Memoirs of Hyppolite Clairon/Volume 1/Memoirs
MEMOIRS
OF
HYPPOLITE CLAIRON.
In the year 1743, my youth, and the success with which I had appeared at the opera and the French theatre, procured me a considerable number of admirers, among whom were several worthy and sensible characters. M. de S., son of a merchant of Brittany, about thirty years of age, and possessing an handsome figure, with a cultivated understanding, was one of those who had made the deepest impression on me. His manners evinced the education of a gentleman, and of one used to the best company. His reserve and timidity, which scarce allowed him to explain himself, even by his looks, made me distinguish him from among all my lovers. After I had been some time the object of his attentions, I permitted his visits at my house, and left him no room to doubt of the friendship with which he had inspired me. Perceiving I was of an easy and tender disposition, he was patient, trusting time would produce in my breast a stronger sentiment than that of friendship.—‘Who can tell?’ ‘Who can say what may happen?’ Such were his frequent remarks; but by answering with candour to all the questions which my reason or my curiosity dictated, he entirely ruined his cause. Ashamed of being the son of a citizen, he had disposed of his effects, in order to expend the produce at Paris, under a more elevated title. That displeased me. To blush for himself seemed to me to justify the disdain of others. His humour was gloomy and melancholy. ‘He was too well acquainted with men,’ he would say, ‘not to despise and shun them.’ His plan was to live only for me, and that I should live for him alone;—that displeased me still more, as you may well imagine. I might have been content to have been restrained by a flowery wreath, but I could not brook being confined by a chain. I from that moment saw the necessity of destroying the flattering hope which nourished his attachment, and of disallowing his frequent visits. This determination, which I persisted in, produced a serious indisposition, during which I rendered him every possible care: but my constant refusal to indulge the passion he entertained for me made the wound still deeper; and, unfortunately, his brother-in-law, to whom he had given a power of attorney to receive the property he was entitled to from the sale of his effects, left him in such extreme want of money that he was compelled to accept such loans as I could accommodate him with. This circumstance was a deep mortification to him.—You will perceive, my dear Henry, the importance of keeping this secret in your bosom. I respect his memory, and would riot abandon it to the insulting pity of mankind. Preserve the same religious silence which I have now for the first time violated, but have only done out of my profound esteem for you.
At length he recovered his property, but never his health. I considered his absence from me would be to his advantage, and therefore constantly refused both his letters and his visits.
Two years and a half passed between our first acquaintance and his death. He entreated me to assuage by my presence the last moments of his life. My engagements prevented me complying with his request. He died in the presence of his domestics, and an old lady whom he had alone for some time suffered to attend him. He then lodged upon the Rampart, near la Chaussée d’Antin, which had just begun to be built. I resided in la Rue de Bussy, near la Rue de Seine, and Abbey of St. Germain. My mother, and several of my friends, generally supped with me. My visitors were, an intendant of the Privy Purse, whose friendship was of infinite service to me; the good Pipelet, whom you formerly knew and admired; and Roseley, one of my companions at the theatre, a young man of respectable birth and talents. The suppers of this period, though the company was small, were much more entertaining than the most expensive fêtes have been for these forty years past. It was at one of those suppers, and when I had been singing an air with which my friends expressed themselves extremely delighted, that, just as the clock struck eleven, our ears were struck with the most piercing cry I had ever heard; its long continuance and piteous sound astonished every one. I fainted away, and was near a quarter of an hour insensible.
The intendant was amorous and jealous. When I revived, he said to me with some degree of spleen, “that the signals of my rendezvous were somewhat too noisy.” I answered, “that I was mistress of myself, and at liberty to receive at all hours whoever I thought proper, therefore signals were altogether useless; and” added I, “that which you call one is of too dreadful a nature to announce the soft moments dedicated to love.” My paleness, the tremor which still remained upon me, the tears which flowed in spite of my efforts, and my intreaties that my company would remain with me a part of the night, convinced them I was ignorant of the cause which had produced the noise. We reasoned as to what it could have been the effect of, and determined to set people to watch in the street, in order to ascertain it, in case it should be repeated.
Every one in the house, my friends, my neighbours, the police even, have heard the same sort of cry repeated under my windows at the same hour, and appearing to proceed from the air. There was no doubt of its being intended for my hearing in particular; for though I rarely supped in town, yet when I did, the cry was never heard; but often, when I was conversing with my mother and my servants upon the subject, it would burst forth in the midst of us. Upon one evening, the president de B., at whose house I had supped, conducted me to my own house. As he was wishing me good night, at my door, the cry alarmed us. He, as well as nearly all Paris, can vouch for the truth of this history. The president was so terrified, that he was conducted to his carriage more dead than alive.
Another time I asked my friend Roseley to accompany me to la Rue St. Honorè, to buy some articles of dress, and pay a visit to mademoiselle de St. P., who lodged near St. Dennis’s gate. The only subject of our conversation was the spirit, as he called it. This young man, though he ridiculed my adventure, was struck with the singularity of it. He pressed me to invoke the phantom, and promised to give full belief to it if it answered me. Whether it was owing to my weakness or daring boldness, I know not, but I did as he had required of me. The same cry was uttered three different times, with a degree of rapidity and shrillness terrible beyond expression. When we arrived at our friend’s house, we were obliged to have assistance to get out of the coach, where we were found sitting in a state of terror and insensibility.
After this scene I remained some months without hearing any thing of it: I thought I was quit of it for ever, but I deceived myself.
All the theatrical exhibitions had been ordered to Versailles, on account of the marriage of the dauphin. We were to repair there in three days; and there were some of the actresses for whom lodgings had not been secured. Among others, madame Granvalle had none. She remained with me, expecting in vain that one would be procured for her. At three in the morning I offered to share my chamber with her; it had two beds, one for myself, and another for my servant: she accepted my offer, and I gave her the least of the two, and got into my own. While my servant was undressing herself to lay by the side of me, I said to her, “We are now almost at the end of the world, and, besides, the weather is unusually tempestuous—the cry would be rather embarrassed to find us out here.” It was at that instant uttered. Madame Granvalle thought all the demons of hell were in the room. She ran in her chemise from the top to the bottom of the house, and suffered no one to sleep during the remainder of the night. This however was the last time I was troubled with the noise.
Seven or eight days after, while I was enjoying myself in my usual society, the clock struck eleven, and immediately the firing of a gun was heard against one of my windows. We were all sensible of it, we saw the fire, and heard the shot; but upon examining, the window had received no kind of damage. We concluded that some person had a design upon my life; and that having failed, it was necessary to guard against a similar attempt in future. The intendant went directly to the house of M. de Marville, the lieutenant of police, who was his friend. He came, attended by proper officers, and examined the house opposite mine, but without discovering any ground for suspicion. The following day the street was narrowly watched—the officers of police had their eyes upon every house, but, notwithstanding all their attention, at the same hour for three whole months, the same discharge was always heard against the same frame of glass, though no one could ever discover from whence it proceeded.—This fact is attested by all the registers of police.
I became so accustomed to this new trick of the spirit, as I supposed, that had before haunted me, that I no longer attended to it: and one evening, at the hour of eleven, when it was extremely warm, I opened the window, and the intendant and myself leant over the balcony. The instant the clock struck eleven the gun was discharged as usual, and we both fell upon the floor apparently lifeless. When we came to ourselves, and found we were not hurt, and acknowledged to each other that at the moment the gun was fired we had each of us received a violent slap on the face, we could scarce refrain laughing at the circumstance. The next day nothing particular happened; but the day after I was invited by mademoiselle Dumesnil to an entertainment she gave. I entered a coach at eleven o’clock with my waiting-woman. The moon shone bright, and we proceeded along the Boulevards or Suburbs, which were then just beginning to be built upon. We were examining those houses which had been lately erected, when my waiting-maid said, “Is it not here M. de S. died?”—“From the information he gave me, that should be the place,” said I, pointing with my finger to a house which was before us. The explosion of a gun was immediately heard—the coachman urged his horses, conceiving himself attacked by robbers, and arrived at the place of rendezvous scarce sensible. For my part, I was impressed with a degree of terror which it was long before I got the better of. This was the last time I was terrified by the firing of the gun.
It was however succeeded by a noise like the clapping of hands.—The partiality of the public had so long accustomed me to this interruption, that I for some time paid no attention to it. My friends remarked it, and told me they constantly heard it at eleven o’clock, close to my door: they could distinguish no one, and were convinced what they heard must have been the result of some supernatural cause.
As the noise had nothing terrible in it, I did not observe what length of time it continued. It was followed by melodious sounds, which I paid as little attention to. It seemed that a celestial voice sung the most tender and pathetic airs: the music commenced at the corner of the street, and concluded at the door of my house. Like all the preceding sounds which had been heard, it baffled all discovery as to the cause.—About the end of two years I was ceased to be disturbed altogether.
The house I inhabited was extremely noisy, on account of its proximity to the market, and the number of people who lived in that quarter. I required retirement for my studies, as well as on account of my health, which was much impaired. I was rather in easy circumstances, and wished for a better situation. I was told of a small house in la Rue des Marais, which let for 200 livres, where Racine was said to have lived forty years with his family. I was informed it was there he had composed his immortal works, and that there he had died; that afterwards it had been occupied by the tender Lecouvreur, who had ornamented and ended his days in it. The walls of the house, said I, will be alone sufficient to make me feel the sublimity of the author, and acquire the talents necessary for an actress; it is in this sanctuary I will live and die. I took it, and put a bill upon the apartments I had before occupied. Among the number who applied for them were several persons attracted solely by curiosity. The public had never seen me out of the theatre: they wished to behold me divested of a crown, and unsupported by the characters of Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, reduced to the simple rank of a Bourgeoise.—I flattered myself the alteration would not appear to my prejudice, as I still retained the same sentiments and habits; but you know I am rather short, and that I was supposed by those who had never seen me off the stage to be six feet high. At home I appeared in my natural form: I never had recourse to art except at the theatre. I was fearful that when surveyed off the stage the public would diminish twice as much from my stature as it had been accustomed to add to it. I was sensible that those who avoided imposing on the world had nothing to fear from its censure. Happily my nation was not much given to reflection; and I had the satisfaction of finding that the public still continued to preserve the same opinion with regard to my figure.
What a digression! you will say: Your history Is already too long; abridge it if you please, but do not add to it.—I agree you are right, but you have required this history from me; therefore, as I am ignorant what you wish to be informed of, I have thought it my duty not to omit any circumstance. I cannot trace a single word of it without recalling you to my imagination. Is it my fault, if, notwithstanding the years I have passed, and the misfortunes I have suffered, I still preserve the illusions of a soul characterised by sensibility? It is for you I write; I imagine I am speaking to you, that you are listening to my history, filled as it is with tiresome repetitions, with that sweetcomplacency which renders you so dear to your friends and valuable to society. Alas! it is with the deepest regret I tear myself from the agreeable chimera.
But to resume my subject:
I was informed that an elderly lady wished to see my apartments, and that she was waiting there for me. It has ever been my principle to express the greatest deference to age. I attended her. An emotion which I was not mistress of made me survey her from head to foot. This emotion increased when I perceived she experienced the same feelings. I was only able to request her to take a seat: she accepted my offer. We continued some time silent; but our eyes left no room to doubt the extreme desire we had to address each other. She knew who I was, but I knew her not: she felt that the task was imposed on her to break silence. The following was the conversation that took place between us:
“It is, madam, a long time since I have been impressed with the most anxious desire to become acquainted with you. As I never frequent the theatre, and am unknown to those whom you honour with your friendship, I was apprehensive, if I addressed you by letter, I might subject myself to a denial in consequence of my motives being misunderstood. The bill placed upon your apartments has procured me the happiness I wished for: pardon me when I confess it is not that which has brought me here, I am not rich enough to take them; nevertheless, I entreat you to let me see them. The place you have inhabited cannot but excite an interest. Your talents have a degree of celebrity which leaves no room to doubt the superior endowments of your mind. I perceive that I have not been deceived as to your figure; I desire to know if the description I have received of your dwelling is as faithful: and I trust you will allow me to pursue my unhappy friend through all the scenes of his hope and despair.”
“It appears to me, madam, that the agitation in which you behold me, and which every word you utter augments, makes it a duty I owe myself to inquire who you are, of whom you are speaking, and what your business is with me? My character will not allow me to be made the sport or the victim of any one!—Speak, or I shall leave you.”
“I was, madam, the best friend of M. de S., and the only person he suffered to be with him during the last moments of his life. We have both reckoned the days and hours while speaking of you: sometimes making you an angel, sometimes a devil;—I, continually persuading him to forget you,—he, constantly professing he should adore you to the grave. Your eyes bathed in tears, allow me to ask you, Why you have rendered him so miserable? and how, possessing a tender and sympathising soul, you could refuse him the consolation of seeing you, and of speaking to you for once only before he died?”
“We cannot command our hearts. M. de S. was possessed of merit, and many estimable qualities; but his gloomy, thoughtful, and despotic disposition, made me equally dread his society, his friendship, and his love. To have made him happy, I must have renounced the pleasures of society, and even the exercise of my profession. I was poor and proud: I wished (and I hope I shall always possess the same disposition) not to depend upon any one but myself. The friendship with which he inspired me made me attempt every means to induce him to adopt sentiments more tranquil and equitable. As I could not effect this, and was persuaded that his derangement was less to be attributed to the excess of his passion than to the violence of his character, I formed and kept the firm resolution of separating myself entirely from him. I refused to see him in his last moments, because the sight of him would have rent my heart; and I should have appeared too cruel had I refused him what he asked, and must have been wretched had I granted it him.—These, madam, are the motives of my conduct: I dare flatter myself no one will blame me.”
“To condemn you would be unjust. It is only to our God, our parents, and our benefactors, we are bound to sacrifice ourselves. On this last point, I am sensible, it was not from you gratitude was due; but his situation and his passion overcame him, and your last refusal hastened his latter moments. He counted every minute till half past ten, when his servant informed him you positively would not come to him. After a moment’s silence, he took my hand in a paroxysm of despair, which terrified me, and exclaimed—‘Cruel woman! but she shall gain nothing. I will pursue her as much after my death as I have done during my life!’—I endeavoured to calm him, but he was no more.”
I think, my friend, I need not tell you the effect these last words had upon me. I thought all the powers of heaven and earth had united to torment my wretched life: but, at length, time and mature reason have restored calmness to my mind. “If,” said I, “there is no Superior Being who directs this world, it is impossible that one who is dead can be brought back to life. If there is a God—and all nature attests there is one—the attribute of his divinity is justice and goodness: he will never send into this abode of misery and sorrow those whom he has deigned to release from it.—What am I, that I should suppose he concerns himself with so humble an individual? How can I suppose that, on my account, he would derange the order of nature to manifest his anger or his goodness, or to point out to me the means of avoiding misery or guilt? Such cares may be worthy the Sovereign of the World, when the whole human race are the objects of them: but an individual is, perhaps, less in his eyes than a grain of sand is in ours. Let us adore him, let us merit his mercies; but attempt not to scrutinise his ways!
By this mode of reasoning, and by various reflections which occurred to my mind, I attributed the extraordinary circumstances which had happened to me entirely to chance. I know not but they were the effect of chance; but I cannot deny that what is so called, has the greatest influence on what passes in the world.
Now rest awhile:—my history and reflections are finished; make what you can of them. If it is your intention that what I have written should pass out of your own hands, I entreat you to suppress the initial letter of the name, and the entire name of the province.
I send you my original, that you may judge, by a labour so far above my strength, how inviolable and tender is the attachment I retain for you.
Adieu!