Chapter VII

THE TRIALS OF GENIUS; DOMESTIC TROUBLES; LETTERS TO MRS. TAYLOR;
JOURNEY TO FRANCE; ARRIVAL AT PARIS; THE LOUVRE; THE FIRST
CONSUL; CHARLES JAMES FOX; THE SOIRÉE; KOSCIUSKO.

We have seen how diligently Mrs. Opie laboured during the year 1801, and with what success her efforts had been crowned. Yet this was the severest season of domestic anxiety and trouble, she was, as a wife, destined to experience. She tells us, in her Memoir of her husband, that although he had a picture in the Exhibition of 1801, which was universally admired, and purchased as soon as beheld, yet “he saw himself at the end of that year, and the beginning of the next, almost wholly without employment; and even my sanguine temper yielding to the trial, I began to fear that, small as our expenditure was, it must become still smaller. Not that I allowed myself to own that I desponded; on the contrary, I was forced to talk to him of hopes, and to bid him look forward to brighter prospects, as his temper, naturally desponding, required all the support possible. But gloomy and painful indeed were those three alarming months, and I consider them as the severest trial that I experienced during my married life. However, this despondency did not make him indolent; he continued to paint regularly as usual; and no doubt by that means increased his ability to do justice to the torrent of business which soon after set in towards him, and never ceased to flow till the day of his death.”

There is something very touching in these few and simple words. The earnest hopeful nature of the wife supporting the desponding spirits of her gifted husband. Like all men of true genius, he was subject to dark shadows and melancholy broodings. He aspired high, studied much, laboured hard, and was too painfully alive to his deficiencies, ever to rest satisfied with the point to which he had attained; the voice within cried ever, “higher!” and he must run until he fell. “During the nine years that I was his wife, (she continues,) I never saw him satisfied with any one of his productions, and often, very often, have I seen him enter my sitting room, and throwing himself in an agony of despondence on the sofa, exclaim, ‘I never, never shall be a painter, as long as I live!’”

Happily for women they have, in the little domestic cares of every day life, a source of employment and interest, which, compelling their attention, diverts their thoughts into wholesome channels, and saves them from uselessly brooding over evils they cannot avert. The domestic _ménage_ of the painter’s household had to be governed, its mistress tells us, with a strict and watchful economy, and an observant eye must be kept upon all that went on there. But this was not all; as a mistress, the conduct of her servants appears to have occasioned her no small trouble, and to her faithful _confidante_ she reveals her anxieties on more than one occasion; from two of these letters we find that she learned by experience, what she afterwards described with her pen; the first letter seems almost a comment upon one of her tales on “Lying,” or rather to have furnished the text for it. Both must have been written early in the year 1802, as in the month of August following, the journey to Paris took place.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Your most kind and gratifying letter, so wholly undeserved on my
part, and (considering your many avocations) so generous on
yours, demanded an earlier acknowledgment; but it is one of the
charms of our intimacy that it is proof against neglects like
mine. I know you will not cease to love me, nor think that I
have ceased to love you, though even months pass without my
assuring you of my unaltered regard. But at last I sit down to
write to you, and you might suppose I take up my pen
_conscience-urged_; no such matter; I write to crave your advice
on a subject that weighs heavy on my mind, and one on which at
present I cannot consult my husband; a difficult affair to act
properly in, as I want to reconcile pity and justice. You must
know, that, after having for some time past had some reason to
suspect the strict honesty, in trifles, of my maid Anne, I had,
last Friday, the mournful certainty of detecting her in a course
of most flagrant iniquity; and what is worse, when I brought my
charge against her, she was most firm in denial, and accused me
of the grossest cruelty and injustice in accusing her; while a
series of ready _lies_, abounding in contradictions, which left
no doubt of her guilt on my mind, sunk her still lower in my
opinion. I was easily prevailed on to keep the affair a secret
from my husband for a short time, in order to avoid an _éclat_,
which would blast the poor wretch’s character for ever; yet how,
my dear friend, can I any way act as I ought, without doing
this? Her cry is, “give me a character for God’s sake!” but how
can I? Even if I keep her till August, can I then, however
correct her future conduct, say “yes” to an enquiry concerning
her honesty? If she had a _heart_, (but I am certain she has
not,) I would keep her and conceal her fault, (for while
reputation is safe, there is hope of amendment,) but of her I
have no hope. Now, my dear friend, tell me how I can stand
between her and the punishment of her guilt, with honour and
justice to myself? A young maid-servant turned out, without the
chance of a character, is in so exposed and desperate a
situation, that I shudder to think of the consequences, and, as
my too great confidence and my carelessness _may_ have laid
temptation in her way, I feel a degree of responsibility for her
faults, which distresses me exceedingly.

I really should feel it incumbent on me to make an apology for
worrying your brains with my domestic concerns, did I not know
it is the honest pride of your life to be useful, and that you
are always glad of an opportunity of serving me.

The string that pulls me towards Norwich begins to grow tight.
To Cornwall, or even to France, we cannot afford to go; at least
so Mr. Opie thinks; and that is the same thing.

My next letter (and I shall certainly _answer_ your answer)
shall contain more amusing stuff. At present I have only time to
say, Kemble was arrested for a debt, kindness had made him
incur, (for £200,) as he came out of the theatre on Saturday
last. He is not yet in limbo, but to jail he is resolved to go
on Wednesday, unless Mr. Sheridan pays the money; and never will
he play again, till it is paid. Sheridan swears and protests
that he will pay the debt, and that he knew not of the
transaction; whereas, it is certain Sheridan went to the
bailiff, and for fear of a riot, prevailed on him to put off the
arrest till the play was over. We think Sheridan dares not let
him go to jail, and go he will. Adieu! anxiously hoping to hear
from you,

I remain,
Yours most affectionately,
A. OPIE.

How well this letter illustrates some of her most strongly marked characteristics! that earnest desire “to reconcile pity with justice;” that readiness to take to herself any blame she might possibly have incurred, as an extenuation of the fault of another, and the lingering hope that the delinquent might be reclaimed. These are traits which those who knew her well will recognize as her very own.

Here is her promised answer to Mrs. T.—

Tuesday, 1802.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

As opening and detaining letters to and from active partizans is
the order of the day, and as the enclosed contains _numbers_, I
write to you instead of my father, and shall get my letter
directed for me. Franks are now of no use, as even _Peers_ can’t
frank, being no longer Lords of parliament; therefore, were they
sacred to these _licensed_ rogues, the one I have for to-morrow
is good for nothing. _Indefatigable_, alias your cousin Peter,
whom I saw just now at Mr. Smith’s, desired me to send Lord C.’s
letter; so I obey. Be so good also, as to tell my father that
his letter, franked by Mr. Smith, did not reach till Saturday;
and tell him I wrote to him yesterday, enclosing the peer’s
first letter.

Your kind answer to my statement of vexation gave me the
greatest satisfaction, and I hope by your excellent advice and
assistance to be able, with a very little trouble, to put such a
degree of order in my subsequent _ménage_ as shall prevent, in
future, any gross imposition. Anne’s conduct since the
detection, and what I have heard of it previously to it, takes
from me all idea of my carelessness having led her into
temptation. I believe her to be thoroughly bad.

Yesterday evening, at half-past five, we saw the balloon, from
the painting-room window, distinctly. Suddenly it was lost in a
cloud, and the feeling it gave me was a very strange one. Soon
after it emerged again, considerably higher than it was before;
then it entered another cloud and disappeared. It is past two,
and Mr. Garnerin is not returned, but I have been to the
Pantheon to inquire concerning him, and I find he landed at
Colchester in an hour and forty minutes!

Of election matters what can I say? Till I read the squibs, &c.
I could not, _con amore_, say, I wished Mr. Windham to be
ousted; but now indignation has assisted principle to conquer
feeling, and I will _not_ say of the agreeable delinquent,

“If to his share some manly errors fall
Hear him converse, and you’ll forget them all,”
or, “Look in his eyes, and you’ll forget them all,”

(which you please, Mrs. Taylor.)—I was to have gone to Mr.
Hiliar’s on Sunday or Monday; but, if the election is to be on
_Monday_, I can’t leave town to be out of the way of the news on
Tuesday, especially as I should not meet with sympathy in my
feelings there. Adieu! I must go to see again whether Garnerin
is returned. I wonder when your travellers come back.

Believe me, ever most affectionately yours,
A. O.

P. S. I want to come down to the election ball. What a shock
poor Garnham’s death was to me!

In the autumn of this year her long cherished desire to visit France, and more especially Paris, was gratified.[9] Her husband needed relaxation after the anxiety and labour of the last few months, and there was now an unexpected opportunity afforded to the painter to study those glorious _chefs d’œuvre_ of art which the conquering arms of Napoleon had assembled at the Louvre.

They were joined in this excursion by a party of friends, of whom Mrs. Opie mentions Samuel Favell, Esq. and Mrs. Favell, and her early acquaintance, Miss Anne Plumptre. On the 14th of August, 1802, they reached Calais, and for the first time she experienced “the strangely interesting moment when one’s foot first touches a foreign land, and when one hears on every side a foreign language spoken by men, women, and children.” The first impression seems to have been one of bewilderment, for which she was not at all prepared, occasioned by the confusion of voices that greeted them. Having recovered from this perplexing sensation, she was agreeably surprised to see a well known face, that of Le Texier; he who for many years delighted the English public by his admirable French readings. The recognition was mutual, and she was welcomed by him to the land of his birth.

An amusing adventure befell our inexperienced traveller, as she seated herself at the Hôtel de Grandsire, to enjoy the delicious fare of the excellent _table d’hôte_, and be initiated at once into the mode of a French dinner, “so contrary to our own;”—

Opposite to me (she says) sat a gentleman, wearing what I
conceived to be a foreign order; and as he was very alert in
rendering me the customary table-attentions, I ventured to
address him in French, but he did not reply. I therefore
concluded that he was of some nation in which French was not
very generally spoken; and so far I was not very wrong in my
conjecture, as my opposite neighbour turned out to be an English
messenger, just arrived with dispatches from our government! and
the order which gave him such distinction, in my curious eyes,
was nothing more than a silver greyhound, which messengers then
wore! My mistake exposed me to some good humoured banter; but,
perhaps, it was well for me that I made it, as it put me a
little on my guard against one of my infirmities, that of
forming hasty conclusions. * *

The next morning the travellers started for Paris, going a very long stage before breakfast,

The tediousness of which, (she says,) as the country had no
charms to boast, was in a degree relieved to me by the
occasional beauty and picturesqueness of the costume of the
peasants, both men and women; but the whiteness of the caps and
full sleeves, of even the young women, sometimes formed an
unpleasing contrast with their dark, sunburnt, and almost
parchment-looking complexions.

After many tedious delays on the road, occasioned by the voiturier’s “unreasonable care of his horses, as he would not allow them to move after seven o’clock,” and various little events of small interest, they reached Paris, and she thus describes her feelings on the occasion:—

At length we entered the suburbs of the metropolis, and saw
written in chalk on the walls on both sides, and in giant
letters, “_L’Indivisibilité de la Republique_;” but all traces
of republicanism were so rapidly disappearing, that the word
without the second syllable would have described it better;
namely, “invisibility.” But to me every other consciousness was
soon absorbed in the joyful one of being at last in Paris, that
city which I had so long desired to see.

Being advised to go to the Hôtel of the Rue des Etrangers, they repaired thither, and were soon installed in commodious apartments; the street, then the best in Paris, opening at one end, on the Place de la Concorde, where “the perpetual guillotine” stood, while at the other end was the Church de la Madeleine.

By this time my restless curiosity was at its height, and I was
anticipating some days of great enjoyment, when my husband, who
had run off to the Louvre long before the rest of us were ready,
returned with a countenance of such vexation and suffering, that
I could not help asking him what calamity had occurred?
“Calamity indeed!” he replied, “the Louvre is shut to-day, but
then it will be open to-morrow, so that it would not much
signify; but I cannot stay here—the whiteness of
everything—the houses—the ground we walk upon—all dazzle and
blind me; and if I stay, I shall lose my eyesight, and then I
shall be a lost man.” This was uttered in such evident
suffering, that for a few minutes I was overwhelmed with
consternation and disappointment. I knew that go we must, if
staying endangered my husband’s sight; and I still recall, with
exquisite pain, the trial of that hour.

Happily they succeeded, by some means, in procuring admittance to the Louvre immediately, and she says:—

As the painter, while contemplating the wonders of the museum,
ceased to feel the inconvenience which the man had thought
unbearable, I had the joy of finding that we should not quit
Paris that day. * * * * *

Why should I dwell on emotions which every one probably has felt
on entering the Louvre gallery? My own pleasure, my ignorant
pleasure, was nothing to the more scientific delight of my
husband; and I recall with melancholy satisfaction, the
enjoyment which he derived from this visit to the French
metropolis; an enjoyment purchased and deserved by many years of
the most assiduous labours in his difficult profession; and
which, with the single exception of a week spent in a visit to
Flanders, a few years previously, was the only relaxation to his
well principled industry, in which he ever allowed himself to
indulge.

On the second day after her arrival in Paris, she thus records an event which greatly delighted her.

I was in the Louvre gallery and standing alone before the
picture of the Deluge, by N. Poussin, (my favourite station,)
when I heard some one say that the First Consul was just going
to enter his carriage, on his way to the Conservative Senate.
“Oh that I could but see him!” exclaimed I aloud, and in French;
on which, one of the guardians of the gallery said, “_Eh bien!
mademoiselle, suivez moi et vous le verrez_.” Without daring to
lose a moment in order to seek for my companions, I followed
rapidly whither he led. He took me through a door at the extreme
end of the gallery, opening into a room on the floor, and
against the wall of which were several unframed pictures.
Another door led us into an apartment, which looked immediately
on the Place du Carousel. Ladies were sitting at the window,
who, at my guide’s request that they would make room for an
English stranger, kindly allowed me a seat beside them.

I arrived just in time to see the procession form. The carriage
of Buonaparte, drawn by eight bays, was already at the palace
gate, and was soon followed by that of the other consuls,
Cambaceres and Le Brun, drawn by six black horses. Soon after,
the _corps d’élite_, the body guard, and the troop of Mamelucs,
made their appearance; and Rustan, the favourite Mameluc of
Napoleon, was also at his post, awaiting his master. At length
an increased noise at the door announced that he was coming, and
I gazed to an almost painful degree of intensity, in order to
catch one glimpse of this extraordinary man; but he sprang into
his carriage with such rapidity that not one of us could see
him! Rustan quickly jumped up behind, and the procession went
forward. It was, I own, a striking sight; but I did not think
equal in beauty and grandeur to the procession of our king to
the House of Lords, when he goes to open or prorogue the
Parliament.

Who knows what views of royal splendour to come, were, even
then, floating before the mind of Napoleon! He was going that
morning to realize and enjoy the highest present object of his
“vaulting ambition.” He was going, for the first time, to open
the Conservative Senate, as First Consul for life. He had taken
the first step on the path to despotic power; he had ascertained
the extent of his own influence; he had succeeded in his
endeavours to be voted a sort of Dictator for life; and he had
proved that the self-denying and noble example of Washington had
been thrown away on him. But even then, at this seeming height
of his proud career, I do not remember to have heard him greeted
by a single shout; the evidences of a people’s love did not hail
his presence; and no eager and exulting crowd hung on his
carriage wheels; and when I turned from the window, as the
_cortège_ disappeared, I felt disappointed, not only because I
had not seen Buonaparte, but because there was no expression
heard of animating popular feeling.

Returning to join her party in the picture gallery after this adventure, Mrs. Opie found there an object of nearly equal interest to her; the “loved and distinguished patriot” of her own country, Charles James Fox, who, with his wife and party, had arrived in Paris the day before, from the Netherlands. Being introduced by a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Opie took the opportunity of presenting a letter of introduction from Mr. Coke, of Holkham, and they were presently engaged in conversation together. At this moment an officer of the court came to announce to Mr. Fox that he would be admitted, at all times, into the Louvre; adding that a room as yet closed to the public and containing some first-rate works of art, should be immediately opened to him and his party. Availing themselves of the courteous invitation given them to accompany him, the party gladly followed in his train;

But my husband, (says the proud delighted wife,) walked by his
side; and as they walked along, the Jerome of Domenichino drew
their attention, and they stopped before it. On some part of
this celebrated picture they differed in opinion. Mr. Fox,
however, instead of replying to the artist’s remarks, with proud
superciliousness, as if he wondered that he should presume to
disagree with him, said, “Well, to be sure, you must be a better
judge of such points than I am.” And I saw by my husband’s
pleased and animated countenance, as they proceeded, (though I
did not hear their subsequent remarks,) that he felt conscious
he was conversing with one, who was capable of appreciating the
soundness of his opinions, and generous enough to respect his
judgment.

Having reached the promised room, I found to my surprise, that
it was the one into which I had already been, and I was rather
ashamed to see that I had passed, without noticing it, the _chef
d’œuvre_ of Raphael, the far famed Transfiguration! When,
however, raised up as it was by the attendants, and placed to
advantage, sideways to the light of the window on the left, I,
as well as the rest of the party, stood before it, lost in
admiration! Some of its admirers had seen it before, but to the
painter—to him who was the most capable of appreciating all its
various beauties, it imparted a new and intense delight, beyond
the power of words to express. How he rejoiced that we had
arrived before it was hung up, as its present situation enabled
him to view it to perfection! While we were still gazing on this
wonder of art, some one said the First Consul was returning in
state from the Conservative Senate, and that the procession
could be seen from the window near us. Accordingly, all the
company, myself excepted, crowded to the window; but our
greatest man, I own, turned away, and resumed his station before
the picture, while his wife observed to me that, considering
Buonaparte was a republican, he seemed very fond of state and
show. Again her distinguished husband went to the window, and
again turned away. It was the first time he had ever seen aught
appertaining to the consular government, and it was natural that
his curiosity should be excited; but there was evidently a
feeling uppermost in his mind, which struggled with his wish to
indulge in it, and before the procession was out of sight, it
had ceased to appear an object of interest to him.

The day after the events just mentioned, Mr. and Mrs. Opie called at the Rue Richlieu, to pay their respects to Mr. Fox, and accepted his invitation to dine with him there on an early day. The company they met on that occasion, was too numerous to admit of general conversation, and she only records one fact mentioned by their host, as illustrating the strange changes in times of revolution.—He said, “that nine-and-twenty years before, he had supped in the room in which they were then dining, with the celebrated and witty Maréchal Richlieu, whose residence the hotel then was.”

Mrs. Opie mentions, _en passant_, that this was the only time they saw Mr. Fox, until he came to sit to her husband, for the whole length picture which Opie painted of him, for Mr. Coke. This far-famed picture cost the painter much anxiety; and, during the progress of the work, he was greatly distracted by the conflicting opinions of friends, who crowded to watch the work; and interrupted by the impatience of the sitter, who was eager to be released from the annoyance of sitting. Mr. Fox perceived and felt for the uneasiness of Opie, and kindly whispered him, “Don’t mind what these people say, you must know better than they do.”

The picture, when completed, gave general satisfaction, and Mrs. Opie says, “I think I may without partiality say, it is worthy of the artist, the owner, and the original.”[10]

The last time she ever saw Mr. Fox was when he was chaired on his return to Parliament, after he had accepted office, and alarming was the change in his appearance:—

With a heavy heart (she says) I plucked a laurel leaf from that
car of triumph, which I feared that he filled for the last time;
and I, indeed, saw him no more; but on his decease, I went to
the house of Nollekens, to see the cast taken from his face
immediately after death. It was lying on the table, by the side
of that of his dear friend Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and
of William Pitt, his powerful opponent. The two latter masks I
could look at, and did look at with painful interest and serious
meditation: but when I took up the other, I laid it down, and
ran out of the room; I could not bear to survey the ravages
which disease and death had made in that benevolent countenance;
indeed the features were not recognizable, and though I often
returned to gaze on the others, on _that_ I could never look
again.

Mrs. Opie next gives some pleasant recollections of the evenings she spent in the society of the most distinguished persons then in Paris, and especially in the house of Helen Maria Williams, and a beautiful Irish Countess, the friend of that lady. We select the account of her interview with Kosciusko.

One evening, at Lady ——’s, we met a party, consisting chiefly
of ambassadors from different nations, and other strangers. I
had not long entered the room, when our hostess led me up to the
Turkish ambassador, and desired me to “make the agreeable to
him.” “Can he speak French?” said I. “No, but here is a
gentleman who will interpret between you.” At the same time she
introduced to me a gentleman in Asiatic costume, and I readily
seated myself by the Turk. He was a little elderly man,
splendidly attired in the dress of his country; and I prepared
to answer his questions. One of them was, “how long I had been
in Paris?” and when my reply, “a few days only,” was repeated to
him, he said, not very gallantly, “that he concluded so, from my
complexion,” which, I was very conscious, was tanned, by the
broiling heat of the sun on the recent journey, to a red brown.
At last we ceased to converse through our interpreter, and
substituted signs for words. For instance, he took my fan, and
made me understand that he wanted to know what I called it; and
I tried to make him comprehend that it was fan in English, and
_éventail_ in French. He then pronounced its name in Turkish;
and I was learning to speak it after him, when I was interrupted
by my husband, who, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye,
exclaimed, “Come hither, look, there is General Kosciusko!” Yes,
we did see Kosciusko; “Warsaw’s last Champion!” he who had been
wounded almost to death in defending his country against her
merciless invaders; while (to borrow the strong expressive
figure of the poet)—

“While Freedom shriek’d as Kosciusko fell!”

Instantly forgetting the ambassador, and, I fear, the proper
restraints of politeness, I took my husband’s arm, and
accompanied him to get a nearer view of the Polish patriot, so
long the object to me of interest and admiration. I had so often
contemplated a print of him in his Polish dress, which hung in
my own room, that I thought I should have known him again
anywhere; but whether it was owing to the difference of dress, I
know not, but I saw little or no resemblance in him to the
picture. He was not much above the middle height, had high cheek
bones, and his features were not of a distinguished cast; with
the exception of his eyes, which were fine and expressive, and
he had a high healthy colour. His forehead was covered by a
curled auburn wig, much to my vexation, as I should have liked
to have seen its honourable scar. But his appearance was
pleasing, his countenance intellectual, his carriage dignified;
and we were very glad, when our obliging hostess, by introducing
us, gave us an opportunity of entering into conversation with
him. He spoke English as well as we did, and with an English
accent. On our expressing our surprise at this unusual
circumstance, he said he had learned English in America. The
tone of his voice was peculiar, and not pleasing; however, it
was Kosciusko who spoke, and we listened with interest and
pleasure; though, at this distance of time, I am unable to say
on what subject we conversed. What I am going to relate,
however, it was not likely that I should forget—

During the course of the evening, while I was standing at some
distance, but looking earnestly at him, and speaking to some one
in his praise, contrasting, as I believe, his unspotted
patriotism with the then suspected integrity of Buonaparte, he
suddenly crossed the room, and coming up to me, said, “I am sure
you were speaking of me, and I wish to know what you were
saying.” “I dare not tell you,” replied I. “Was it so severe
then?” I bade him ask my companion. And on hearing her answer he
thanked me, in a tone of deep feeling. “I have a favour to beg
of you,” said he, “I am told that you are a writer, pray do
write some verses on me; a quatrain will be sufficient, will you
oblige me?” I told him I could rarely write extempore verses,
and certainly not on such a subject, as I should wish to do it
all the justice possible. “Well then,” said he, “I will await
your pleasure.” I saw him again only once before I returned to
England; but the next time that his birthday was commemorated at
Paris, I wrote some verses on the occasion, and sent them to him
by a private hand.

During the rest of that memorable evening, when we had the
gratification of seeing the Polish patriot and of conversing
with him, I did not venture to resume the seat next the Turkish
ambassador which I had so unceremoniously quitted; but I
contrived to enter into conversation with the interpreter, whose
handsome figure and features, added to the gracefulness of his
costume, made him, next to our hostess, the most striking
looking person in the assembly. He spoke French fluently, and
his manner was particularly pleasing.

-----

[9] Mrs. Opie published an account of this journey in Tait’s Magazine, vol. iv., 1831. From this account we have extracted several of the most interesting passages. She says, in a few prefatory remarks, that it had originally been her intention to give an account of her visit to Paris in 1829, but that, while endeavouring to do this, so many recollections of her first journey recurred to her mind, that she was induced to alter her purpose, and prefer relating the events of the earlier visit. Probably in doing this she made use of the original letters which she is known to have written home to Dr. Alderson at the time; and having done so, no longer preserved them.

[10] This picture is now at Holkham.