DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61284#0123
50
VIGEE-LEBRUN
of her luxurious dwelling and habits, and of the jealousy of the belle-m&re
of Champcenetz, was that the company who came to her “ evenings ”
in her “modest rooms” was specially select! Men and women of high
social position, authors and artists of the first consideration, filled her
bedroom (the walls of which were papered to match the chintz curtains
and hangings of the bed), where, according to a custom still not extinct
in Paris, she “ received ” her guests. She used to say in her old age that
in those days in the Rue de Clery there was sometimes such a crowd of
distinguished persons present that, for want of enough sofas or chairs,
people sat on the floor, and that “ Marshal de Noiailles, very fat and very
old, had one evening the greatest difficulty to get up again.” He was
only about seventy at the time, it is true, but that was regarded as very
old in those unhygienic times.
Foremost among the artists who came were, as might be supposed,
Menageot (who lived upstairs), Brongniart, Hubert Robert, and Vernet,
the last two having been among her best friends from her childhood. The
Abbe Delille headed the literary set, with the poet Ecouchard Lebrun (no
relative of her husband), and its tail, in the opinion of the hostess, was
that poet’s friend, Pierre Ginguene, critic then, and historian after the
Revolution, whom she disliked excessively, and who struck a discordant
note whenever he appeared. She was an enthusiastic admirer of Ecou-
chard Lebrun’s poetry. Like some more famous poets, he did not at all
think that his name was writ in water. One day he read out an ode to
himself in which he had written :
“ Comme un cedre aux vastes ombrages,
Mon nom, croissant avec les ages,
Regne sur la posterite.
Siecles, vous etes ma conquete ;
Et la palme qui ceint ma tete
Rayonne d’immortalite.”
No one smiled or had a word to say except “It is magnificent! It
is true.”
Madame Vigee-Lebrun’s admiration for her namesake’s work was so
high that she had become friendly with the man himself, and, remembering
the horrid things that people sometimes said about her, she defended
him warmly against those who spoke evil of him. As it happened, the
man was a blackguard—a fact she realised at the Revolution, when he
turned on those who had been his chief benefactors and published foul
verses concerning the very people he had formerly beslavered. On one
VIGEE-LEBRUN
of her luxurious dwelling and habits, and of the jealousy of the belle-m&re
of Champcenetz, was that the company who came to her “ evenings ”
in her “modest rooms” was specially select! Men and women of high
social position, authors and artists of the first consideration, filled her
bedroom (the walls of which were papered to match the chintz curtains
and hangings of the bed), where, according to a custom still not extinct
in Paris, she “ received ” her guests. She used to say in her old age that
in those days in the Rue de Clery there was sometimes such a crowd of
distinguished persons present that, for want of enough sofas or chairs,
people sat on the floor, and that “ Marshal de Noiailles, very fat and very
old, had one evening the greatest difficulty to get up again.” He was
only about seventy at the time, it is true, but that was regarded as very
old in those unhygienic times.
Foremost among the artists who came were, as might be supposed,
Menageot (who lived upstairs), Brongniart, Hubert Robert, and Vernet,
the last two having been among her best friends from her childhood. The
Abbe Delille headed the literary set, with the poet Ecouchard Lebrun (no
relative of her husband), and its tail, in the opinion of the hostess, was
that poet’s friend, Pierre Ginguene, critic then, and historian after the
Revolution, whom she disliked excessively, and who struck a discordant
note whenever he appeared. She was an enthusiastic admirer of Ecou-
chard Lebrun’s poetry. Like some more famous poets, he did not at all
think that his name was writ in water. One day he read out an ode to
himself in which he had written :
“ Comme un cedre aux vastes ombrages,
Mon nom, croissant avec les ages,
Regne sur la posterite.
Siecles, vous etes ma conquete ;
Et la palme qui ceint ma tete
Rayonne d’immortalite.”
No one smiled or had a word to say except “It is magnificent! It
is true.”
Madame Vigee-Lebrun’s admiration for her namesake’s work was so
high that she had become friendly with the man himself, and, remembering
the horrid things that people sometimes said about her, she defended
him warmly against those who spoke evil of him. As it happened, the
man was a blackguard—a fact she realised at the Revolution, when he
turned on those who had been his chief benefactors and published foul
verses concerning the very people he had formerly beslavered. On one