MAXIMS—PORTRAITS.
Reading edition
Nobody writes maxims now. Maxims do not belong to the state of intellect and literature of the present age. In times when knowledge was the exclusive property of a particular class, and when mankind leaned upon the opinions of the learned, they were more apt to refer their conduct to a well established rule, than to govern it by their own reflections. These were the times for “wise saws and modern instances.” Men now think for themselves, and do not require recipes for thinking. It is remarkable, that the most celebrated maxim-mongers of modern times were men of quality; and that their aphorisms are chiefly applicable to the exigencies, vices, and virtues of a court, of which the flower of maxim-mongers has said, “It does not render us happy, while it prevents the search of happiness in other directions.”
Towards the middle of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, maxims became a rage in France. Their terseness, point, and epigrammatic turn, particularly adapted them to l’esprit du siècle, and to a language made up of phrases—All the coteries of the Hôtels La Rochefoucauld, Carnavalet, D’Albret, &c. &c., including all the genuine wit and taste of the day, as opposed to the Hôtel Rambouillet and other “bureaux d’esprit,” dealt largely in maxims. The Duc de Rochefoucauld published his, and distanced all competitors. The philosophy of more enlightened times owed much to this breviary of practical and worldly experience. Helvetius borrowed from it his leading doctrine; and Hume, without acknowledging the obligation, stood deeply indebted to its dogmas for his opinions.
What a sensation the “Maxims” must have made at Versailles, when they first came out, and
“Each cried, ‘that is levelled at me.’”
Mesdames de La Fayette, Sévigné, Coulange, Cornuel, and others of the female wits who surrounded the gouty chair of the once brilliant cavalier of the beautiful De Longueville, saw the work in MS. long before it was published, and probably helped the illustrious author to some of the poignant maxims, to which female finesse seems to have lent its delicacy and its bitterness. It was from this very MS. that a splendid edition of the work was published, some years back, by the Rochefoucauld family, and edited by Mons. Suard, the late perpetual Secretary of the Academy; who assured me, not only that the work was printed from this precious morsel of autography, but that he was further assisted in his editorial capacity by a copy of the first printed edition, which was marked all over with the duke’s own corrections, erasures, and marginal notes.
One morning, in Paris, (1818) as I sat reading a letter of Madame de Sévigné, dated from the Hôtel de la Rochefoucauld, the Count G—— de la R—— was announced. I was so deep in the coterie of Le Faubourg, that I started, and expected to find the coadjutor along with him. “I have brought you,” said my noble visitor, “a little étrenne;” and he presented me with the works of his illustrious ancestor—Me voilà donc a link in the chain with times and persons who so early got possession of my mind and imagination, through the accidents of my miscellaneous and unguided studies. There is a magic in an historical name, that no democracy of opinion or principle can resist, except in the dull and unlettered; and it is to the glory of some of the greatest families of France, that they were illustrated by some highly-gifted and highly-spirited member, who enhanced the advantages of descent and birth, and redeemed their class from the popular odium which the vices and meanness of its majority incurred.
Before the fashion of maxim-making went out, the fashion of portrait-making came in: every body wrote every body’s portrait. Two of the best portraits extant are those of Cardinal de Retz, by his old enemy and late friend, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and that of Madame de Sévigné, by Madame de la Fayette. “La grande princesse,” Mademoiselle de Montpensier, in her coarse, vulgar, but natural way, has given a number of cotemporary portraits, through her amusing memoirs. All her sketches of Charles II., in his youthful days, when he was paying his addresses to her, are admirable; though very unlike the frank, generous, and devoted cavalier who figures as the royal hero in one of Sir W. Scott’s novels. His utter ignorance of his own affairs—his passion for dogs and horses, and his spending all his time in learning to dance the triolet[60]—which, with his declining a dish of ortolans, and throwing himself on a piece of beef and a shoulder of mutton,[61] finally decided her to refuse him—are admirable touches both of character and manner, and make up a more faithful portrait of the worthless, profligate, and “mutton-eating king,” than any on record. The reason is, that it was drawn from the life, without any reference to party or posterity.
In the reign of the Regent Orleans, a work, called Galerie des Peintres, collected all the “portraits” of the time, without any mercy to the originals, and consequently had a considerable vogue. One of the prettiest and best-natured works of this description I know, is still, I believe, in MS. It is by the celebrated Madame Albrizzi, of Venice, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making at Padua, and who speaks in pictures, and may well write them—a charming and rare art! The Albrizzi Gallery is enriched with the most eminent characters of the last half century. Her friend, and once devoted admirer, Denon, has found a conspicuous place in it, bien encadré. He, in return, has engraved a picture of Madame Albrizzi, extremely like, and worthy of its fair model. He sent me a copy, a few weeks before his death, with one of his own.
Lady C. L—— was accused of painting the portrait of Lord Byron in Glenarvon, though not en beau. One day, at a dinner party at Copet, Madame de Staël, addressing Lord Byron across the table, asked, in her sans façon way, “Is it true, my lord, that you are the original of Glenarvon?” “It may be so,” he replied, “but I never sat for it.”
Every body, who writes novels, now labours under the imputation of putting forth their friends and enemies “in their books.” No “kindred or propinquity” excludes the suspicion. No one is thus accused more than I am; and no one is more innocent of the charge. Except in the instances of a few public characters, which are fair game, all my sketches have been of the species or genus, and never of the individual. Still I think I could draw a character from the life, if I should set about it. Voyons—“My dear friend Mrs. —— is one of those who—” But no; I’ll keep my dear friend as sportsmen keep bag foxes; to let her loose on a future and more favourable occasion for shewing sport.