum from her own pocket, among her indigent neighbours,
visiting the most squalid and miserable dwellings, in order to discover
the cases most deserving of assistance. This generous act, it appears,
was accomplished with the most profound secrecy, and until the inquiries
of the police had penetrated the mystery, not even the objects of her
bounty had the slightest clue to the identity of their benefactress.
Mlle. Guimard’s benevolence is commemorated by a rare engraving of the
time, without the name of the draughtsman or the engraver, bearing the
title:
_Terpsichore Charitable
ou
Mademoiselle Guimard
visitant les Pauvres._
In this engraving one sees an old woman lying on a pallet in a barn,
and, advancing towards her, a lady wearing a hood, followed by a troupe
of Cupids, bearing bread, soup, and wine.
The ballerina’s liberality was far from being confined to the poor. Her
purse was open to all, no matter how little claim they might have upon
her. Struggling tradesmen in the grasp of usurers, clerks out of
employment, and even gamblers unable to discharge their obligations came
to knock at the door of her hôtel, and few went empty away. Once, an
officer came to ask for the loan of a hundred louis, wherewith to pay a
debt of honour, and offered to sign a document in acknowledgment.
“Monsieur,” replied Mlle. Guimard, “your word is quite enough for me. I
imagine that an officer will have at least as much honour as an
Opera-girl.”
Her house at Pantin did not long content Mlle. Guimard; and she,
accordingly, conceived the idea of building herself an hôtel in Paris;
not an ordinary hôtel, be it understood, but a veritable palace, a
palace such as no divinity of the stage had ever before inhabited, save
in her dreams. The will of the _danseuse_ was law to her adorers; the
prince, the bishop, and the farmer-general hastened to disgorge the
necessary funds, and the “Temple of Terpsichore,” as it was called by
the Parisians, began to rise. The site chosen was in the Rue de la
Chaussée-d’Antin, not far from the spot where stood the hôtel of a rival
courtesan, Mlle. Dervieux. Le Doux, the architect of Madame du Barry’s
pavilion at Louveciennes, drew up the plans.
A charming coloured sketch, in imitation of a water-colour of the time,
has preserved to us the appearance of the hôtel of Mlle. Guimard. The
porch is adorned by four columns, above which is an isolated group, in
Conflans stone, 6 ft. in proportion, representing Terpsichore being
crowned by Apollo. This was the work of the sculptor Le Comte, who is
also responsible for a beautiful bas-relief, 22 ft. in length, and 4 ft.
in height, where he has executed the triumph of the Muse of dancing, who
is shown seated in a chariot, drawn by Cupids, preceded by Bacchantes
and Fauns, and followed by the Graces of choregraphy.
Two little windows enable us to obtain a glimpse of the interior. One
shows us the ante-chamber and the _salle-à-manger_, the latter of which
is decorated with vases of gushing water, borne by groups of Naiads.
The other introduces us into the theatre, an imitation in miniature of
the _salle_ at Versailles, with a ceiling painted by Taravel, and
accommodation for five hundred spectators.[81]
This little palace, built and embellished under the supervision of the
adoring La Borde, was a jewel of architecture, a marvel of decorative
taste. “Picture to yourself,” says a brochure of the time, “picture to
yourself the happy and most brilliant assemblage of all the arts: they
meet here to surpass themselves.
“The exterior is charming. The intention of the architect has been to
represent the Temple of Terpsichore in the façade of the entrance side;
it would have been impossible to be more successful.
“In a little space, this delightful residence offers every conceivable
advantage and charm, and what is not presented by truth is supplied by
prestige. There is nothing, even to the garden, which does not charm and
astonish by its wholly novel taste. The apartments seem to owe their
different charms to magic; riches without confusion, gallantry without
indecorum; they show us the interior of the Palace of Love, embellished
by the Graces. The bedchamber invites repose; the salon, pleasure; the
_salle-à-manger_, gaiety; the forms are ingenious, without, however,
there being any recourse to the extravagance of contrast, which is so
often abused. A hothouse in the interior of the apartment takes the
place in the winter of a garden; it is furnished with a similar
taste.[82] The design is soft, without injury to the effect; the
trellis is in accordance with the best architectural taste; the
arabesques have nothing fantastic about them; the execution of all these
different marvels appears to be the work of the same hand. Delicious
harmony, which puts the _comble_ upon the reputation of the architect,
since it proves him to have recognised the importance of the choice of
the artists who have seconded his efforts, and the importance of
impressing them with his own ideas. We find here a little ballroom,
whose style of decoration renders it enchanting and perhaps unique. One
finds also a miniature theatre, which may be regarded as a
_chef-d’œuvre_ of its kind....”[83]
Two interesting anecdotes, both relating to famous painters of the
eighteenth century, attach to the adornment of the “Temple of
Terpsichore.” Mlle. Guimard often came to visit her palace and supervise
the decorations of the interior. One day, she remarked a young artist
who was painting the arabesques on the walls, and, observing that he
seemed sad and dispirited, questioned him and learned that he was
studying under Vien, but that poverty compelled him to earn his bread by
undertaking commissions of this kind, and prevented him from devoting
himself to the studies necessary to enable him to compete with success
for the Prix de Rome. The kind heart of the _danseuse_ was touched by
the young man’s story; she immediately told him to abandon his work in
the Chaussée-d’Antin and return to his studies, and sent him each month
two hundred livres for his expenses. Thanks to her generosity, Vien’s
pupil was able to take full advantage of his master’s lessons, and,
studying with unremitting ardour, carried off the coveted prize. This
young artist was none other than Jacques Louis David, the painter of
_Socrates_, _Brutus_, _The Sabines_, and _Leonidas_.
The other story relates to Fragonard. Fragonard had been chosen by Le
Doux to paint the principal panel of the grand salon, a repetition in
painting of the sculpture of the façade, that is to say, the
representation of Mlle. Guimard as Terpsichore, and “surrounded by all
the attributes which were able to characterise her in the most seducing
manner.” The work was still unfinished, when a quarrel arose between the
lady and the painter, which ended in the latter being sent away and the
completion of the task entrusted to another artist. One day, curious to
see how his work had fared in the hands of his successor, Fragonard
found means to introduce himself into the house, and made his way to the
salon without encountering any one. Here, the sight of a palette and
colours gave him the idea of a very piquant revenge. In four strokes of
the brush, he effaced the smile from the lips of Terpsichore, and
imparted to them instead an expression of anger and fury, taking care,
however, to make no other alterations in the portrait. This done, he
took his departure as stealthily as he had entered.
As ill-luck would have it, not long afterwards, Mlle. Guimard herself
arrived on the scene, accompanied by a party of friends, who had come to
pass judgment on the work of the new painter. Her indignation and
disgust at finding herself thus disfigured may be readily imagined, but
the more angry did she become, the more striking was the resemblance
between herself and the portrait, a fact upon which, we may be very
sure, the wittier members of the party did not fail to comment.
The little theatre, of which we have already spoken, was inaugurated on
December 8, 1772, before even the house itself was completed. The pieces
selected for the occasion were _La Partie de Chasse de Henri IV._, and
that exceedingly gay comedy, _La Vérité dans le vin_, both by Collé,
Mlle. Guimard’s favourite dramatist; and great was the competition in
fashionable circles to obtain tickets of admission. It will be
remembered that the performance of the former play by the members of the
Comédie-Française, at Pantin, at Christmas 1768, had been forbidden by
the Gentlemen of the Chamber; but now, thanks to the good offices of the
Prince de Soubise, the prohibition, though repeated, was annulled by
Louis XV. himself. A new difficulty, however, arose, through the
opposition of Christophe de Beaumont, the austere Archbishop of Paris,
who objected to the opening of the theatre, on account of the licentious
character of _La Vérité dans le vin_, and, to pacify the metropolitan,
it was found necessary to substitute for this comedy a pantomime
entitled _Pygmalion_, a parody of Collé’s little play of that name. On
the great night, Mlle. Guimard must have been a proud woman indeed,
since the most distinguished members of the _beau monde_ and the
_demi-monde_ had congregated in the “Temple of Terpsichore,” to do
honour to its mistress: two Princes of the Blood, the Duc de Chartres
and the Comte de Lamarche, and a select assortment of the most
fascinating courtesans in Paris, “all radiant with diamonds.”
In June 1773, the Prince de Soubise, ordinarily the most complacent of
lovers, who had, up to that time, accepted with an almost marital
indifference the division of Mlle. Guimard’s favours between M. de la
Borde and himself, suddenly developed a violent attack of jealousy and
insisted on the lady giving the farmer-general his _congé_. Poor La
Borde was in despair and straightway fell into a condition of the
deepest melancholy, which even his beloved music was powerless to
dissipate. At length, he determined to act on his own maxim: “_On combat
l’amour par la fuite et la colère par le silence_,”[84] and departed on
a course of foreign travel, visiting, amongst other places, Ferney, with
a commission from Madame du Barry to kiss its owner on both cheeks.
Nothing seems to have delighted Mlle. Guimard more than scandalising the
devout, and it must be admitted that the entertainments which she gave
in her two theatres at Pantin and the Chaussée-d’Antin contributed very
effectively to that end. In the early spring of 1776, she conceived the
idea of organising “a picnic of scandalous immorality, a picnic such as
French society had never yet beheld.” There was to be a play, needless
to say of a very free and easy kind, in which Mlle. Guimard herself was
to take part, and the famous courtesan, Mlle. Duthé, to dance. Then
Mlle. Dervieux was charged to order from a fashionable _traiteur_ a
sumptuous supper. And the play and the supper were to be followed by a
ball, gambling for colossal stakes--it is to be presumed the ladies did
not intend to risk their own money--and “everything which could
accompany an orgy of this nature.”
The fête, originally fixed for the Carnival, had been postponed to the
first Thursday in Lent, in order, say the _Mémoires secrets_, to render
it more singular and more celebrated.
All was arranged, the play staged, the supper prepared, when, on the
complaint of Mlle. Guimard’s enemy, the Archbishop of Paris, the King
interfered and sent an order prohibiting play, ball, and supper. The
Comte d’Artois and the Duc de Chartres, both of whom were to assist at
the entertainment, did everything in their power to obtain a reversal of
the order, but without success; and the commandant of the watch received
instructions to post men in the streets leading from the _traiteur’s_
shop to the Chaussée-d’Antin, to intercept the supper on its way to
Mlle. Guimard’s hôtel.
Under these circumstances, the _danseuse_ and her friends decided that
the only thing to be done was to abandon the proposed entertainment, and
send the supper to the curé of Saint-Roch, for distribution among the
sick poor of his parish. And, as each of the subscribers to the
prohibited picnic had contributed the sum of five louis, the wits named
it, “_le repas des Chevaliers de Saint-Louis_.”
Nevertheless, in spite of the archbishop and the _dévots_, the theatre
of the Chaussée-d’Antin continued to flourish and to number amongst its
patrons Princes of the Blood, _grands seigneurs_ of the Court, and
courtesans of the highest distinction. The parody of _Ernelinde_,
composed by the dancer Despréaux, performed there in September 1777,
enjoyed an immense success, and was commanded to be represented before
the Court at Choisy, the following month, when the young King, who had
hitherto shown but little taste for the theatre, laughed so immoderately
throughout the three acts, that he bestowed a pension on the dancer.
* * * * *
Mlle. Guimard’s life of gallantry and extravagance did not cause her to
neglect her profession. No more assiduous student of her art ever
pirouetted across a stage, and her career was a series of almost
unbroken triumphs. In the ballet of _La Chercheuse d’esprit_, by Gardel
the elder, played before the Court in 1777, and produced at the Opera
the following year, her dancing and pantomime, in the part of Nicette,
were generally allowed to have been inimitable.
“The difficulty of pantomime,” writes Lefuel de Méricourt, in his
journal _Le Nouveau Spectateur_, “is the power of expressing by means of
gesture what seems to require the assistance of words. It was difficult,
for example, in the person of the _Chercheuse d’esprit_ to supply it in
the verse,
‘Allez chercher de l’esprit,’
which forms the _nœud_ of the piece. But the acting of the Guimard
leaves nothing to be desired at this interesting moment.”
The critic of the _Mercure de France_ is still more eulogistic: “One
cannot praise too highly the talent of Mlle. Guimard, in the rôle of
Nicette. It is necessary to see her to confess that never has one
rendered a simpleton (_niaise_), at the same time simple and
mischievous, more gracefully than this charming _actrice-danseuse_, who,
in her art, is always what one would desire her to be.”
And Grimm, in his _Correspondance littéraire_, after declaring that the
talent of Mlle. Guimard has caused one to overlook the faults of the
ballet, praises the _danseuse_ in these terms: “She has imparted to the
rôle of Nicette, a gradation of shades, so fine, so correct, so
delicate, so piquant, that the most ingenious poetry would be powerless
to render the same characters with more wit, delicacy, or truth. All her
steps, all her movements, are soft and harmonious, and exhibit a meaning
both sure and picturesque. How naïve is her simplicity, and yet how
devoid of silliness! How well does her natural grace conceal itself
without affectation! How gradually does her character expand, and how
much she pleases, without exerting herself to please! How she comes to
life in the sweet rays of sentiment! It is a rosebud which one sees
expand, to escape slowly from the fetters which envelop it, to tremble
into bloom. We have never seen, in this kind of imitation, anything more
delicious or more perfect.”
Some months later, in _Ninette à la Cour_, she played the part of
Ninette “in a way which stupefied the spectators.” “One was really
confounded to see this artiste, admired hitherto for the grace of her
acting, transform herself of a sudden into a maladroit, awkward
creature, overcome with astonishment at the novel sights which meet her
eyes, and depicting in a striking manner the impressions of a peasant
leaving her village for the first time. The following circumstance is
able to convey some idea of the difficulties which Mlle. Guimard had
overcome in this rôle. It was remarked that at the time of the minuet
that Nicette dances before the King and his Court, she made great
efforts to dance out of time, and that generally, in spite of herself,
the sensibility of her ear forced her to dance correctly.”[85]
Other scarcely less brilliant triumphs awaited Mlle. Guimard in the
ballets of _Les Caprices de Galathée_, composed expressly for her by
Noverre, _Médée et Jason_, _Myrza_, _La Rosière_, and _Le Premier
Navigateur, ou le Pouvoir de l’amour_. Her success in the last-named
piece, produced on July 26, 1785, four years before her retirement from
the stage, was celebrated by the poet Dorat in the following pretty
verses:
“Quelle nymphe légère, à mes yeux se présente!
Déesse, elle folâtre et n’est point imposante,
Son front s’épanouit avec sérénité,
Ses cheveux sont flottants, le rire est sa beauté.
D’un feston de jasmin, sa tête est couronnée,
Et sa robe voltige, aux vents abandonnée.
Mille songes légers l’environnent toujours;
Plus que le printemps même, elle fait les beaux jours.
Des matelots joyeux, rassemblés auprès d’elle
Détonnent à sa gloire une ronde nouvelle,
Et de jeunes pasteurs, désertant les hameaux,
Viennent la saluer aux sons des chalumeaux.
C’est l’aimable gaîté; qui peut la méconnaître,
Au chagrin qui s’envole, aux jeux qu’elle fait naître?
Fille de l’innocence, image du bonheur,
Le charme quite suit, a passé dans mon cœur.
Sur ce gazon fleuri qu’elle a choisi pour trône,
Pasteurs, exécutons les danses qu’elle ordonne.
* * * * *
Fuyez, arrêtez-vous, suspendez votre ivresse;
Comme Guimard enfin appelez les désirs,
Et que vos pas brillants soient le vol des plaisirs.”[86]
It is hardly necessary to remark that such an artiste was appreciated as
she deserved by the administration of the Opera, to whom she rendered so
many services. Unfortunately, she not seldom abused the position which
her talent and her intimate relations with the most distinguished
personages of the time gave her, and occasioned the unfortunate
directors almost as much trouble and anxiety, in her way, as did Sophie
Arnould. Thus, in the spring of 1772, she, with her lover, the dancer
Dauberval, organised a mutiny against Rebel, who had just been
appointed “Directeur-général de l’Académie royale de Musique”--a mutiny
which was only quelled by the personal interference of the Minister of
the King’s Household, who summoned the malcontents before him and
threatened them with severe pains and penalties if they continued
contumacious. Six years later, we find her at the head of the opposition
to Devismes, who, appointed director of the Opera at Easter 1778, had
introduced various innovations, which, though popular with the patrons
of the theatre, were strongly resented by the artistes. The principal
“insurgents” held what they called a “Congress” at Mlle. Guimard’s
hôtel, and Auguste Vestris, with characteristic modesty, compared his
position with that of Washington. The revolt ended in the town of Paris
cancelling Devismes’s appointment and taking upon itself the management
of the theatre, Devismes receiving a large sum by way of
compensation.[87]