Chapter VI: The Last Moments of Prince Talleyrand (1)

It was scarcely six o’clock, on the morning of the 17th of May (1838), when I bent my steps towards the old hotel in the Rue St. Florentin, with a mind full of sad misgivings; for when, at a late hour on the evening previous, I had quitted it, I had been but slightly encouraged to hope that another day could possibly be granted to its proud and gifted owner. The dull grey dawn was just struggling to rise above the tall chestnuts of the Tuileries. All was still silent, and as I pulled the heavy bell, its echo reverberated through the vast court-yard with a sound almost unearthly. I did not pause at the porter’s lodge to inquire news of the night, for the first object which met my eye was the physician’s carriage, and I rushed at once to the foot of the grand staircase, which I had so often ascended with feelings so far different from those I now experienced. The two stone figures of Silence, which stood on each side of the gigantic portal, humid and dripping with the morning fog, struck a chill to my very soul. Those huge lions, which had so often been compared to the insatiate lions of Venice, now reminded me of those mute and motionless watchers carved by the marble gates of an ancient sepulchre. It seemed as if every object were already enveloped in that atmosphere of death, and that the old mansion, at all times sad and dreary, was already pervaded with the odour of the tomb.

What gave a colouring to this idea was the total silence which reigned around, where in general, even at this early hour, all was hurry and business. The antechamber was deserted, for the anxious domestics had crowded one and all to the apartment nearest to that occupied by their beloved master, in order to obtain the earliest information respecting the progress of his malady. There perhaps never existed a person who, with so little apparent effort, possessed in so great a degree the power of conciliating the affections of his dependents as the Prince de Talleyrand. Of those who were with him at that moment, all had, with few exceptions, grown grey in his service; while of those who had started in their career with him in his youth, none remained: he had lived to see them all go down before him into the grave. The prince had always been accustomed to treat his chief domestics as persons worthy of confidence, and many a subject of the highest importance, which had been nursed with the greatest secrecy through the bureaux of the Foreign-office, has been discussed at full length, and with all liberty of speech, before his valet-de-chambre. It was, indeed, his custom for many years before his death to select the hour allotted to his toilet for the transaction of the most important affairs, and the discussion of the most weighty politics, and never, upon any occasion, was he known to dismiss his valet from the chamber. Perhaps some apology may be found for this apparent carelessness in the fact of his trust having never been betrayed.

The most remarkable of the whole tribe was decidedly the venerable Courtiade, one to whom, by reason of his long services and devoted attachment, the prince allowed a greater latitude than to any other, and whose homely remarks and shrewd observations upon passing events, afforded him the greatest amusement. This man had entered the prince’s service long before the breaking out of the first revolution, and died “still in those voluntary bonds,” during the embassy to London. It was said that the grief which he experienced in consequence of being left in Paris, owing to his advanced age and growing infirmities, contributed, in a great measure, to hasten his death.

His attachment was rather that of a member of the canine species than of a human being. During the early years of his service he had partaken of all the vicissitudes of the ever-changing fortunes of his master. The prince would take a peculiar delight in recounting to strangers the story of his flight to America, when, in obedience to a secret friendly warning, he resolved to take his immediate departure. Courtiade was with him at the moment that he received the letter which was the cause of this decision, and the prince immediately confided to him the step he was about to take, at the same time advising him, as he had a wife and family to whom he would doubtless wish to bid adieu before venturing on so long and perilous a journey, more especially since the period of his return must be distant and uncertain, that he should let him depart at once, and follow in the next packet which should sail. “Non, non,” replied Courtiade, in the greatest agitation; “you shall not leave the country alone and unattended—I will go with you; but only leave me till to-morrow night!” “That cannot be, Courtiade,” returned the prince; “the delay will endanger our position, without being sufficiently long to be of service to yourself and your wife.” “Bah! c’est bien de ma femme dont il s’agit!” exclaimed the valet, with the tears rushing to his eyes; “it is that accursed washerwoman, who has got all your fine shirts and your muslin cravats, and how, in heaven’s name, will you be able to make an appearance, and in a foreign country too, without them?”

I shall never forget my first interview with the prince, nor the singular impression which this very Courtiade then produced upon me. I was admitted, as was usual with all persons who came upon affairs demanding attention and privacy, at the hour of the prince’s toilet. It was a little while after the revolution of July, and just before his embassy to London. I found the renowned diplomatist seated tranquilly at his bureau, which mostly served him both for writing and dressing table. It was, I believe, upon the very day that the prince was to take his farewell audience of Louis Philippe, ere he set out for England, and he was to appear upon this occasion in the usual court costume. One valet was busily occupied, with a most serious countenance, in powdering, with might and main, the thick masses of his long grey hair. Another was kneeling low at his feet, endeavouring, although with difficulty, from his constrained position beneath the table, to buckle the latchets of his shoes. His secretary was seated at the bureau beside him, occupied in opening, one after the other, a huge collection of letters with astonishing rapidity, scanning the contents of each, quietly throwing some into the waste-paper basket, and placing the rest in a pile beneath for the inspection of the prince. I could not but admire the _sang froid_ with which, while listening to my errand, to him personally of the highest importance, he suffered himself to be invested with the embroidered paraphernalia of his official uniform. When the attire was completed, the door of the chamber opened, and in stalked, with tottering steps, the aged, weather-beaten Courtiade, laden with divers small boxes, of various forms and sizes. These were filled with the ribands and insignia of the multifarious orders with which the prince was decorated. It was curious to witness the total indifference with which he suffered himself to be ornamented, as contrasted with the eager solemnity of Courtiade, to whom the desire to fill this office with becoming dignity (for it was the only duty which in his latest years devolved upon him) had become the chief aim and object of existence.

I have been led into this involuntary digression by the remembrance of my own sensations as I traversed the now silent and deserted apartment, and was carried back in memory to that first interview, inwardly comparing the anticipations of that moment with those by which my soul was on this occasion so depressed and saddened.

When I entered the chamber where reposed the veteran statesman, he had fallen into a profound slumber, from which some amendment was augured by the physicians, although it might partly be ascribed to the fatigue induced by the over-excitement he had undergone a few hours previously in the performance of the last act of the chequered drama of his existence—his retractation; an act which, after having been visited with praise and blame, with scorn or admiration, and each in an exaggerated degree, must for ever remain a mystery. It must have cost him much—those alone who were about him at the moment can tell how much—for he well knew that the eyes of all parties would be turned upon him, and that his motives would be discussed under various considerations, according as the opinions or the interests of each were concerned: for there were many from whom praise was to him more bitter than blame, or even ridicule, from others; and he knew well that none would view this step in its proper light, as a sacrifice small in itself—important only because it was the last, the sacrifice of every feeling, of every consideration, to the power to which he had taught every sentiment to bend for so many years, until it was said that all had been crushed by the mighty giant,—that love, revenge, even ambition, that all-absorbing passion of the master mind, had been led captive or perished in the struggle with his reason!

A report has gone abroad of his having been tormented and persecuted, even on his death-bed, to execute this deed. This is, however, far from the truth: it had for some time occupied his thoughts, and among his papers have been found many proofs; amongst others, fragments of a correspondence with the Pope upon the subject, which must necessarily tend to confirm the assertion. But the fact is, he was influenced in this measure, as in many other instances wherein he has drawn down the blame of the sticklers for consistency, by the desire to spare pain and trouble to his family: he knew that his relatives would suffer much inconvenience by his resistance on his death-bed to the execution of certain religious formalities, to which, in his own mind, he attached not the slightest importance; and whatever may be stated by his enemies with regard to the cold and calculating policy which had guided all his actions, it cannot be denied that he had ever held in view the elevation and aggrandizement of his family. In this aim he had never been deterred, neither by dulness, nor incapacity, nor even by ingratitude; and, as we have seen, he moreover made it his care beyond the grave: his powerful and passionless soul rejected all the petty sentiments which actuate men of ordinary character: he was governed by his reason alone, and listened to nought beside.

The slumber, or rather lethargy, into which the Prince had fallen, had continued for about an hour after my arrival, and it was curious to observe, as time drew on, the uneasiness which was manifested, even, alas! by those nearest and dearest, lest this repose, however salutary, should endure beyond the hour fixed by the king for his visit. It was with some difficulty that he was aroused from this oblivion, and made to comprehend the importance of the event which was about to occur. He was scarcely lifted from his reclining position and seated on the edge of the bed, when, punctual as the hand upon the dial, his majesty, followed by Madame Adelaide, entered the apartment. It was a study both for the moralist and painter to observe the contrast between these two individuals, as, seated thus side by side, beneath the canopy of those old green curtains, they seemed grouped as for the composition of some historical picture. It was startling to turn from the broad, expansive forehead, the calm and stoic brow, and the long and shaggy locks which overshadowed it, giving to the dying statesman that lion-like expression of countenance which had so often formed the theme of admiration to poets and to artists, and then to gaze upon the pointed crown, well-arranged _toupée_, the whole outward bearing, _tant soit peu bourgeois_, of the king, who, even at this early hour of the morning, was attired, according to his custom, with the utmost precision and primness. Despite the old faded dressing-gown of the one, and the snuff-coloured coat, stiff neckcloth, and polished boots of the other, the veriest barbarian could have told at a glance which was the “last of the nobles,” and which the “First Citizen” of the empire. His majesty was the first to break silence, as in etiquette bound to do. It would be difficult to define the expression which passed across his features as he contemplated what might be called the setting of his guiding-star. Perhaps he could not himself have rendered an account of the exact impression which the scene produced upon his mind.

“I am sorry, prince, to see you suffering so much,” said he, in a low, tremulous voice, rendered almost inaudible by extreme emotion.

“Sire, you have come to witness the sufferings of a dying man, and those who love him can have but one wish, that of seeing them shortly at an end.”

This was uttered in that deep, strong voice so peculiar to himself, and which age had not had the power to weaken, nor the approach of death itself been able to subdue. The effect of the speech, short as it was, was indescribable,—the pause by which it was preceded, and the tone of reproach, calm and bitter, in which it was conveyed,—produced an impression which will not be soon forgotten by those who were present.

The royal visit, like all royal visits of an unpleasant nature, was of the shortest duration possible. It was evident that his majesty felt it to be an irksome moment, and that he was at a loss what countenance to assume; and, after uttering some expressions of consolation, he rose to take his leave, but too visibly pleased that the self-imposed task was at an end. Here the prince once more, with his usual tact, came to his relief, by slightly rising and introducing to his notice those by whom he was surrounded,—his physician, his secretary, his principal valet, and his own private doctor; and then a reminiscence of the old courtier seemed to come across him, for with his parting salutation he could not forbear a compliment,—“Sire, our house has received this day an honour worthy to be inscribed in our annals, and one which my successors will remember with pride and gratitude.”

I must confess that I was grievously disappointed in the anticipations which I had formed of this visit. I had looked upon it as the farewell of the safely-landed voyager (landed, too, amid storm and tempest) to the wise and careful pilot who had steered him skilfully through rock and breaker, and now pushed off, alone, amid the darkness, to be seen no more. But no: there was the hurry and impatience of one to whom the scene was painful; and that it was painful who can doubt? There was, too, that evident secret self-applause, in the performance of an irksome duty; but not the slightest expression of any one sentiment of friendship or attachment, such as I had imagined to have bound these two men together. A friend of mine—a man of great sense and discernment—to whom I made this observation, remarked, drily, “It is plain that his majesty has no fear to see him die; but wait a little while, and we shall see that he will have regret enough that he should be dead!”

As a kind of relief to the gloomy side of the picture, might be observed the anxious feminine flurry displayed throughout the interview by Madame, who appeared to suffer much uneasiness lest the coldness of her royal brother should be noticed, and who endeavoured, by a kindly display of interest and busy politeness, to make amends for what might appear wanting elsewhere.

I should not perhaps have deemed it necessary to record thus minutely the particular details of this scene, had not it already been so much dwelt upon in another light. Astonishment and admiration, frivolous and exaggerated, have been expressed with regard to this remarkable act of condescension on the part of Louis Philippe, as though royalty were alone exempt from the debt of manly and honourable gratitude. Why, there is not one of the sovereigns beneath whom Talleyrand had lived, who would not have hurried to show respect to the death-bed of this truly great statesman; and yet all had not been raised to the throne by his means! Napoleon, the stern—the iron-hearted—even he would not have hesitated, because he scorned not to avow that he had owed as much of his political success to the timely counsels of his minister for foreign affairs as to his own skill and foresight. Louis Dixhuit—neither would he have deemed such a step beneath his dignity: he, too, needed no reminding that he was deeply indebted to the Prince de Talleyrand, not perhaps for zeal and activity, but for what, according to time and circumstance, was to him of far more value—his wise, discreet, and generous forbearance: while Charles X. would have come, with pious resignation, to mourn the quenching of this last beacon of the old French aristocracy, and would have rejoiced that by his means it should have been extinguished amid becoming dignity and honour.

It was shortly after the departure of the king that the first symptoms of dissolution were observed by the physicians. The whole family, every member of which had been apprised of this, immediately gathered around the prince. The Duke de P—— was there among the number, and I could not forbear a smile as I remembered the satirical observation made by the prince himself, a short time before his illness, upon the occasion of rather a ceremonious visit from this personage,—“Just leaves me in disappointment,” said he, as he departed; “one would think, by his melancholy visage and his lugubrious costume, that he was deputed hither by some _entrepreneur des pompes funèbres_.”

Towards the middle of the day, the prince began to grow more restless and feverish. I could not resist the temptation of seeking relief from the stifled air of that close chamber, and passed through to the drawing-room. I was verily astounded at the scene which there met my eyes. Never shall I forget the impression produced by the transition from that silent room—that bed of suffering—to the crowded apartment where “troops of friends”—all the _élite_ of the society of Paris—were assembled. There was a knot of busy politicians, with ribbons at their button-holes—some with powdered heads, some with bald heads—gathered around the blazing fire; their animated conversation, although, by the good taste and feeling of him who directed it, conducted in a low tone, filling the apartment with its unceasing murmur. I observed, too, some of the diplomatist’s oldest friends, who had come hither from real and sincere attachment, and who took no part in the eager debates of these political champions.

Among others the Count de M——, he whom I had never seen but as the prime wit of all joyous réunions—whose pungent joke and biting sarcasm have become the terror of bores and twaddlers, for they cling for ever, like burrs, to those against whom they are hurled:—the only man, in short, with whom the prince himself dared not, upon all occasions, to measure himself in the keen skirmish of intellect, now sat silent and sorrowful, apart from the rest, apparently lost in thought, nor heeding the various details of the scene which was enacting around him, and which, had it been elsewhere, would not have failed to call forth some of the sharp and bitter traits of satire for which he is so much dreaded. In one corner was seated a _coterie_ of ladies discussing topics entirely foreign to the time and place. Sometimes a low burst of light laughter would issue from among them, in spite of the reprimanding “Chut” which upon such occasions arose from the further end of the room. On a sofa near the window lay extended, at full length, the youthful and lovely Duchess de V——, with a bevy of young beaux—all robber-like and “jeune France,” kneeling on the carpet beside her, or sitting low at her feet on the cushions of the divan.

The scene was altogether one of other times. It seemed as though the lapse of centuries might be forgotten, and that we were carried back at a bound to the days of Louis Quatorze, and to the death-bed of Mazarin. There was the same _insouciance_, the same weariness of expectation. Some were gathered there from _convénance_, some from courtesy to the rest of the family; many from curiosity, and some few from real friendship; while none seemed to remember that a mighty spirit was passing from the world, or that they were there assembled to behold a great man die. Presently, however, the conversation ceased—the hum of voices was at an end—there was a solemn pause, and every eye was turned towards the slowly-opening door of the prince’s chamber. A domestic entered with downcast looks and swollen eyes, and advancing towards Dr. C——, who, like myself, had just then sought an instant’s relief in the drawing-room, whispered a few words in his ear. He arose instantly and entered the chamber. The natural precipitation with which this movement was executed but too plainly revealed its cause. It was followed by the whole assembly. In an instant every one was on the alert, and there was a simultaneous rush to the door of the apartment. M. de Talleyrand was at that moment seated on the side of the bed, supported in the arms of his secretary. It was evident that Death had set his seal upon that marble brow, yet was I struck with the still-existing vigour of the countenance. It seemed as if all the life which had once sufficed to furnish forth the whole being were now centred in the brain. From time to time he raised his head, with a sudden movement shaking back the long, grey locks which impeded his sight, and gazed around; and then, satisfied with the result of his examination of that crowded room, a triumphant smile would pass across his features, and his head would again fall upon his bosom.

From the circumstances in which I have been placed, it has fallen to my lot to be witness of more than one death-scene, but never in any case did the sentiments displayed at that awful hour appear so utterly consistent with the character borne by any individual during life, as in the case of the Prince de Talleyrand. He saw death approach neither with shrinking nor with fear, nor yet with any affectation of scorn or of defiance, but rather with cool and steady courage, as a well-matched, honourable foe with whom he had wrestled long and bravely, and to whom, now that he was fairly vanquished, he deemed it no shame to yield, nor blushed to lay down his arms and surrender. If there be truth in the assertion that it is a satisfaction to die amid the tears and lamentations of multitudes of friends and hosts of relatives, then indeed must his last feeling towards the world he was for ever quitting have been one of entire approbation and content, for he expired amid regal pomp and reverence; and of all those whom he, perhaps, would himself have called together, none were wanting. The aged friend of his maturity, the fair young idol of his age, were gathered on bended knee beside his bed, and if the words of comfort whispered from the book by the murmuring priest failed to reach his ear, it was because their sound was stifled by the louder wailings of those whom in life he had loved so well.

Scarcely, however, were those eyes, whose every glance had been watched so long and with such deep interest, for ever closed, when a sudden change came over the scene. One would have thought that a flight of crows had suddenly taken wing, so great was the precipitation with which each one hurried from the hotel, in the hope of being first to spread the news among the particular set or coterie of which he or she happened to be the oracle. Ere nightfall, that chamber, which all the day had been crowded to excess, was abandoned to the servants of the tomb; and when I entered in the evening, I found the very arm-chair, from whence I had so often heard the prince launch the courtly jest or stinging epigram, now occupied by a hired priest, whispering prayers for the repose of his departed soul.

It was after the death of the prince that the awe and devotion with which he had inspired his household became evident. Not one of the domestics left his station upon any pretext whatever. The attendants waited, each in his turn, and at the same stated hour, to which he had been accustomed during his life. I myself saw the cook, punctual to the hour in the morning at which he had for so many years been summoned to receive his orders, now followed by his bevy of _marmitons_, with their snow-white costumes and long carving-knives, walk with solemn step to the foot of the bed, and, kneeling down with cotton cap in hand, breathe a short prayer: each sprinkled the corpse with holy water, and then the whole procession withdrew in the same silence with which they had entered. I was deeply struck with the mixture of the sublime and the ludicrous in this scene. It reminded me of many of the whimsical creations to be met with in some of the old German legends.

Contrary to the usual French custom, which ordains that interment shall ensue eight-and-forty hours after decease, the public funeral, upon the occasion of the depositing of the body in the church of the Assumption, did not take place until the following week, owing to the embalmment, which was a work of time; while the transferring of the corpse to its final resting-place at Valençay could not be accomplished until the month of September, the vault, which was preparing even before the Prince’s death, being yet unfinished.

Independently of the interest which I felt in the ceremony, as well as the desire to render this last homage to one who had, upon every occasion of my intercourse with him, been all kindness and urbanity to me, I determined to repair to Valençay and witness the funerals—for at one fell stroke had death swept from the earth all that remained of that one generation. The Prince de Talleyrand—the wise, the witty, the clever, and the cunning—was to go down to the grave with the guileless and the simple-hearted Duke, his brother! Upon the same occasion, too, the small tomb of the infant Yolande, wherein she had peacefully slumbered for a space of two years, was routed, and the tiny coffin was to accompany that of the Prince on its long and dreary journey. The hearse which was to convey the bodies was the same which had been constructed expressly for the removal of the corpse of the ex-Queen of Holland from Switzerland, in appearance something resembling an ammunition-waggon, with covered seats in front, wherein were stationed two of the personal attendants of the Prince. The body was raised from the vaults of the Assumption at midnight, and the little snow-white coffin was placed upon the elaborately-wrought oaken chest which had contained it.

I was told by a friend, who witnessed the scene, that nothing could exceed the dramatic effect of the departure of the corpse-laden vehicle from Paris. The disinterment of the child from the lonely cemetery of Mont Parnasse—the lading of the ponderous coffin by the light of torches—the peculiar rattle of the hearse through the silent streets at that solemn hour, and beneath that calm moon, which makes “all that is dark seem darker still.” One incident is worth recording. On starting from the iron gates of the chapel, one of the postillions turned and shouted the usual question, “_Vers quelle barrière?_” and was answered by a voice proceeding from the hearse itself, “_Barrière d’Enfer_.”

We arrived at Valençay on the third day after our departure from Paris, and it was at about ten o’clock on the same night that the worn and dust-covered hearse was descried wending its way up the long avenue of chestnut trees leading to the château. Every honour which had been paid to the lord of the mansion during his life was now rendered, with scrupulous exactness, to his lifeless corpse. No ceremony, however trifling, was omitted. The wide gates were thrown open to admit the sombre vehicle, which entered the court of honour with the same ceremony that had denoted the approach of the stately carriage which had been wont to drive at a somewhat ruder pace through the regal portal. The whole of the numerous household, with the heir of the domain in advance of the rest, were assembled on the perron. The Prince’s nephew himself took his seat in front of the hearse, to conduct it down into the town; the goodly array of servants and huntsmen and foresters all following on foot, and bearing torches, to the church, wherein the body was deposited for the night, previous to the final ceremony, which was to take place on the morrow.

Early in the morning all was astir in the little burgh. Never before had a sight so fraught with interest been witnessed by its inhabitants. It seemed like a gala day through every street. Not a window but was crowded with spectators, while the footway was choked with peasants from all the neighbouring districts, in their gayest attire. The National Guard of the town was all afoot from the earliest hour in the morning; and altogether so cheerful was the whole aspect of the place, that the traveller who had passed through on that day would have imagined it to have been the anniversary of some great public rejoicing. The corpse of the Duke had arrived in far different plight. No pomp, no pageantry, was here—a solitary post-carriage, with a single pair of horses—no train of mourners. The physician who had attended his last illness alone accompanied the body from St. Germain.

There was food for reflection in the contrast! No needless expense had been wasted upon idle ornament and funeral trappings, for, when the coffin was uncovered, an exclamation of surprise burst from those around. It was of plain elm, such as those used by people of middling degree, and, when placed beside those of his more favoured relatives, formed a melancholy contrast. But now one pall conceals the whole, the rich velvet, and the plain, unvarnished planks. One long stream of melody ascends to Heaven, one prayer for the repose of those who sleep beneath that gorgeous catafalque—for him who died full of wealth and honour, whose vast and powerful intellect had held dominion over men’s minds even to the very last—and for him who closed his eyes in solitude and neglect, and whose intellect had wavered even on the very verge of madness. Both were transported to the chapel of the sisters of St. André, founded by the Prince himself, and wherein he had already placed the family vault. His body was the first to descend, amid the firing of muskets, and the noisy demonstrations of respect of those without: then that of the Duke, amid silence unbroken, save by the harsh creaking of the coffin, as it slid down the iron grating: then, last and least, although the oldest denizen of the tomb, the little Yolande, the fairy coffin seeming, with its silver chasings and embossed velvet, of snowy whiteness, rather a casket destined to ornament the boudoir of a youthful beauty, than to become a receptacle of corruption and decay.

The vault was closed, and all was over. Each one had contributed the last token of Catholic respect, and we all turned from the chapel to take the road to the château, where entertainment for those who attended the funeral had been liberally prepared by its new master. It was then that we began to look around, and to feel some curiosity to know who had shared with us in rendering this last homage to one who was entitled to the gratitude of every individual of his nation. We gazed right and left, but few were there, and these were _all_ those who had _served him_ devotedly and faithfully—the grateful domestic, the obscure and humble friend; but of the great ones of the earth whom _he had served_—of those whom _he_ had raised to greatness and to honour—there was not ONE!

EXTRACTS FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS, SPEECHES, AND POLITICAL WRITINGS OF PRINCE TALLEYRAND.

PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S MAXIMS FOR SEASONING CONVERSATION.

Our welcome of a stranger depends upon the name he bears,—upon the coat he wears: our farewell upon the spirit he has displayed in the interview.

There is so great a charm in friendship, that there is even a kind of pleasure in acknowledging oneself duped by the sentiment it inspires.

Unbounded modesty is nothing more than unavowed vanity: the too humble obeisance is sometimes a disguised impertinence.

The reputation of a man is like his shadow—gigantic when it precedes him, and pigmy in its proportions when it follows.

The “point of honour” can often be made to produce, by means of vanity, as many good deeds as virtue.

More evil truths are discovered by the corruption of the heart than by the penetration of the mind.

Beauty, devoid of grace, is a mere hook without the bait.

Schismatic wranglers are like a child’s top, noisy and agitated when whipped, quiet and motionless when left alone.

He who cannot feel friendship is alike incapable of love. Let a woman beware of the man who owns that he loves no one but herself.

The rich man despises those who flatter him too much, and hates those who do not flatter him at all.

The spirit and enterprise of a courtier are all expended in the search after place and preferment; nothing remains for the fulfilment of the duties to which success compels him.

The Count de Coigny possesses wit and talent, but his conversation is fatiguing, because his memory is equally exact in quoting the date of the death of Alexander the Great and that of the Princess de Guéménée’s poodle.

My passion for Madame de Talleyrand was soon extinguished, because she was merely possessed of beauty. The influence of personal charms is limited: curiosity forms the great ingredient of this kind of love; but add the fascination of intellect to those attractions which habit and possession diminish each day, you will find them multiplied tenfold; and if, besides intellect and beauty, you discover in your mistress caprice, singularity, and inequality of temper, close your eyes and seek no further—you are in love for life.

The imagination of men is often the refuge of their prejudices.

To contradict and argue with a total stranger, is like knocking at a gate to ascertain if there is any one within.

That sovereign has a little mind who seeks to go down to posterity by means of great public buildings. It is to confide to masons and bricklayers the task of writing History.

Love is a reality which is born in the fairy region of romance.

The love of glory can only create a hero; the contempt of it creates a great man.

The mind of the Duc de Laval is like a dark lanthorn, only capable of lighting his own path.

The errors of great men, and the good deeds of reprobates, should not be reckoned in our estimates of their respective characters.

A court is an assemblage of noble and distinguished beggars.

Theologians resemble dogs, that gnaw large bones for the sake of a very little meat.

The stream of vice will flow as naturally into palaces, as the common sewer flows into the river, and the river flows onward to the sea.

It is sometimes quite enough for a man to feign ignorance of that which he knows, to gain the reputation of knowing that of which he is ignorant.

A long continuance of wise administration is the best and surest means of arriving at despotism. Our present government gives us no alarm.

Both erudition and agriculture ought to be encouraged by government; wit and manufactures will come of themselves.

The endeavour to convince a _bel esprit_ by the force of reason, is as mad an undertaking as the attempt to silence an echo by raising the voice.

Metaphysics always remind me of the caravanserais in the desert. They stand solitary and unsupported, and are therefore always ready to crumble into ruin.

A man should make his _début_ in the world as though he were about to enter a hostile country; he must send out scouts, establish sentinels, and ever be upon the watch himself.

Too much sensibility creates unhappiness; too much insensibility creates crime.

What I have been taught, I have forgotten; what I know, I have guessed.

An elderly coxcomb may be compared to a butterfly deprived of wings—he becomes a caterpillar once more.

Certain acts may be rendered legal; but can never be made legitimate.

Human life is like a game at chess; each piece holds its place upon the chess-board—king, queen, bishop, and pawn. Death comes, the game is up, and all are thrown, without distinction, pell-mell into the same bag.

The bold defiance of a woman is the certain sign of her shame—when she has once ceased to blush, it is because she has too much to blush for.

Life, to a young man, is like a new acquaintance, of whom he grows disgusted as he advances in years.

When certain absurd opinions become too generally adopted, they must be replaced by less noxious errors—that is the best way of arriving at Truth.

It is an attribute of true philosophy, never to force the progress of Truth and Reason, but to wait till the dawn of Light; meanwhile, the philosopher may wander into hidden paths, but he will never depart far from the main track.

Prudence in a woman should be an instinct, not a virtue.

Churchmen and men of letters have peculiar difficulties in the world,—the first are continually divided between scandal and hypocrisy, the second between pride and baseness.

The thought of death throws upon life a lurid glow, resembling that of a conflagration, lighting up that which it is about to devour.

In love we grow acquainted, because we are already attached—in friendship we must know each other before we love.

A great capitalist is like a vast lake, upon whose bosom ships can navigate, but which is useless to the country, because no stream issues thence to fertilize the land.

With a great seigneur, there is more to be gained by flattering his vices than by improving his estates.

Truth and virtue can do less good in the world than their false, well-acted semblance can do evil.

A generous man will place the benefits he confers beneath his feet,—those he receives, nearest his heart.

A narrow-minded man can never possess real and true generosity—he can never go beyond mere benevolence.

General maxims applied to every-day life are like routine applied to the arts, good only for mediocre intellects.

If you wish to appear agreeable in society, you must consent to be taught many things which you know already.

We must learn to submit with grace to commit the follies which depend upon character.

There are many vices which do not deprive us of friends,—there are many virtues which prevent our having any.

In reading over the memoirs of the reign of Louis Quatorze, we find many things in the worst manners of that day, which are wanting in the very best society of our own.

I remember having, in my youth, been amused at the resolution of one of my friends to give up the society of the demoiselles de l’opéra, to which he was much addicted, in consequence of his having made the discovery that there existed among these girls as much falsehood and hypocrisy as amongst honest women.

Certain women can find buyers for their charms, who would find no one to take them were they to be had for nothing.

I remember having often been told in my youth that the love of glory was a virtue. Strange must be that virtue which requires the aid of every vice.

There are two things to which we never grow accustomed,—the ravages of time, and the injustice of our fellow men.

The written memoirs which a man leaves after him _pour servir à l’histoire de sa vie_, and above all, _pour servir à l’histoire_ of his vanity, always remind me of the story of that saint, who left by will a hundred thousand crowns to the Church, to pay for his canonization.

To succeed in the world, it is much more necessary to possess the penetration to discover who is a fool than to discover who is a clever man.

PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S OPINION OF FOX.

(_A Fragment from the Prince’s Memoirs._)

January 15th, 1807.

I have just heard of the death of Mr. Fox. It is now fifteen years since I was introduced to him by Mr. Ogilvie, the husband of his aunt, the Duchess of Leinster. It was at his own house, in South-street, and, I think, in June, 1791.

Shortly before his death, false reports led him to form an unjust opinion of me; yet my regret for his loss is not the less deep and sincere, and I feel a firm conviction that, had his life been spared, he would have rendered me justice.

Mr. Fox united in his own character the apparently incompatible qualities of the mildest of men, and the most vehement of orators. In private life he was gentle, modest, kind-hearted, and remarkably simple in his manners. His dislike of ostentation, and of any approach to dogmatism, sometimes gave to his conversation an air of listlessness; his superiority was manifested only by the information he diffused around him, and by the generous feeling which always prompted him to direct the greatest share of his attention to the most obscure members of the company in which he happened to be. The simplicity of his manners did not, in the least, detract from that urbanity, and perfect politeness, which resulted more from the gentleness of his nature, than from his familiar intercourse with the most polished society of Europe. His conversation, when not restrained by the languor arising from fatigue, or by his delicacy towards others, was truly charming. It may, perhaps, be said, that never was the pleasantry of a man of wit so perfectly natural, as that of Mr. Fox; it seemed more like the outpouring, than the creation, of his fancy. He had lived on terms of close intimacy with all those of his contemporaries most distinguished for talent, learning, and political eminence. For the space of thirty years, he maintained intercourse with almost every man in Europe whose conversation and correspondence were of a nature to fortify, enrich, or polish the intellectual faculties. His own literary attainments were varied and profound. In classical erudition, which in England is specially understood by the term learning, he was not inferior to some of the most distinguished scholars of his day. Like all men of genius, he was passionately fond of poetry; the study and cultivation of that branch of literature, formed his favourite source of recreation, amidst the fatigues and annoyances of public life. His own poetic effusions were easy and agreeable, and deserving of a high place in that class of writing which the French call _vers de société_. The character of his mind was manifested in his predilection for the poetry of the two most poetic nations (or at least most poetic languages) of eastern Europe, viz., the ancient Greek and the modern Italian. Fox did not like political discussions in conversation, and he never voluntarily took part in them.

Any attempt to render justice to his oratorical talents would carry me far beyond the limits of these brief remarks. He was always, and everywhere, natural; and, in public, his manner and appearance were stamped with much of the simplicity which characterized him in private life. When he began to speak, an ordinary observer would have supposed him to be labouring under embarrassment, and even a discriminating listener would only have been struck by the just accuracy of his ideas, and the lucid simplicity of his language; but, after speaking for some time, he was transformed into another being. He forgot himself, and everything around him. His thoughts were wholly absorbed in his subject. His genius warmed as he advanced, and his sentences flashed like rays of light; until at length, in an impetuous and irresistible torrent of eloquence, he earned along with him the feelings and the conviction of his hearers. Fox certainly possessed, beyond any public speaker of modern times, that union of reasoning power, of simplicity, and of vehemence, which characterizes the prince of orators. Next to Demosthenes, he was the most Demosthenian of public speakers. “I knew him,” observes Mr. Burke, in a pamphlet written after their unfortunate difference, “when he was only nineteen years old. From that time he continued rising, by slow degrees, until he has now become the most brilliant and accomplished debater that ever lived.”

The tranquil dignity of mind, (never disturbed but by great causes)—the total absence of vanity—the contempt of ostentation—the hatred of intrigue—the candour, the honesty, and the perfect _bonhomie_, which were the distinguishing qualities of Fox, would seem to render him the faithful representative of the old national English character—a character which it would be presumptuous to hope can be succeeded by anything better, were it ever to change. The amiability of his disposition inspired confidence—the ardour of his eloquence excited enthusiasm—and the urbanity of his manners invited friendship. Mr. Gibbon has truly observed, that in Fox the highest intellectual powers of man were blended with the engaging gentleness and simplicity of childhood. No human being, he adds, was ever more free from every trace of malignity, vanity, or falsehood. The combination of so many admirable qualities of public and private character, sufficiently accounts for the fact that no English statesman, during so long a period of adverse fortune, retained so many attached friends and zealous adherents, as Charles Fox. The union of great ardour, in the sentiments of the public man, with extreme gentleness in the manners of the social being, would appear to have been an hereditary qualification in Fox, whose father is said to have possessed the same power of winning the attachment of all who knew him. Those who are acquainted with another generation of his descendants, must feel that this engaging quality is not extinct in the family.

Nothing, perhaps, can more forcibly portray the impression produced by this peculiarity in the character of Fox, than a remark made by Burke. In 1797, six years after all intimacy between Burke and Fox had ceased, the former, speaking to an individual honoured by the friendship of the latter, said, “Certainly, Fox is a man formed to be loved;” and these words were uttered with a warmth and emphasis, which precluded all doubt of their cordial sincerity.

The few lines I have here hastily traced, have been written under feelings too sorrowful and serious to admit of any intention to exaggerate; and the affection which I cherished for Mr. Fox will not suffer me to profane his memory by any allusion to the factious contentions of the day. The political conduct of Fox belongs to history. The measures he supported, and those he opposed, may divide the opinions of posterity, as they have those of the present age; but Charles Fox will, assuredly, command the unanimous respect of future generations, by his pure sentiments as a statesman—by his zeal for the civil and religious rights of all mankind—by his advocacy of liberal government, the free exercise of human faculties, and the progressive civilization of the human race—by the ardent love he cherished for his country, whose welfare and happiness can never be disconnected from his glory—and by his profound veneration for that free constitution, which, it will be acknowledged, he understood better than any politician of his time, both in its legal and in its philosophical character.

PRIVATE LETTER FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND TO MARSHAL SEBASTIANI, ON THE
POLICY OF SUFFERING BELGIUM TO BE CREATED AN INDEPENDENT MONARCHY.

London, January 3rd, 1831.

MY DEAR GENERAL,—I have read over several times, with the utmost attention, your letter of the 30th ult., and I wish to explain to you confidentially my views relative to its contents. It is evident that, at the present time, France is divided between two parties, whose opinions have their echoes in the council of the king. One of these parties urges us to war, and employs every means, direct and indirect, to bring about that end. The views of this party are directed solely to the attainment of power, and therefore it is necessary to be on one’s guard against the suggestions and speeches which they put forth. The other party, which is so ably headed by yourself, maintains that peace alone can consolidate the new state of things in France, and, consequently, it may be presumed that all its efforts tend to the preservation of peace. It has been truly observed, that a kingdom may rise up amidst the turmoil of war, but that it can only be firmly established in time of peace.

The new line of policy which you suggest in reference to the affairs of Belgium is at variance with all my ideas on the subject, and it would, I am sure, be equally opposed to the views of the English ministers and the members of the conference. Of this fact I have had opportunities of convincing myself in the course of several conversations I have casually entered into for the purpose of sounding opinions on the subject.

We might succeed, but not without difficulty, in obtaining the sovereignty of Belgium for Prince Leopold, on his marriage with a French princess; and I cannot comprehend how the speeches of certain members of the party decidedly favourable to war, should have determined you to renounce the only arrangement by which peace can now be secured.

It must be evident to you, as it is to me, that Prince Leopold is very far from being what is called English. He is attached to England only by the 50,000_l._ per annum, of which he cannot be deprived, and which gives him the advantage of presenting a civil list, ready settled, to the country he may be called to rule.

Like all great political events, the Belgian revolution appears to me to pass through different phases. The establishment of a monarchical government in Belgium seems a step calculated to relieve that country from the embarrassments in which she is enthralled—viz., the division of the debt between Belgium and Holland; the debt contracted by Belgium to Russia; together with many other matters connected with Belgian independence.

When all these questions shall be adjusted, and Europe shall have approved the adjustment, we may, after the lapse of a few years, entertain with some hope of success, the project of uniting Belgium to France. The very adjustment of the points above referred to, would favour the chance of success, because it would remove difficulties which every one is capable of appreciating. But I am convinced that war would be the inevitable consequence of the proposition now made for annexing Belgium to France.

The present spirit of the members of the conference, and of the English Cabinet, is extremely favourable to us; but, my dear General, I affirm, in the full confidence of being correct, that if we were suspected of entertaining other intentions than those which I have deemed it expedient to express, our position with reference to all the Courts of Europe, including that of England, would be changed much to our disadvantage.

I entreat you, therefore, to reflect maturely before you enter upon so perilous a course. War may compromise so many questions, that it appears to me of all things most to be feared and avoided. The wisdom of the king, who well knows how to resist party clamour, and your prudence, my dear General, must avert this misfortune, and control the turbulent spirits who would drive us to extremities, unmindful that the glory of France now depends on peace. It is easy to commence war,—the difficulty is how to maintain and to terminate it. In short, I am averse to the project of the acquisition of Belgium. The aggrandizement of France by that acquisition would doubtless be flattering to French vanity, but it would in many respects be injurious to French industry. The case is different with respect to the Rhine and Saxony. But, General, your position enables you to judge more accurately than I can, the various questions adverted to in this letter.

FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND TO MARSHAL SEBASTIANI, ON THE SAME SUBJECT AS
THE PRECEDING.