GALLERY.
No. 1.
HENRI DE LA TOUR D’AUVERGNE, VICOMTE DE TURENNE.
Equestrian Portrait, full size. Mounted on a dappled charger. Buff jerkin. Ruff. Embroidered sleeves. White scarf. Plumed hat.
BORN 1611, KILLED IN ACTION 1675.
By Rembrandt.
HE was the second son of the Duke de Bouillon, by Elizabeth of Nassau, daughter of William the Silent and Charlotte de Montpensier. De Bouillon was attached in early life to Henry the Fourth, King of France and Navarre, who spoke of him as ‘my lieutenant, my friend, and comrade.’ The Duke was a soldier, diplomat, politician, and man of letters; and, moreover, founder of the Academy at Sedan, which became the resort of all the youthful nobility and chivalry of Europe.
The Duke was one of the chief leaders of the Calvinistic party, and in their tenets he brought up his two sons, the Prince de Sedan and the Vicomte de Turenne. When the education of the elder was completed, he went to Holland to learn the art of war, under his uncle Maurice, Prince of Orange, while Henry continued his studies at home. In early childhood his constitution was far from robust, which inclined the Duke to destine him for some civil employment; but the little Vicomte had set his whole heart on being a soldier, and he was resolved to prove to his father that the decision he had come to was ill-founded. He took, in consequence, rather an ingenious method of manifesting his health and strength. One evening the boy contrived to elude the vigilance of his governor, who spent hours of anxious search, and never discovered the truant till the next morning, on the ramparts of the town. On the carriage of a cannon, where he had passed the whole night, lay the little fellow, smiling in his calm sleep over the dreams which had visited his iron pillow,—visions, in all probability, of the daring exploits of some of his beloved heroes of antiquity, or some brilliant foretaste of his own future glory. But a still more characteristic anecdote is told of Turenne’s boyhood. He took great delight in lecturing, as it were, to a group of admiring listeners, on the merits of his favourite historian, Quintus Curtius, or the mighty deeds of Alexander the Great. In such moments his eye would kindle, his whole face brighten, and he would overcome that hesitation of speech under which he laboured in calmer moments. One eventful day an officer (of mature years), who was in the company, ventured to speak disparagingly of Henry’s favourite historian, and even to question his veracity! This was too much for the impetuous boy; he waxed wroth, and answered the attack with indignation, to the infinite amusement of his mother, who was present. She made a sign to the officer to prosecute the argument, till the Vicomte de Turenne, with all the offended dignity of his ten years, left the room in a towering passion, and the same evening challenged the officer to mortal combat. The ‘cartel’ was carried to the Duchess, who was much delighted with this early development of her son’s military ardour. The challenge was of course accepted, the place of rendezvous settled, and thither the small hero hastened the next morning, ‘his soul in arms, and eager for the fray.’ To his surprise he found his mother on the ground, and the officer by her side, while on the green turf at their feet was spread a goodly banquet. The Duchess advanced with a smile, and embracing her son told him she had come to act as second to his antagonist, but that they must first breakfast, upon which the three sat down, together with the gentlemen of the hunt, who were also there assembled, and during the repast, as may easily be believed, peace was concluded, the honour of the young firebrand appeased, and an exhilarating gallop put an end to all discord.
Henry was only twelve when his father died; he remained a year longer at home, during which time he showed a far greater taste for athletic and military exercises than for sedentary studies; above all, he delighted in horsemanship, and the more unmanageable the steed, the more willingly would Henry mount it. Hearing that the Comte de Roussy (afterwards his brother-in-law) had brought a charger from Paris that was considered wild and vicious, he never rested till he had it saddled, and leaped on its back, in spite of the expostulations of the whole household. In a short time the juvenile Alexander returned from his triumphant ride, having tamed the modern Bucephalus! When thirteen, the Duchess sent him to join his brother at the Court of the Stadtholder; Maurice received him graciously, but insisted on his entering the army as a private soldier. The Prince died a very short time after Turenne’s arrival in Holland, but the youth had already imbibed those lessons of military tactics, and that reverence for discipline, which, added to his own talents and aptitude for the service, stood him in good stead his life long. Henry Frederic, Maurice’s successor as Stadtholder and commander-in-chief, continued his protection to Turenne, and gave him the command of a regiment of infantry, which soon became a model of discipline. Under his uncle’s auspices, the young soldier now commenced active service; in 1629 he distinguished himself more especially at the siege of Bois-le-Duc, a fortress known as La Pucelle de Brabant.
It is not our intention to make a list of the military exploits of this great man, whose campaigns in Lorraine, Italy, Germany, etc., would fill many volumes, and indeed form part of the history of France, or rather of Europe. While his brilliant victories, his skilful retreats, and, for the most part, his successful diplomatic negotiations, established his lasting fame, we shall only enumerate those which are necessary to a narrative of this nature. In the early days of which we are now speaking, Turenne’s valour and thirst for enterprise were so remarkable that Prince Henry Frederic deemed it advisable to reprimand the young soldier for his rashness, with (it may be conceived) but ill-concealed admiration for his prowess. The Prince said one day to some officers who were standing near him, ‘If I mistake not, Turenne will one day rival our greatest captains in fame and glory.’ Turenne remained five years in the service of Holland, when his mother, who had been engaged in political negotiations with France, sent him to that country, where the King and his Prime Minister, Cardinal Richelieu, received him most graciously, and gave him the command of a regiment of foot in the French army. At the siege of La Motte he mounted the walls in person, and carried the bastion, for which he was rewarded with the bâton of a field-marshal—a grade only second to that of Marshal of France,—being an honour almost unheard of for a young man of three-and-twenty. His humanity was equal to his valour. During the privations and hardships of the retreat from Mayence in 1635, the Marshal exerted himself to the utmost to alleviate suffering. He caused many of the valuable contents of his own baggage-wagons to be thrown away, in order to provide room for the weary and wounded; he shared his own provisions with the common soldiers, consoling and helping all those who were in need, without distinction of rank or nationality. Never slackening for one moment in his military duties, which he pursued with untiring zeal, at the siege of Saverne, foremost, as usual, in mounting the breach, his arm was struck by a musket-ball, and for some time it was believed amputation must ensue. The recovery was slow and tedious, but long before it was complete the Marshal had resumed his duties.
In 1638 he became a lieutenant-general, on being sent to the relief of Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar, with whom an alliance had been formed by France. In 1646 he returned to Paris, to the Court, where the Prime Minister, Cardinal Mazarin, whose recognition of his great services had hitherto been but lukewarm, was loud in his commendation, and offered him the Duchy of Château Thierry, and the hand of one of his beautiful and well-dowered nieces; but Turenne refused all these offers, from the conviction that some of the conditions therein involved would prove prejudicial to the interests of his brother, the Duke de Bouillon, to whom he was warmly attached. He was defeated by the Comte de Mercy, in command of the Bavarians at Mariendal, but made a most skilful retreat, and by the side of the Prince de Condé took his revenge at the battle of Nordlingen, where Mercy was routed, and received his death-wound. This brave general was buried near the place where he fell, and his tomb bore this inscription: Sta, Viator, Heroem Calcas. Turenne then marched to join the Swedish General Wrangel, the friend and comrade of the great Gustavus Adolphus, in Hesse, and was preparing for fresh warfare when the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia gave peace to Central Europe, concluding the Thirty Years War. A most flattering letter to the Vicomte de Turenne was written by the Elector of Mayence, the Duke of Würtemberg, and many other Princes and Ambassadors, attributing this happy event as much to his military exploits as to the efforts of the Plenipotentiaries.
France did not long enjoy the blessings of peace for civil war was now about to shed its baneful influence over the land. Anne of Austria, the Queen-Mother and Regent (during Louis the Fourteenth’s minority), was almost entirely under the influence of her Prime Minister, Cardinal Mazarin, who was very unpopular with the Parliament and the greater part of the French nation. The successes of the English Parliamentarian troops over those of the Royalists, and the downfall of the Monarchy, had given a strong impetus to the anti-Court party in France, and a faction was formed, well known in history as the ‘Fronde.’
This nickname was given to the party who were opposed to the policy of the Queen-Regent, Anne of Austria, and her favourite and adviser, Cardinal de Mazarin, whose measures they condemned as unjust and oppressive. One of the principal adherents was the Cardinal de Retz, or Coadjutor, as he was called, a turbulent and intriguing spirit; but it soon numbered among its members the most important and noble names in France. The designation of Frondeurs was given by a contemporary writer, from the word Fronde,—Anglicè, a sling. He likened the malcontents to boys who went about the streets slinging stones, till put to flight by the appearance of any officer of the law. By degrees the faction assumed a much more imposing form, and though the name remained, it had certainly lost its significance. Discontent increased every day, the people clamoured for redress of grievances, and deputations flocked to Parliament to entreat the interference of the members against the oppressions of the Court. The Parliament was divided into three different factions,—the Frondeurs aforesaid, the Mazarinists, who supported the Cardinal, and the Modérés, who blamed the ultra views of both parties. Three members in particular rose up as champions of the oppressed, and so incensed the Queen by their seditious language, that she caused them to be arrested. This was the signal for open revolt: shops were closed, streets blocked, barricades formed, and the liberty of ‘the fathers of the people,’ as they were called, loudly and insolently demanded. Anne of Austria showed courage and determination, arguing that compliance would be a fatal admission of weakness; but the Duke of Orleans and the Cardinal, alarmed for their own safety and property, overruled her decision. The captives were released, and the Court departed hastily to St. Germains, a step which was designated as ‘l’enlèvement du Roi.’ The popular party was triumphant, and the Cardinal de Retz, considering it a favourable opportunity, exerted himself to gain proselytes, and the malcontents soon numbered among their adherents such men as the Dukes de Bouillon, de Lorraine, de Beaufort, de Longueville, de la Rochefoucauld, and the Prince de Conti, brother of the great Condé, with many others. They were also rich in noble female partisans, ‘les héroines de la Fronde.’ Beauty, birth, and talent swelled the list of the fair conspirators,—Mademoiselle de Montpensier, ‘la grande demoiselle,’ as she was called,—the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Bouillon, the Princess Palatine, and last, but least in no sense of the word, the Duchesse de Longueville. When Anne of Austria deserted her post at Paris, a rival in power, a superior in youth and beauty, reigned for a time paramount in her stead,—the charming despot of an elective monarchy.
Anne Généviève de Bourbon was at one time so nearly connected with the fortunes of Turenne that we are tempted to give some details respecting her eventful life. Her father was Henry, Prince de Condé (or ‘Monsieur le Prince,’ as the head of that illustrious house was always called), her mother the beautiful Charlotte de Montmorency, daughter of the Grand Connétable of that name. They were both imprisoned in the Château de Vincennes, where their daughter was born in the year 1618. Mademoiselle de Bourbon was educated at the Convent of the Carmelites, where she showed a decided bias towards the vocation of a recluse, and a corresponding aversion to the idea of a life at Court, or in the great world. A very short experience, however, of admiration and success entirely changed her views, and she became one of the most lovely précieuses of the Hôtel Rambouillet. The cynosure of all eyes, a crowd of suitors clustered round her, none of whom found favour in the sight of her parents, till the Duc de Longueville presented himself. He was her senior by many years, and still under the influence of a former mistress, the Duchesse de Montbazon; but he came of an illustrious family, and was not far removed from the rank of a prince of the blood-royal; and Mademoiselle de Bourbon had the paternal commands laid upon her to receive him as her bridegroom. At first she showed the greatest possible repugnance to the marriage, but there was no alternative; and she walked to the altar, radiant in beauty, and gorgeously attired, assuming a cheerfulness of demeanour which belied the feelings of her heart. From that time forward the young Duchess gave herself up to a system of cold-blooded coquetry, which had most disastrous results. We quote an eloquent description from the pages of her biographer, Ville Flore: ‘Un an s’était à peine écoulé, que la blanche robe de la jeune mariée avait déjà des táches de sang, et que sans même avoir donné son cœur elle faisait naître involontairement la plus tragique querelle, oû Coligny perissait à la fleur de l’âge par la main d’un de ces Guises, auquel elle avoit été un moment destinée. Prélude sinistre des orages qui l’attendaient.’ Adorers crowded round her, poets sang her praises, novels were written of which she was the peerless heroine, and still Généviève de Longueville proceeded on her triumphal march, careless and fancy-free, making conquest after conquest, creating cabals and jealousies that became political feuds,—the Court now taking part against, now with, the beautiful syren. ‘Mais on ne badine pas éternellement avec l’amour.’
M. de Masillac (or as we will call him by his better-known title, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, to which he shortly succeeded), who had once been loved, and was now hated, by Anne of Austria, laid siege to the fortress which had held out so long, and carried the heart of the Duchesse de Longueville by storm. Witty, handsome, cynical, reserved, and self-contained, with a reputation already established for valour and intellect, La Rochefoucauld soon gained a complete ascendency over this daughter of the proud house of Condé.
He was a man who, for the most part, practised what he preached and expounded in his world-famed ‘Maxims,’ and whose character, drawn by his own pen, showed how the head preponderated over the heart in his composition. That he admired the Duchess there can be no doubt:—
‘Pour mériter son cœur,
Pour plaire à ses beaux yeux,
J’ai fait la guerre aux rois,
Je l’aurais fait aux dieux.’
But his first advances were unquestionably made in cold blood, and it was in the hope of gaining proselytes to the cause of the Fronde that he desired the alliance and co-operation of this beautiful woman. Touched and flattered by the simulated passion of so remarkable a man, the Duchess gave herself up, heart and soul, to her lover, obedient to his every wish, submissive to his every direction. She forgot her pride of birth and position, her marriage vows, and the tender affection which had hitherto bound her to her elder brother. Let us hear how the man for whom she made such sacrifices speaks of her in the early days of their liaison: ‘Ses belles qualités étaient moins brillantes à cause d’une tâche qui ne s’est jamais vue en une princesse de ce mérite, qui est, que bien loin de donner la loi à ceux qui avaient une particulière adoration pour elle, elle se transformait si fort dans leurs sentimens qu’elle ne reconnaissait point les siens propres.’ And so he despised the very quality for which he had wooed her,—a palpable moral!
Madame de Motteville testifies that ambition had little part in Madame de Longueville’s proceedings. She was only ambitious for her lover,—‘qui étoit peut-être plus intéressé qu’il n’était tendre.’ Among her proselytes she gained over her younger brother to the cause; her husband also was nothing loath to join the Fronde. But La Rochefoucauld, when he thought to win the great Condé through the medium of his sister, had reckoned without his host. Madame de Longueville used all her powers of persuasion, vainly appealing to the tender memories of home and childhood, but Condé was implacable. He upbraided his sister with her dishonour, expressed his aversion to La Rochefoucauld, and joined the Court at St. Germains, where he assumed the command of the troops that had remained faithful to the King, and shortly afterwards marched upon Paris to attack the Frondeurs, who had named his brother, the Prince de Conti, their ‘Generalissimo.’ Now the Duchesse de Longueville had excused herself from joining her mother, the Princesse de Condé, who was at St. Germains in attendance on the Queen, on the plea of her approaching confinement. But the delicacy of her situation did not prevent her acting under the orders of her despotic lover. She shared all the perils and hardships of her friends the Frondeurs, assisted at the parades and reviews of the troops and the civic guard, took part in all the military discussions, and in fact transformed the Hôtel de Longueville into a barrack.
In this state of strife and discord both sides concurred in the advisability of gaining over Marshal Turenne to their interests, and he, being now in command of the French army in Germany, received the most flattering letters from the Queen and her Minister. Mazarin was profuse in his offers of civil and military aggrandisement; renewing the proposal of an alliance with his richly-dowered niece at the same time that he complained to Turenne of the disloyalty of his brother, the Duc de Bouillon.
The Marshal’s answer was manly and straightforward to all these flattering advances. He wrote respectfully indeed, but said this was not a moment for men to think of their own personal advancement. He regretted the disaffection of his brother, and deeply deplored the troubles that reigned in France; he stigmatised the blockade of Paris as a most dangerous step, declined with courteous thanks the offer of the matrimonial alliance on the score of difference of religion, and told his Eminence plainly that, if he continued to oppress the people, he (Turenne) could no longer hold out to him the hand of friendship; moreover, that on his return to France, at the head of his troops (according to orders from headquarters), he was resolved neither to favour the revolt of Parliament nor the injustice of the Minister. It was reserved for the seductive arts of a syren to lead the hero astray from the straight path he had chalked out for himself.
The Duchesse de Longueville had already made a deep impression on the proverbially susceptible heart of the Vicomte de Turenne. About the time of the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia, when she joined her husband at Münster, the hero had on that occasion held a review of all the troops under his command to do honour to the beautiful sister of his former brother in arms, the Prince de Condé.
But to return to the time of which we are treating: the Marshal assembled his soldiers, and made them a formal address, in which he expressed his regret at the state of affairs in France, and assured them that on their return he would use all his influence to persuade the King to go back to Paris, and to take measures for checking the maladministration of the Cardinal. He would also use his best endeavours to obtain the pay (with considerable arrears) that was owing to the troops, both French and auxiliary; and, not content with spoken words, he published a manifesto to the same effect. The Regency, indignant at Turenne’s independent manner of proceeding, and confident that they could not reckon on his co-operation, caused him to be superseded in his command; and to reconcile the soldiers (with whom he was very popular) to this step, they sent them out considerable sums of money. Turenne calmly resigned his post, exhorted the men to loyalty and obedience, and repaired with some friends and followers to Holland, there to await more peaceful times. Before long the Court and the malcontents came to terms by what was called the Peace of Ruel. Deputies from both sides met and negotiated, an amnesty was proclaimed, posts and governments were offered to the chief Frondeurs, and concessions of all kinds served out, as sops to the disaffected.
The wily Cardinal knew his world. Turenne had little ambition, in the common acceptation of the word, no greed of gold or worldly advancement, as to office, or the like; but his pride of birth was a ruling passion, and dearly did he love anything that tended to the glorification of his family.
To his brother, as head of the house, he paid a species of obedience, as to a suzerain,—a line of conduct he pursued towards his nephew, though still a youth, on succeeding to the title. All these things considered, it is not to be wondered at that Turenne was delighted when he received the news that patents had been granted to himself and his brother (with other concessions to the elder), entitling them and their descendants to the dignities and privileges of Princes of the blood-royal. He hastened back to Paris, and was received by the Cardinal with outward signs of welcome. But breakers were ahead. The peace was a hollow one, leaving both parties in much the same condition: the Cardinal and the Parliament each preserving authority as before,—the one over the Court, the other over the people. The Prince de Condé was always at issue with the Minister, whom he treated with ill-concealed contempt; and his Eminence, wearied and perplexed by the exigencies and requirements of the great man, and maddened by his sarcasms, plotted his ruin.
The Duchesse de Longueville, who watched all passing events with vigilance, chose this opportunity to renew her overtures of reconciliation to her brother; and she not only succeeded in so doing, but persuaded Monsieur le Prince to give in a half-and-half adhesion to the cause of the Fronde, in which party he had many friends, and perhaps more enemies.
Among the most inveterate of the latter was the Cardinal de Retz, at this moment on friendly terms with the Court; and it was by the joint arrangement of the two Churchmen that a step was taken which rekindled the torch of public discord. The Queen-Regent had also lately been much incensed against the Prince de Condé, who had shown himself wanting in respect and deference to her Majesty; and petty intrigues of all kinds were at work against him.
On the 18th of January 1650, as the Princes of Condé, Conti, and the Duc de Longueville entered the Royal Council-chamber, they were arrested, and sent off without a moment’s delay to the Château de Vincennes. This step caused a panic among their friends, who dispersed in all directions. The Duchesse de Longueville left Paris by night with a large escort, headed by her adorer, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and repaired to Normandy, to raise the inhabitants of the province against the King, in which undertaking, however, she was unsuccessful. Turenne took his way to Stenai, a stronghold belonging to the Prince de Condé, and openly avowed his indignation at the imprisonment of the Princes.
‘On prétend’—we again quote his Mémoires—‘que l’amour pour la sœur eût autant de part aux fausses démarches du vicomte que l’amitié pour le frère.’ Be this as it may, he was soon joined by the Duchess; and in answer to all the flattering missives sent him by the Cardinal, and the offers of high military commands and the like, he declared his determination not to return to his allegiance until the Princes were set at liberty. He also wrote to the Queen, expostulating with her on the step she had taken, and pointing out that such a man as the great Condé was far more worthy her confidence, on account of his birth and character, and the military services he had rendered his Sovereign, than the Cardinal, who was an object of aversion to the country at large,—arguments which had no effect on the Royal mind. It appears that the Duchess was not as grateful to Turenne as he had hoped, her liaison with the Duc de la Rochefoucauld interfering with the Marshal’s claim; but so great an adept in the arts of coquetry doubtless knew how to keep her most valuable ally betwixt hope and despair for some time. He had certainly transferred his loyalty from Queen Anne to Queen Généviève, for the Duchess gave herself all the airs of a sovereign—levying an army, publishing manifestoes, and even concluding treaties. She sold her diamonds, an example which was followed by the obedient Marshal, who disposed of his splendid silver plate in order to raise troops. He collected together all those who adhered sufficiently to the Princes to serve in their behalf, together with those over whom he exercised a personal influence,—some of whom he received into the citadel, and others he stationed round the walls of Stenai. These were soon dispersed by the Royal troops, and Turenne, finding himself reduced to straits, listened once more to the suggestions of his evil genius, and under her auspices concluded a treaty with the Spaniards, in order to obtain money and auxiliaries to assist in the deliverance of the captives. The Marshal did not take a step so foreign to his nature without regret, and indeed remorse, and the treaty was concluded with many stringent conditions.
He again wrote to the Queen, pointing out to her the horrors of a war which would be cruel, for that her son would be opposed to his subjects on the one hand, and to her own brother on the other; but she paid no heed to his advice. He therefore placed himself at the head of the Spaniards, and commenced a march which was for a while successful, besieging and carrying many places of importance.
But his foreign troops caused him great trouble and annoyance, refusing to obey his commands, or to march on Vincennes. He was defeated with great loss at the battle of Rhetel, in spite of his personal valour, which never failed, and he felt this disaster acutely. It is related of him that, some time afterwards, being asked by a flippant young officer how it chanced that he lost the battles of Mariendal and Rhetel, he replied with calm dignity, ‘By my own fault.’
Still bent on the deliverance of the Princes, Turenne was about to proceed to Vincennes without the assistance of the Spaniards; but the prisoners had been already removed elsewhere.
Hopes of peace began to dawn on the distracted country. The Ducs de la Rochefoucauld and de Bouillon, the Princesse de Condé and her young son, who had been leagued together against the Court, now tendered their submission, and repaired to the Royal camp at Bourg in person, pledging themselves in future not to take arms against the King. These proud spirits carried their newly-born loyalty so far, that, on entering the presence of their Majesties, they knelt down to solicit pardon.
‘La reine les reçut avec bonté, et le Cardinal Mazarin leur donna à dîner.’ But the release of the Princes was not to be effected without cabals and intrigues of all kinds. The Queen was hardly pressed on the subject, and at length she was compelled to dismiss her Minister, and to promise pardon to the captives. The Marshal de Grammont was named as the bearer of the good tidings to Condé and his companions, but the Cardinal stole a march on him, and contrived to appropriate all the honour of the transaction, by forestalling De Grammont’s journey.
He repaired to Havre, where the Princes were now imprisoned, entered their presence, and, offering them the hand of friendship, announced to them that they were at liberty. They then dined together (for it seemed a hobby of Mazarin’s to cement a reconciliation at the banqueting-table), after which his Eminence departed for Cologne, while the Princes took their way to Paris. Here they were received with acclamations, and bonfires were lighted in honour of their release,—a similar demonstration having been made the year before to commemorate their imprisonment!
The Duke of Orleans, the Duc de Beaufort, the Cardinal de Retz himself, were all loud in their professions of welcome and friendship, and there was much embracing on the occasion. Turenne, on learning the news, returned to Stenai, whence he wrote to the Prince de Condé, begging him to use his newly-regained influence with the Court to bring about an honourable peace with Spain.
Condé’s answer was eloquent of gratitude and friendship, and, in accordance with the Marshal’s wish, a Parliamentary counsellor was sent to Stenai with powers to negotiate. He was also bearer of a letter from the King to the Vicomte de Turenne, wherein Louis offered a free pardon to the Marshal, and all those who had taken arms with him against the Crown, on condition they returned to their allegiance. The letter concluded with these words: ‘J’ai la bonne volonté pour ce qui regarde votre personne, et les intérêts de votre maison, et je prie Dieu, mon cousin, qu’il vous ait en sa sainte et digne garde.—Louis.’
This was followed by the exchange that had so long been talked of,—the town of Sedan for places of far greater importance, and many advantageous concessions to the house of De Bouillon.
Turenne failed in his mediation between France and Spain, and having found the King of the last-named country unreasonable in his demands, he gave up the attempt and returned to Paris.
Discovering that it was the intention of the Princes to give him a public reception, Turenne defeated their intentions by arriving a day sooner than was expected, for he considered that it would be incongruous to make a triumphal entry into the capital of the kingdom when he had so lately been in arms against the Sovereign.
No sooner had he arrived than Condé made him overtures and propositions of all kinds, and did all in his power to induce the Marshal to enter into his political views, which were of a most ambitious character. Turenne answered him firmly. He was now perfectly satisfied, he said, and he only required, from the gratitude of Condé, that the troops who had fought in his behalf should have good and healthy quarters for the winter; for he never forgot to plead the cause of his soldiers. The brothers Condé and Conti were soon again at issue with the Court, and engaged in seditious warfare, while Cardinal Mazarin re-entered France at the head of an armed force, upon which the Duke of Orleans once more revolted from his allegiance. Turenne joined the King and Queen at Saumur, where he was offered (and did not refuse, as many in his place would have done) the command of the army, in conjunction with a Marshal of very short standing, D’Hocquincourt. One of the Vicomte’s most daring exploits took place at Gergeau, then in possession of the rebel forces, the taking of which was owing to his own personal skill and courage, and was reckoned so important, that, on his return, the Queen, in the presence of the assembled Court, acknowledged that he had saved the Monarchy! Every tongue was loud in his praise; and yet, in speaking of the matter in a letter to his sister, the only allusion he makes to the whole affair is in these words: ‘Il s’est passé quelque chose à Gergeau qui n’est pas de grande considération.’ Later on, when the Prince de Condé was approaching Gien (where the King held Court) with rapid strides, after gaining considerable advantages over the Marshal D’Hocquincourt, Turenne made head against him with a force vastly inferior in numbers.
It was a moment of imminent peril for the Court: Cardinal Mazarin, who had once more joined the King and Queen, watched the movements of the two armies with great anxiety, constantly despatching couriers to learn the last tidings; but Anne of Austria manifested her usual calm, ‘tranquille à sa toilette et à son dîner elle ne donnoit aucune marque de crainte, quoique on avoit déjà commencé à défendre son appartement.’
Then came the welcome news that Turenne was victorious, and the Prince de Condé in retreat. Another enthusiastic welcome awaited the Vicomte, and again the Queen thanked him for having once more replaced the crown on the head of her son.
Cardinal Mazarin wrote an elaborate account of the proceedings of the memorable day, in which he blamed the Marshal D’Hocquincourt for having withstood the advice of his noble colleague; but the generous-hearted Turenne insisted on the passage being erased, ‘for,’ said he, ‘I am most unwilling that any fresh mortification should be heaped on the man who was already sufficiently distressed by several failures.’
Henrietta, Queen of England, was now residing in France, where she had taken refuge during the Protectorate, and was joined by her sons, King Charles and James, Duke of York, who, in those early days of his career, was a soldier at heart. He had a profound admiration for Marshal Turenne, whose camp he joined, and was present at many of the engagements which took place at that time between the Royal and the rebel army, Turenne always treating the exiled Prince with the utmost consideration and kindness; and the Duke of York was more than once employed as a mediator between the opposing armies. Turenne pursued the Prince de Condé on his march towards Paris, coming up with him in the Faubourg St. Antoine, close to the capital. The Cardinal was so persistent in his desire that Turenne should here attack Monsieur le Prince, and that the Royal troops should commence the attack, that he overruled the Marshal’s wish to await the arrival of reinforcements. And so it chanced that, from a neighbouring height, as from an amphitheatre, the King, his Minister, and the whole Court, became spectators of one of the bloodiest encounters that ever cursed a civil war.
‘Jamais,’ says the biographer of Turenne, ‘action ne fut disputée avec une valeur plus continuée, et plus opiniâtre. Les deux généraux, tout couverts de sang, et toujours exposés aux feux des mousquetaires, qui tiroient de maison à droite et à gauche, combattirent souvent vis à vis l’un d’autre, à la portée du pistolet. La fureur martiale de l’un, et le sangfroid de l’autre, faisoient un contraste, dont le spectacle excitoit l’admiration et la terreur.’
After many fluctuations on one part and the other, the Prince de Condé’s army was hemmed in, and must have been cut to pieces had not the Parisians, seeing his danger, opened the gates, and received the rebels within their walls, while the cannon began playing on the Royal army, by command of the King’s own cousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier. So hot was the fire, and so close the quarters, that Turenne was obliged to abandon his desire of pursuing the enemy within the walls. Disorder and tumult reigned in Paris, and a terrible massacre took place at the Hôtel de Ville.
The Court, by the Marshal’s advice, repaired to Pontoise, and he himself to Compiègne; and it was chiefly through his instrumentality that the Spanish troops were at length obliged to evacuate France, and retreat to Flanders. A sad affliction was in store for the hero about this time, in the death of his brother, the Duc de Bouillon, to whom he was fondly attached. But he was not a man to allow sorrow to interfere with duty. The ill feeling that was still rife against the Cardinal Minister continued to be used as a pretext for revolt and rebellion of all kinds. Turenne went in person one day, and had a long and confidential conversation with Mazarin, in which he pointed out, in the most emphatic manner, that it was incumbent upon him (the Minister) to make at least a temporary sacrifice for the good of the King, his master, and the country in general. This, urged the Marshal, would be effected by his absenting himself, for a time at least. His arguments prevailed. Mazarin consented to leave France, but in so doing he made his own conditions. The King (who was directed to say he ‘only gave in to the plan of dismissing his faithful Minister in order to pacify his people’) received a paper from the Cardinal, in which directions were drawn up for his own conduct; and His Majesty was further instructed to place two of his Eminence’s most devoted adherents at the head of affairs. After this was done, Mazarin, strong in the conviction that the Queen would soon recall him, took his way to Bouillon. But Condé and the Duc de Lorraine still continued to harass the kingdom, and peace seemed still far off; it was again by Turenne’s advice that the Court was induced to proceed once more to Paris, where the Marshal assured Louis that the Parisians, being wearied by the unsettled state of affairs, would gladly welcome him. Accordingly the Court set out; but as the cortége approached the Bois de Boulogne, they were met by a deputation, the members of which pointed out in the most formidable colours the danger which his Majesty would incur in entering Paris, where those arch-rebels, the Duke of Orleans, and Mademoiselle de Montpensier, his daughter, were caballing to incite the people against him. The royal coach came to a stand-still, and Anne of Austria, with her accustomed energy and promptness, made the ladies who were inside alight, and summoning the Vicomte de Turenne, the Marshals De Villeroi, Du Plessis, and others, she held an open-air council. Every one, with the exception of Turenne, was of opinion that they had better retrace their steps. The noble soldier spoke, as he always did, with firmness and judgment. He did not believe, he said, in the friendship of men who could give such pusillanimous advice; that the return of the Court would make them despicable in the eyes of all, and would discourage the loyal, and give fresh impetus to the plans of the disaffected. The Queen approved and seconded him on every point, and the procession moved on once more. The young King, at the head of his guards, rode in amid loud cries of ‘Vive le Roi!’ and the acclamations of a huge concourse that accompanied him to the gates of the Louvre. The next day the Duke of Orleans and his daughter thought it advisable to leave Paris, and amicable relations were entered into between the King and his Parliament. ‘L’ordre fût bientôt rétabli dans la ville, et le calme qui succeda fit oublier les troubles de la Fronde.’ The Prince de Condé alone refused to comply with the conditions of the amnesty which was proclaimed, preferring, he said, to suffer any loss rather than live in the same country with the Cardinal, whose return was, of course, a matter of certainty; and he chose the alternative of making a league with the Spaniards. Turenne remained in Paris until he considered Louis to be safely reinstated on the throne, and then he went again into the field at a time of year when troops generally go into winter quarters. On parting from the King, he promised to drive Condé and his allies out of France before the expiration of the winter; and he redeemed his pledge.
The Prince de Condé was compelled to leave the country, and comparative peace was restored in the interior of the kingdom; but peril, hardship, and scarcity still pursued the Royal army, and exposed their noble commander to dreadful straits, which were much aggravated by the jealousy of his colleague, the Marshal de la Ferté. At the end of the year 1652, the troops were ordered into winter quarters; and in the commencement of the ensuing year the Vicomte de Turenne espoused a lady, whose name, possessions, titles, and good qualities engross a large space in the pages of the Marshal’s biography. Her merits are best summed up in this one sentence: ‘She was worthy to be the wife of the hero.’ Charlotte de Caumont was the daughter and heiress of Armand Nompar de Caumont, Duc de la Force, Pair et Maréchal de France,—beautiful, modest, rich, well educated, and, in short, possessed of all those qualities which are generally the attributes of a bride-elect.
The newly-married pair were not long allowed to enjoy their spell of happiness, for the month of June once more saw the Marshal in the field, and the old warfare recommenced between the King’s army and Condé and his Spanish allies. The marches, counter-marches, attacks, sieges, and retreats belong to the military annals of the time. Mazarin continued to make fruitless overtures to Condé, who entangled himself more and more with the Spaniards; but fell out with his other ally, the Duke of Lorraine, whom he was instrumental in causing to be arrested and imprisoned. The Prince de Conti did not follow his brother’s example, and finding he reaped no advantage from being at variance with the Court, he became reconciled to the King and the Cardinal Minister, whose niece, Anna Maria de Martinozzi, he shortly afterwards married. Turenne’s attack on the Spanish lines and Condé’s troops added so much to his military fame that complimentary messages and letters from German princes and European generals poured in on all sides. A characteristic trait is told of the hero about this time, characteristic also of the spite and jealousy of the Marshal de la Ferté. This general, finding one of Turenne’s guards outside the camp, caused him to be severely beaten. The man, covered with blood, sought the presence of his commanding officer, and complained of his usage.
Turenne sent him back, under the escort of a lieutenant of the Guards, with a message to De la Ferté, apologising for any want of respect the man may have shown, as it must have been something very reprehensible to cause so severe a punishment. The message was given in the presence of the whole staff of officers, who were acquainted with the real state of the case, and De la Ferté was betrayed into exclaiming aloud, ‘Cet homme sera-t-il toujours sage, et moi toujours fou?’
In the month of August the Marshals D’Hocquincourt and De la Ferté joined the King, and the Vicomte de Turenne remained in the undivided command of the army. Towards the end of September he went back to Paris, where he was again serviceable in negotiating affairs between the King and the Parliament, but soon returned to active service. The Frondeurs were dispersed or pardoned; the Duke of Orleans reconciled to his brother; Cardinal de Retz, who had been imprisoned and escaped, had sought refuge in Rome; but Turenne still pursued his path of glory and of peril, gaining fresh laurels, even when unsuccessful in the literal sense of the word. His despatches and private communications were invariably marked by that modesty which is the true attribute of greatness. After the famous siege of Dunkirk, he wrote to his wife: ‘Les ennemis sont venus, ils out été battus, Dieu soit loué; j’ai été un peu fatigué toute la journée; je vous donne le bon soir, et je vais me coucher.’
This taking of Dunkirk was an affair of such importance, that it is said Cardinal Mazarin wished to take the glory on himself of projecting and planning the enterprise; and it is further stated that he endeavoured to bribe the great general into bearing witness to the Minister’s share in the matter, by a written document. It was wonderful that the Cardinal should not by this time have learned better to understand the character of the man with whom he had to deal. Turenne replied that Mazarin might pride himself as much as he pleased on his knowledge of military tactics, but for himself he would never bear testimony to a falsehood.
At the end of the year 1658 Turenne brought back his army to France, and returned to Court, having routed the Spaniards, taken twelve towns of importance, subdued large tracts of country, and garrisoned the places he had annexed. The reverses of the Spanish arms inclined Philip IV. to listen to terms, while Anne of Austria represented to the Cardinal that peace would be a fit thank-offering to Heaven for the recovery of the King, who had been dangerously ill. Mazarin himself was also in favour of a treaty, as during all these campaigns he had never quite abandoned a darling scheme for uniting the interests of the two nations by the marriage of King Louis with Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain. The moment seemed propitious in every way,—Cromwell was dead, and England treating with her exiled King for his return. Both Charles and his brother, the Duke of York, were personally attached to France, and the latter, as we have seen, had served in the French army under the great Turenne.
In November 1659 the Treaty of the Pyrenees was made, which had for its basis the marriage of Louis with his cousin, Maria Theresa, and contained numerous conditions, stipulations, exchanges of territory, and the like, which were very advantageous to France. Cardinal Mazarin was unsuccessful in his endeavours to make peace between Spain and Portugal, which he desired; otherwise, matters were arranged to his satisfaction, and the marriage fixed for the spring or early summer of the ensuing year. Louis XIV., anxious to bestow some mark of special favour on Marshal Turenne, offered to revive in his honour the dormant title of Grand Connétable, the highest dignity which was in the power of the Crown to bestow. But the acceptance of the office entailed a renunciation of the Protestant religion, and Turenne was not the man to sacrifice his faith to his worldly interest. The King, on hearing the decision, invented a new title, ‘Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, fût intitulé Maréchal Général, des Camps, et des armées du Roi.’
In the month of June, the Kings of France and Spain, attended by a brilliant assemblage of princes, nobles, and officers, met on the Ile des Faisans, formed by the river Bidassoa, which separates the two kingdoms,—a small and insignificant place, suddenly transformed into a theatre for the display of the magnificence and luxury in which the Courts of both nations delighted. The young King of France, in the flower of his age, handsome in form and features, and majestic in bearing, the venerable King Philip IV., and Anne of Austria, sumptuous in dress and imposing in manner. The brother and sister, who had not met for nearly half a century, fell on each other’s neck and shed tears of joy, though the tender affection thus manifested had not prevented them from engaging for so long a space of time in bloody warfare. Perhaps the most distinguished member of the French King’s Court was the Marshal Turenne, who kept as much as was possible in the background, until singled out by the King of Spain, who desired that he should be presented. Gazing with eager scrutiny at the world-renowned soldier, ‘That is the man,’ he said, ‘who has caused me so many sleepless nights.’ The Treaty of the Pyrenees produced a temporary lull in European hostilities; but Spain and Portugal were still at issue, and France involved in their quarrels.
In March 1661 died Cardinal Mazarin, who had been Prime Minister for sixteen years, and the King assumed the reins of government, retaining the heads of the Administration in office, but constantly consulting his faithful friend, the Vicomte, on matters political as well as military; and war being declared between England and Holland, France sided with the latter country. The Vicomtesse de Turenne died the same year, to the great sorrow of her husband. His biographer speaks of the noble lady in high terms, ‘casting but one slur on her memory,—she clung to the prejudices of her childhood, even though she had the advantage of lengthened conferences with the most eminent divines of the Church of Rome;’ Anglicè, she had remained steadfast in the Protestant faith.
Anne of Austria was no sooner dead than Louis XIV. once more declared war with Spain and the Emperor of Germany, at the same time, strengthening himself by fresh alliances with England, Holland, Sweden, and other powers. He then announced to Turenne his intention to place himself at the head of his army, and learn the art of war under the auspices of that great commander. The rapid successful advances of the French arms alarmed both England and Holland, and caused them to form a defensive league with Sweden, under the name of The Triple Alliance, the object of which was to arrest the encroachments of France.
A treaty between Spain and Portugal, by which the independence of the last-named country was established, was shortly followed by the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, which compelled Louis to come to terms with Spain. The enumeration of these diplomatic relations is essential to the details of our biography.
Turenne had now leisure, although it did not last long, to turn his thoughts seriously to a subject which for some time past had occupied his mind. He had often, in his letters to his wife, expressed doubts and scruples on points of religious faith, and it is supposed that he would have embraced the Roman Catholic creed earlier, had he not feared, by so doing, to afflict and distress the wife whom he loved so dearly. Be this as it may, he now saw and conferred with the eloquent and learned Abbé de Bossuet, afterwards Bishop of Meaux, and the result was that he abjured the faith for which his house had fought and bled, and was received into the Church of Rome. Unable as we are to join in the exultation of the Marshal’s biographer on this point, we still coincide with him in the belief that no hope of worldly advancement had any part in Turenne’s change of creed. We are told that he became from that time more rigid in his morals, more circumspect in his life, and, at all events, the answer he made to his confessor deserves to be recorded. The priest asked him whether he had fallen back into a fault, of which he had repented. ‘Je n’ai jamais manqué de parole aux hommes, en manquerais-je à Dieu?’
He went very little into society, and even showed an inclination towards a monastic life, having a great desire to give himself up to the study of theology; but the King, alarmed at the prospect of losing services invaluable to the State, interfered to prevent him from taking this step. Turenne now resided in Paris, surrounded by a small circle of friends, keeping a frugal table, ‘where the conversation was far more remarkable than the fare.’
About this time occurred an episode in his life which occasioned him lasting regret. Louis XIV., feeling himself bound and crippled by the conditions of the Triple Alliance, consulted with his Prime Minister Louvois, and his faithful friend the Vicomte de Turenne, on the possibility of detaching the King of England from his share in the Treaty. Turenne was a constant visitor at the Court of the Duchess of Orleans, sister of Charles II., and he now turned his thoughts towards influencing that Princess to persuade her brother to secede from the Alliance. Now Madame had a young and very beautiful lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Coëtquen, daughter of the Duke of Rohan-Chabot, who was a great favourite with her royal mistress. Turenne thought it would serve his purpose to win the confidence of the Duchess through the medium of her lady, and, feeling a security in the disparity of years, paid Madame de Coëtquen the most marked attention; while she, on her part, seemed to ignore the difference of age, being highly flattered by the devotion of so great a personage. A hero’s heart is proverbially susceptible (we have already seen that Turenne was not exempt from such amiable weaknesses); and he was accepted as a lover. The two were inseparable, and the liaison attracted the attention of the Duke of Orleans. Jealous of his wife’s favour at Court, he imagined that some political intrigue was being carried on, in which the Marquise and the Marshal were implicated. He accordingly directed his favourite, the fascinating Chevalier de Lorraine, to devote himself to Madame de Coëtquen, and extract the secret from her. In order to please her younger adorer, the lady wrung from the Marshal the details of the King’s conversation, which she immediately imparted to the Chevalier.
The Duke of Orleans in a fury sought the Royal presence, and complained to the King that every one was trusted with State secrets except himself; but that he had ascertained without doubt that steps were being taken to annul the Triple Alliance.
The King, indignant at the betrayal of his confidence, summoned Turenne to his presence, and burst into violent complaints against Louvois, ‘For,’ said his Majesty, ‘you and he were the only persons to whom I mentioned the subject.’ The Minister had always shown himself inimical to Turenne, and never lost an opportunity of endeavouring to lower or supplant him in the Royal favour, a circumstance of which the Marshal was well aware; but he was in no way tempted to swerve from his unwavering veracity. He exonerated the Minister, by taking the whole blame on himself, and confessed that, in a moment of weakness, he had divulged the King’s secret to Madame de Coëtquen.
‘A fellow-feeling makes one (sometimes) wondrous kind:’ the King, perhaps reflecting he might have acted in the same manner in a similar position, forgave his friend; but Turenne never forgave himself or the lady, whom he never saw again. For himself, many years afterwards, when the Chevalier de Lorraine jestingly inquired some particulars of the affair, the Vicomte replied, ‘Commençons par éteindre les bougies.’
The Duchess of Orleans, as is well known, did undertake the mission to her brother, in which she was successful; and shortly after her return to France, she retired to St. Cloud, accompanied by several nobles; among others the Vicomte de Turenne and the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. Her sudden and mysterious death, generally believed to be the effect of poison, in the bloom of life and beauty, threw a deep gloom over the whole nation. Turenne, in particular, was profoundly affected by the event, and again contemplated the idea of retirement from the world; but France could not spare him, and he was soon once more in the field, gaining fresh laurels. His last campaign was the crowning-point in his glory, and in the beginning of the year 1675 he returned to Versailles, his whole route one triumphal procession, flowers strewing his path, acclamations and blessings attending him wherever he appeared. In the whole of France no enemy was left, with the exception of such as were prisoners; on his arrival at Versailles, he was embraced by the King, and congratulated and made much of by all classes.
In the early summer of 1675, Turenne, at the head of the French army, and the Count de Montecuculi, in command of the Imperialists, were pitted against each other. Few periods in European history could have been richer in names of distinguished military commanders,—the King of France himself, the Prince of Orange, the Prince de Condé, the Elector of Brandenburg, the Swedish General Wrangel, and above all, the two heroes, Marshal Turenne and the Count de Montecuculi, who now disputed with each other the passage of the Rhine. A paragraph in the life of the former, from which we have so freely quoted, in speaking of the rival generals, draws so good a parallel that we are tempted to transcribe it verbatim:—
‘Les yeux de toute l’Europe furent fixés sur ces deux grands capitaines, tous deux à peu près du même âge, qui avoient eu la même éducation, formés par deux oncles rivaux, le Prince Maurice, et le Comte Ernest, ils avoient porté le mousquet, avant que de parvenir à aucune grade, et acquis par cinquante années de combats une expérience consommée dans toutes les parties de l’art militaire. L’un et l’autre avoit reçu du ciel un esprit supérieur, un jugement solide, et un sangfroid, qui dans un général n’est pas moins nécessaire, que la prévoyance et la valeur. Capitaines par étude, ils combattoient par principes, et ne donnoient presque rien à la fortune. Adorés du soldat, l’amour pour le général plutôt que l’obéissance due au souverain, paroissoit animer l’une et l’autre armée. Ces deux généraux se connoissoient, s’estimoient, et se craignoient mutuellement, ni l’un ni l’autre n’osoit attendre la victoire des fautes de son ennemi, il falloit l’emporter, à force de génie, et de science militaire.’
This last campaign was pronounced by an unquestionable authority to be the chef d’œuvre alike of Turenne and Montecuculi.
Their marches, countermarches, attacks and retreats, were worthy of themselves and of each other; but Turenne was stronger and more active than his rival, who often suffered from gout, which prevented his being as much on horseback as he desired.
On the 27th of July the two armies drew up in order of battle not far from the village of Salzbach, and the position seemed so advantageous for the French troops that Turenne, contrary to his custom, expressed himself most confidently as to the result. That morning, after hearing Mass and partaking of the Holy Communion, the Marshal mounted his horse and carefully reconnoitred the ground.
‘C’en est fait, je les tiens,’ he said to some by-standing officers. ‘Ils ne pourroient plus m’échapper; je vais recueillir les fruits d’une si pénible campagne.’ The hero was indeed about to rest from his labours, but not in the manner he anticipated. Observing a movement in the enemy’s infantry, which he imagined denoted an intention to retreat, he alighted from his charger, and sat down to rest under a large tree and eat his breakfast; after which he again mounted, and rode up a small eminence, forbidding his officers to follow him, and speaking with well-simulated severity to his nephew, the Duc d’Elbeuf, ‘Pray do not stick so close to me,’ he said; ‘you will cause me to be recognised.’ The youth’s life was very dear to him. The English general, Hamilton, now came up, and begged him not to ‘ride up there, for they are firing in that direction.’ Turenne smiled, and said, ‘Oh, I must not be killed to-day,’ and passed on his way. He then met General St. Hilaire, who asked his opinion of the spot at which he had stationed a battery. Turenne reined back his horse a few paces in order to judge, when a stray shot shattered St. Hilaire’s arm, and lodged in the middle of the Marshal’s body. His favourite charger, ‘La Pie,’ wheeled round, and galloped back to the point where he had left his company, then, halting suddenly, the lifeless body of Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne fell into the arms of his weeping soldiers. Twice he opened his eyes and moved his lips, but never spoke again; while St. Hilaire thus addressed his son, who was lamenting over his father’s sufferings: ‘Keep your tears,’ he said, ‘for the great man whom we have this day lost.’ The consternation of the spectators of this sad scene was indescribable; no one appeared to have retained his presence of mind. Hamilton ordered a cloak to be thrown over the body, and desired that the Marshal’s death should be kept secret as long as possible, foreseeing the panic which would ensue in the French army. But the news soon spread, and infused fresh vigour into the enemy’s troops. The gallant and generous Montecuculi, on hearing his great rival was no more, was much affected, and uttered these memorable words (no insignificant or inappropriate epitaph), ‘Il est mort! un homme qui faisoit honneur à l’homme.’ The intelligence spread from rank to rank, and was at first received in dead silence, broken after a few moments by sobs, and the loud cry, ‘Our father is dead, and we are lost!’ Then they rushed in crowds to gaze on his dead body, and called on their officers to lead them on to revenge his death. But no one seemed willing to take the command. There was delay and deliberation, till the soldiers again burst forth angrily, ‘Lâchez la Pie, elle nous conduira.’
The Marshal’s death changed and reversed the plans of both armies. The French began to retire, the Imperialists to advance, and on the 29th a desperate battle took place, with considerable loss on both sides, after which the French crossed the Rhine in retreat. So strong was their belief, even to superstition, in the ruling star of Turenne, that some soldiers were overheard to say, ‘If our father had been alive we should not have been wounded.’
On their march to Paris, the troops paid funeral honours to their beloved commander,—his nephews and brother officers with crape-bound arms, the soldiers with muskets reversed, the voice of the officiating priest often inaudible from the sobs and lamentations of the mourners. The King was deeply affected, as we learn from Madame de Sévigné’s touching letter to her daughter, and all the more so, that he received a despatch from the Marshal, full of the most sanguine anticipations of coming victory simultaneously with the account of his death. So deep a sensation was produced at Court, that, marvellous to relate, a projected fête that was to have taken place at Versailles was postponed, and a courtier was on the point of fainting!
When the hero’s body reached Paris, the King ordered it to be placed in the Chapel of St. Denis, usually allotted to the Royal family. It was not only in the French capital that people of all classes came to swell the funeral procession, artisans leaving their work unfinished for that purpose, but all the way along the road from the Rhine country, marks of honour and respect were paid, alike by friend and foe. The Court, the Parliament, the University, the Municipality, all attended the Marshal’s funeral, and the most celebrated divines vied with one another in eulogising him from the pulpit. Père Mascaron, in his funeral oration, says, ‘Au milieu du tumulte et du bruit des armes, les sentimens du chrétien, accompagnoient, animoient, et perfectionnoient, en lui, ceux du heros.’
In emergencies his decisions were prompt; where the matter did not press he took time to consider. His military skill needs no encomium; to that his whole life bore testimony. His early education had taught him to revere discipline, and he consequently submitted willingly to those in authority, except—as in the case of the Prime Minister Louvois, who presumed to dictate to him on military tactics—when they interfered in matters with which they were not competent to deal. The love his soldiers bore him bordered upon worship, and he returned their affection. Although a strict disciplinarian, he always tempered justice with mercy; he shared the hardships of the men, and ministered to their comforts, frequently paying out of his own privy purse the arrears which he could not wring from the Government. His compassion to his prisoners made him esteemed among his enemies; and he was most severe in the prohibition of pillage. In one of his campaigns (we allude to it with deep regret), his own troops, driven to terrible straits in the matter of provisions, and burning with the desire to take reprisals for cruelties practised on their countrymen, Turenne not only sanctioned, but enforced, devastation and destruction in the Palatinate; so much so, that the Elector wrote him a furious letter, terminating with a challenge. His love of truth was proverbial; his simple word outweighed the oaths of other men, and his own memoirs vouch for his modesty of speech. When he alluded to a defeat, he used to say, ‘The battle I lost;’ when to a victory, ‘The battle we gained.’ He was moral and religious; he hated excess of any kind, and, with the exception of occasional attacks of gout, his health was good to the end. In appearance, Turenne was about the middle height, broad shoulders, bushy eyebrows, and rather heavy features; simple but decent in dress.
In youth he had loved athletic exercises and military studies too well to give his thoughts to other branches of learning; but as years passed on, he became aware how necessary is general knowledge to a commander, and he gave his mind to the study of history, geography, languages, etc. He was not carried away by impulse, but calm in adversity as in prosperity, unmoved by abuse or praise, he went like an arrow straight to the mark. His pride was that of birth; his glory was in the honour of his house, never in his own. He treated his brother as a sovereign, and even yielded the pas to his nephew, while he, the latter, was still a child.
Numerous anecdotes are told of Turenne, which redound to his advantage. An officer, wishing to ingratiate himself with the general, showed him a way to obtain a large sum of money, and ‘no one be the wiser.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Turenne coldly; ‘I have had plenty of such chances before now, without taking advantage of them.’
Another time, the inhabitants of a certain town came to offer him a considerable bribe if he would not pass through their district. ‘Keep your money,’ was the reply; ‘you do not lie in my line of march.’
Walking one evening on the ramparts of a town, he was attacked by several robbers, who insisted on his giving them a ring he habitually wore. The Marshal calmly began to parley with them. ‘See, my friends,’ he said, ‘we will come to terms. If you will leave me in possession of that trinket, I will promise you a hundred louis, which is considerably above its value. I have not the money on my person, but if one of you will come and claim it to-morrow, I will guarantee your safety.’
No one ever doubted the Marshal’s given word. The next morning, surrounded by his staff, Turenne received the robbers’ messenger, and giving him the money, dismissed him with courtesy, much to the surprise and amusement of his officers, when made acquainted with the facts of the case.
One day a servant of his household, coming behind him so quickly as not to recognise the Marshal, dealt him a heavy blow; overcome with confusion, the man apologised in the humblest terms, offering as an excuse that he thought it was a fellow-servant. ‘Well,’ said his master, smiling good-naturedly, though still smarting from the blow, ‘even if it had been George, you need not have hit so hard.’
Turenne was mourned, not only by his countrymen and his allies, but his very enemies showed the greatest respect for his memory. The spot where he fell was left untouched, and the tree under which he had reposed shortly before his death was held sacred by the peasants, and pointed out by them to passers-by. Neither did it perish through decay, but was carried off branch by branch as trophies, by soldiers of all nations. In 1781 the Cardinal de Rohan erected a monument to his memory at Salzbach, which was repaired by Moreau in 1801, and about thirty years afterwards a large pyramid of granite was raised on the spot.
Many and strange were the vicissitudes which befell the body of this great man. It was placed (as we have said) in the Royal Chapel of St. Denis, by order of Louis XIV., and when the tombs of the royal family were desecrated in the Revolution of 1793, Turenne’s embalmed body was so well preserved as to be an object of desire to the owner of a Museum of Natural History. He gained permission to place it there, and it was exhibited among the skeletons and fossils of animals for some time, and then removed to an antiquarian museum for the edification of its members. Buonaparte, who had a profound admiration for the memory of the great soldier, caused the remains to be carried with much solemnity to the Church of the Invalides, and there deposited, while the Marshal’s heart, which had been placed in the Abbey of Cluny, was restored to his family.
This splendid picture is said to be the only equestrian portrait extant by Rembrandt. Its date has been given 1649-1650, when it is said in a Life of the painter that Turenne passed a month in Holland, and this picture was most probably painted. It was bought in 1740 by the Earl of Grantham (father-in-law to the second Earl Cowper) from a private collection at Amsterdam.
No. 2.
THREE CHILDREN, ARCHDUCHESSES OF AUSTRIA.
White quilted frocks. One child holds a bird. One is in a cradle with a blue coverlet.
By Titian.
No. 3.
ANDREA VANNUCCHI DETTO DEL SARTO.
Seated writing at a table, with striped cover. Black dress and cap.
BORN 1488, DIED 1530.
By Himself.
HE was the son of a tailor in Florence; and this trade, which is so often (for one reason or another) spoken of derisively in England, has surely gained to Italian ears a species of glorification, from the sobriquet attached to this illustrious painter. When only seven years old, the little Andrea was taken from the school where he received instruction in reading and writing, and placed with a goldsmith in the city. Even at that tender age his predilection for drawing, and even designing, showed itself, and, in like manner, his aversion to handling the mechanical instruments used in the handicraft. Indeed, the boy’s drawings were so clever as to attract the attention of one Gian Barile, a Florentine painter; so much so, that he did not rest until he had secured Andrea for his own studio; and as old Vasari quaintly says, ‘No sooner did the boy begin to exercise himself in the art of painting than he acknowledged that Nature had created him for that employment.’ In a very short space of time, Andrea, or Del Sarto, as he was called, produced such excellent pieces of colour as to excite the admiration of his master and all the artists in Florence, more especially Piero Cosimo, whose works were much esteemed in the city, and who proceeded to engage Andrea as his pupil. Nothing could be more diligent than the young man proved himself, studying and copying the cartoons of Michel Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, etc., which were allotted the scholars as models; and he surpassed all his fellow-workers in the studio and academy, with one of whom, Francia Bigio, he soon formed an intimate friendship. One day, working, as was their custom, side by side, the two young men began to compare notes, with respect to the manner in which they were treated by their respective masters; they had each complaints to make; they were each discontented with their lot. After some little discussion, they resolved to set up house, or rather to take a room, together, which they accordingly did, in the Piazza del Grano. Here they laboured diligently, painting chiefly sacred subjects for galleries, churches, etc., both in oil and in fresco. There was at that time a confraternity, ‘Detto del Scalzo,’ whose meetings were held in the Via Larga. They were formed for the most part of the artificers of the city, but included men of all classes, who met for charitable and religious purposes; although not essentially a religious order, they took the name of The Scalzo, from the fact that when they met in prayer, or to walk in procession, they went barefoot. This company was most desirous that Andrea del Sarto should adorn the walls of their court with paintings from the life of their patron saint, St. John the Baptist. The company was not very wealthy, neither was our painter grasping, whatever may have been said of him later on, when subjected to a bad influence. He cheerfully undertook the work for a small remuneration, and reaped his reward, for these frescoes added so considerably to his fame that innumerable orders came in from all sides. He now moved to better quarters (in company with Francia Bigio), from the Piazza del Grano to a house situated in the neighbourhood of the Annunziata, where he made acquaintance with Jacopo Tatti, better known as the celebrated Sansovino, in whose society and conversation Andrea took so much delight that the two young enthusiasts in art became almost inseparable. Del Sarto was now gaining a good income, and might have been happy in the company of his friends, and the pursuit of his beloved art, but for a false step which involved his whole life in ruin and disaster. In the Via San Gallo lived a certain hatter, who had married Lucrezia Bartolommeo de Fede, the daughter of indigent and ill-conditioned parents. She was a young woman of exceeding beauty, violent and arrogant by nature, exercising a tyrannical influence over her many admirers, of whom Andrea was one of the most infatuated. Unfortunately for our painter, the husband died suddenly, and nothing would content Del Sarto but he would immediately espouse his inamorata. From the very beginning of their married life she possessed such a mastery over him that he was her slave in everything, and spent all his time and money on her and her relations, neglecting, in consequence, his own aged parents, whom he had hitherto supported. His friends shunned his society, his servants quitted his service, so ungenial and unamiable was the behaviour of Lucrezia.
The fame of Del Sarto’s great talent had reached the ears of Francis I., King of France, who gave him orders for pictures, and invited him to Paris—a proposition which smiled upon Andrea; but he was detained in Florence to assist in the splendid decorations of the city, in which all the painters, sculptors, and architects were employed, to celebrate the triumphal entry of Pope Leo X., of the house of Medici; and the beautiful works of Andrea on this occasion inspired his Holiness with unqualified admiration. The unworthy woman to whom he was united interfered with his advancement in every way; although unable to throw off the spell by which she bound him, he began to find her tyranny irksome, and he listened to the advice of a friend, who bade him separate from her for a season, and assert his independence. This was in 1518, when Francis I., having renewed his invitation to our painter to enter his service, Del Sarto gladly accepted the money which had been sent him for the journey, and proceeded to Paris, where the King received him with every mark of distinction, and gave him a settled salary, together with gifts and garments of most costly description. Caressed and admired by the monarch and his whole Court, Andrea set to work in high spirits, and began, as it were, a new life. Amongst other pictures, he painted one of the King’s infant son, in rich swaddling-clothes, which so delighted Francis that he gave the artist on the spot three hundred dollars. This was a happy period in Andrea’s life; he painted numerous portraits and historical and sacred pictures for the King and his courtiers, and was much esteemed by all. These halcyon days were not destined to be of long duration. He was occupied in finishing a St. Jerome for the Queen-Mother when he received a letter from his evil genius; in this epistle Lucrezia appealed to his affection, his compassion, his duty as a husband, coaxing, menacing, exciting his easily roused feelings, and working on them so strongly as to make him seek the Royal presence and ask leave of absence, promising to return shortly with his wife, and to bring with him some fine works of painting and sculpture. He pledged his solemn word to this effect, and the generous-hearted King furnished him with fresh funds for the journey and the commission.
On his arrival in Florence, once more under the sway of his unworthy wife, Andrea gave in to her every wish, and with the money that he had made, and, it is also to be feared, the sums intrusted to him by the French King, he built a house, and lavished large sums on Lucrezia and her family, still to the detriment of his own parents. When the time of his leave had expired, he made a feeble attempt to return to his duty, but he could not withstand the prayers, tears, and expostulations of his wife, and thus broke his plighted word, and relinquished his hopes of honourable advancement in France. The King, exasperated at such conduct, expressed himself in most indignant terms, and vowed he would never harbour another painter from Florence. Thus was Andrea hurled from a high and honourable estate by the wicked woman he had made his wife,—the model for almost every picture he painted, sacred or secular, and whose lineaments were so vividly impressed on his memory that he often involuntarily reproduced them on canvas.
Leo X. had given a commission for the ornamentation and decoration of the dome of the great hall at Poggi a Cajano, one of the Medicean villas near Florence, to be executed in stucco and frescoes by the best Florentine artists, and Andrea’s contribution on that occasion is described in glowing terms by his admirer Vasari. It represented Cæsar receiving the present of innumerable animals of every description, the delineation of which, in their truth and variety, could not be surpassed. He interspersed the birds and beasts with Oriental natives in picturesque costume, and we quote Vasari’s words, ‘Altre belle fantasie, lavorate in fresco divinissimamente.’ The choice of this subject was supposed to convey an allusion to the menagerie of animals which had been sent to Lorenzo the Magnificent some years before by an Eastern potentate.
The works at Poggi a Cajano were stopped in consequence of the death of Pope Leo, and Andrea’s fresco was afterwards finished by Bronzino. He began bitterly to repent his ingratitude to the French King, and if he had had the slightest hope of obtaining pardon, he would have risked going to Paris. Several times he resolved to send some of his best pictures to the French capital, with the chance of their meeting the King’s eye, but the idea was relinquished. In 1523 the beautiful city of Florence and its environs were visited by the plague, which caused a terrible mortality; but in that country everything that happens seems to tend to picturesque and poetical results, and all the world knows how Boccaccio glorified that affliction by the production of his Decameron.
Andrea, with his wife and daughter-in-law, her sister, and a child, desirous of escaping from the infected neighbourhood, and at the same time to continue his labours, gladly accepted an order from the nuns of San Pier de Luco, of the Order of Camaldoli, to paint for them a Pieta in their convent at Mugello. In consequence of these holy women caressing and making much of the painter, his wife, and the whole ‘troop,’ he determined to stay on for some time in that place, and set himself to work with great zeal and delight. Vasari’s descriptions of the beauty and pathos of these paintings are most eloquent in their old-world style of expression; we regret we have no space for extracts. On his return to Florence, Del Sarto resumed his labours, and executed orders without number, chiefly on sacred subjects. He was as skilful in his copying as in his original paintings, and a curious anecdote is given in illustration of this fact.
Frederick, the second Duke of Mantua, in his passage through Florence to do homage to Pope Clement VII., saw the celebrated portrait of Pope Leo X., with two Cardinals, the work of the immortal Raphael d’Urbino, with which he was so much struck, as to excite in him an inordinate desire to possess that splendid picture; and he made so urgent a request to his Holiness that Clement knew not how to refuse him, but sent Ottaviano de Medici, his kinsman, an order to send the painting to Mantua.
This command was received with dismay at Florence,—for was not that portrait one of the glories of the city? In this strait Ottaviano sent for Andrea, took counsel with him, and it was arranged between them that Del Sarto should make an exact copy of this capo d’ opera of Raphael, which he executed with such skill in every respect,—not only as regarded the excellence of the drawing and colouring, but also the reproduction of certain little marks and after-touches and other details,—so much so that, when completed, Ottaviano himself confessed he could scarcely detect the original. The two conspirators were delighted with the success of their scheme, and the Duke was in like manner delighted with the picture when it was unpacked at Mantua. Giulio Romano, Raphael’s disciple and own familiar friend, who was there at the time, never doubted its authenticity for a moment. But there was a small bird of the air that carried the matter, and this was young Giorgio Vasari, who had been brought up in the household of the Medici, and who, when asked by Giulio Romano if he did not think the portrait in question a splendid work of Raphael, replied that it was indeed splendid, although not the work of Raphael, but of Andrea del Sarto. ‘As if it were likely,’ said Giulio, ‘that I should not recognise the painting! Why, I can see the very touches I myself added to it.’ ‘For all that,’ persisted the youth, ‘this picture is from the hands of Del Sarto, and I saw him working at it with my own eyes; and I will prove it to you. If you will look at the back, you will see a mark which shows that it was executed in Florence.’ Giulio Romano turned the picture, and finding the mark which confirmed Vasari’s words, he could only shrug his shoulders and acknowledge the wonderful talent of the painter, who had made a perfect facsimile of one of Raphael’s masterpieces.
Yet one more anecdote, to illustrate the admiration which Andrea’s works inspired, and we have done.
At the siege of Florence, in 1529, the infuriated soldiery were sacking the town, especially the sacred buildings. They had already destroyed the church and belfry of San Salvi, and rushing into the convent, undisciplined as they were, their attention was arrested by the fresco of Andrea del Sarto’s Last Supper, by some esteemed the rival of Leonardo’s Cenacolo at Milan. This divine painting had such an effect on the minds of those rude men, excited as they were, that, after gazing on it for a short time in reverence, they left the room in silence, thus sparing that incomparable work for the wonder and reverence of upwards of three centuries. After the siege was over, Andrea still cherished a hope of some day regaining the favour of Francis I., and kept revolving in his mind how to do so, when he was taken suddenly ill. Some soldiers who had returned to Florence were said to have brought back the plague, and food was supposed to have become infected. Whether or not Andrea’s sickness were of this nature, it is certain he took to his bed, and gave himself up for lost. His worthless wife fled in terror, leaving him to die alone, without help or comfort. The brethren Del Scalzo, for whom he had worked so assiduously, gave him burial, though with great haste and little ceremony, and a monument was raised to him in the Annunziata by one of his pupils, with a Latin epitaph, most eulogistic. Lucrezia del Fede survived Andrea many years, and received payment after his death for the works of that husband whose life she had helped to make miserable. Her death took place in 1570.
No. 4.
PORTRAIT OF AN ITALIAN LADY.
By Andrea del Sarto.
No. 5.
PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF THE FATTORE OF SAN MARCO, AT FLORENCE.
By Andrea del Sarto.
No. 6.
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
Nearly the same dress and attitude as the former Portrait.
By Himself.
No. 7.
TOMMASO GUIDI, DETTO MASACCIO.
Bright scarlet suit. Black cap.
BORN 1402, DIED 1443. DATES NOT VERY CERTAIN.
SON of Ser Giovanni Simone, da Castello di San Giovanni, in Val d’Arno. From his earliest years he cared for nothing but art. Nature designed him for a painter, and no other amusement or occupation had any charms for Tommaso. He cared not for money, he did not study his appearance as is the way with most youths, and from a certain recklessness and lack of interest in his surroundings, he acquired for himself the epithet of Masaccio,—most assuredly not from any bad quality that could be discovered in him, for he was goodness itself. His masters were Masolino de Panicale in painting, Ghiberti and Donatello in sculpture, and Brunelleschi in perspective. Could the young aspirant have had more illustrious teachers?
He worked assiduously, and received many commissions, chiefly for the decoration of churches, both in Florence and Pisa, the excellence of which gained him the friendship and patronage of Cosimo de Medici, who was always ready to encourage merit in any branch, more especially in the fine arts. When dark days fell on Florence, and Cosimo was exiled, Masaccio determined to go to Rome and study the antique. The Pope gave him many orders, and his paintings in Santa Maria Maggiore gained him lasting fame, and called forth enthusiastic expressions of admiration from Michel Angelo many years later. Masaccio was very fond of introducing portraits into his pictures and frescoes, and in this church he painted Pope Martin and the Emperor Sigismund II. He was busied over the façade of San Giovanni, when, hearing his friend Cosimo had been recalled to Florence, he lost no time in joining him. Cosimo gave him orders innumerable, and the facility with which Masaccio executed them was only equalled by their excellence. The notice which was taken of him in high places, and the superiority of his talents, caused great jealousy among his fellow-artists, but he worked on. In the church of the Carmine he painted a procession of citizens repairing to the consecration of the sacred building, introducing therein innumerable portraits, amongst others his masters, Masolino, Brunelleschi, Donatello, etc.,—all marvellous, says Vasari, in their truth and beauty. Later on, in a painting of St. Peter paying tribute, he depicted his own likeness, taken from the reflection in a looking-glass, which is described as to the very life.
He was attacked by sudden illness in the midst of his successful career, under which he soon succumbed, and was buried in the church of the Carmine without an epitaph on the stone, but Annibal Caro wrote the following in later years:—
‘Pinsi, e la mia Pittura, al ver, fu pari;
L’ atteggiai, l’ avvivai, le diedi il moto
Le diedi affetto. Insegni il Bonarroto
A tutti gli altri, e da me solo impari.’
No. 8.
ALGERNON PERCY, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
Black dress. White collar. Blue ribbon.
BORN 1602, DIED 1668.
By Vandyck.
THE third son of Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumberland, by Dorothy, daughter of Walter Devereux, Earl of Sussex. Educated at Christ Church, Oxford, under Robert Hughes, the celebrated mathematician, and in 1616 was one of the youthful Knights of the Bath at the creation of Charles, Prince of Wales.
On the accession of that Prince to the Throne, he was called by writ to the House of Peers (his father being then alive) as Baron Percy.
He afterwards, as Privy Councillor, attended the King to Scotland for his coronation, having by that time succeeded to his father’s titles and estates.
In 1636 he had the command of a noble fleet,—the largest, says Lodge, since the death of Queen Elizabeth.
Lord Northumberland was much commended for his services in the expedition against the Dutch fishery, making advantageous terms for the King of England, after which he turned his time and thoughts to reforming many abuses then prevalent in the Navy.
In 1637 he was named Lord High Admiral, and in 1639 commander of the troops marching against the Scots, but was prevented—so he pleaded—from joining the army by illness, when the real command devolved on the Earl of Stafford. Clarendon says, ‘Lord Northumberland was chosen for ornament.’ It appears by a letter to his brother-in-law (Lord Leicester) that he had most gloomy forebodings as to the result of the enterprise, which ‘it grieves my soul to be involved in.’ An incident occurred shortly afterwards, which does not redound to the credit of the Earl of Northumberland.
We will give an abridged account of Lord Clarendon’s version. Henry Percy, a zealous Royalist, brother to the Earl of Northumberland, was on his way to France, on the King’s service, just at the time that the Commons had petitioned Charles to prohibit any of his servants leaving England. Striving to embark, he was attacked and wounded by the people of the Sussex coast, and narrowly escaped with his life to a place of concealment, whence he wrote to his brother in a private and confidential manner. Northumberland carried the letter to the House of Commons (which had already voted an impeachment of high treason against Henry Percy), and laid the document upon the table. Clarendon makes but a lame defence for his conduct on the part of the elder brother, who was, he said, ‘in great trouble how to send Henry in safety beyond seas, when his wound was cured, he having taken shelter at Northumberland House.’
But the end of the matter was, that Henry did escape from England, and there was enmity between the brethren from that day forth. This was the first time in which Northumberland ‘showed his defection from the King’s cause, and Charles had been a good friend to him, and laden him with bounties.’
He acted in direct opposition to the King’s commands, when he obeyed those of the Parliament, to equip the Royal Navy, and to appoint the Earl of Warwick Admiral of the Fleet.
In 1642 he resigned his commission of Lord High Admiral, and openly abandoned his allegiance, siding with the Parliamentarians; and though their faith was rather shaken in him on one occasion, he was too valuable an ally to quarrel with.
Northumberland was appointed head of the Commissioners employed to negotiate with the King, in the several treaties of Oxford, Uxbridge, etc., and was intrusted with the custody of the Royal children, which he retained until the King’s death. It would appear that he had at least the grace to facilitate their interviews with their unhappy and loving father, and that he cared for the wellbeing of his Royal wards. They were subsequently committed to the guardianship of his sister, the Countess of Leicester, and were removed to her Lord’s house of Penshurst in Kent.
Words, in truth, Lord Northumberland used to prevent the execution of the King, but his deeds had hastened the catastrophe. We are told he ‘detested the murder.’ Immediately after Charles’s death Northumberland repaired to his seat at Petworth, in Sussex, where he remained until 1660, when he joined Monck in his exertions to bring about the Restoration. He held no public office under Charles II., excepting the Lord-Lieutenancies of Sussex and Northumberland. Clarendon, in a long character of him, says: ‘His temper and reservedness in discourse got him the reputation of a wise man. In his own family no one was ever more absolutely obeyed, or had fewer idle words to answer for;’ and, alluding to his defection from the Royal cause, ‘After he was first prevailed upon not to do that which in honour and gratitude he was obliged to, he was with the more facility led to concur in what in duty and fidelity he ought not to have done, and so he concurred in all the counsels which produced the Rebellion, and stayed with them to support it.’
He took great delight in his gardens and plantations at Petworth, where he resided in the summer, but in the winter he was much in town, attending to his Parliamentary duties. He had two wives: the first was Lady Anne Cecil, daughter to Thomas, second Earl of Salisbury. On her death we hear Lord Northumberland ‘is a very sad man, and his sister (Lady Leicester) has gone to comfort him.’ By Lady Anne he had five daughters. His second wife was the second daughter of Theophilus Howard, second Earl of Suffolk, who brought him in Northumberland House in London, originally called Northampton House. Sion House had been granted by the Crown to the ninth Earl. Evelyn went to see it, and thought it ‘pretty, but the garden more celebrated than it deserved.’
By Lady Elizabeth Howard, who long survived her husband, he had an only son and heir, and a daughter, who died unmarried. Algernon, Earl of Northumberland, was buried at Petworth, in Sussex.
No. 9.
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK.
Black dress. White collar.
BORN 1599, DIED 1641.
A Head by Himself.
A NATIVE of Antwerp, his father, a merchant in silk and woollen stuffs, was himself a painter in glass, whose first wife, Cornelia Kerseboom, dying without children, he married again one Maria Cuypers, by whom he had a large family, Anthony being the seventh, a proverbially magic number. The Vandycks were strenuous adherents of the Church of Rome, and two of our painter’s sisters became nuns, while one of his brothers took Holy Orders. Maria Vandyck was a skilful artist in embroidery, her works being much admired, and she encouraged her boy’s taste for drawing, in the rudiments of which he received instruction from his father. When about ten years of age he was placed under the tuition of Henry van Balen, a much-esteemed painter, who had studied in Italy. Here young Vandyck remained some time, but he had fixed his heart on becoming the pupil of his already famous fellow-citizen, Peter Paul Rubens; and that desire was fulfilled. His remarkable talent and his untiring industry made him a favourite both with master and scholars, when an incident happened which brought the youth into prominent notice. It so chanced that one afternoon, when Rubens was absent, that the students invaded the sanctity of the private studio, and in the exuberance of animal spirits began to indulge in some rough play. An unfinished Holy Family stood on the easel, the colours not yet dry, and in the course of the ‘bear-fight’ one of his companions pushed Van Diepenbeke so heavily against the precious canvas that the arm of the Magdalene and the head of the Virgin were nearly effaced, and the colours all smudged. The general consternation may be easily conceived; a council of war was held, and the decision arrived at that the most skilful among the students should endeavour to repair the mischief as best he could. Jan van Hoeck proposed Vandyck for the work, and the choice was unanimously approved, for in such a case there was no room for rivalry. Anthony set to work in right earnest; there was not a moment to be lost. He had but a few hours of daylight to complete his task, but he accomplished it before nightfall. Early next morning the dreaded moment arrived. Rubens entered his studio in order to examine the work of the preceding evening, when he pronounced the memorable words, which seemed to bestow a diploma on his young disciple,—‘Why, this looks better than it did yesterday!’ Then, approaching nearer, he detected the traces of a strange hand. Investigation and explanation followed, and Vandyck came in for great praise from the lips of his loved master.
Idle tales have been told of the jealousy subsisting between these two great painters, while, on the contrary, every recorded instance seems to prove how close was their friendship. Rubens was most desirous that his talented pupil should proceed to Italy to study the works of the great masters, and extend his connection with the world, but in the meantime Vandyck received an invitation to England. The first visit he paid to our country was short and unsatisfactory; and there are so many discrepancies in the accounts given of the work done at that period, and his reasons for leaving somewhat abruptly, that we refrain from entering on the subject. From England he proceeded to the Hague, where he painted portraits of every class and denomination of person, commencing with the whole family and Court of the Stadtholder, Henry Frederic, including every member of the illustrious house of Nassau. Nobles, warriors, statesmen, burghers, all vied for the honour of sitting to him.
In 1622 the news of his father’s illness recalled him to Antwerp. He arrived just in time to receive that father’s last farewell, and listen to his last injunctions. Franz Vandyck made his son promise to paint an altar-piece for the chapel of the Dominican Sisters, who had nursed him tenderly during his illness,—a pledge nobly redeemed by Anthony, though the execution was postponed for a time. He then took leave of his master, to whom he presented, at parting, three pictures, one of which was the likeness of Rubens’s first wife.
Our painter now set his face towards Italy, but he did not get far on his road without a hindrance. The story of the little episode we are about to relate is so differently given, that we only pretend to offer the most likely version.
At Brussels, where Vandyck tarried, the Infanta Isabella gave him a commission to paint the mistress of her Highness’s favourite hounds, a beautiful girl, by the name of Anna von Orphen. We are not told why a maiden of lowly origin was chosen for a place, though not very exalted, about Court, unless it were on account of her loveliness. But the portrait was executed, and Anna appeared, surrounded by her pack, each dog having its name duly inscribed on the canvas.
The picture is mentioned as being at the castle of Tervueren, near Brussels, in 1763. Vandyck speedily fell a victim to the charms of the lovely villager of Saventheim, and at her cottage he whiled away some months, to the great indignation of Rubens, who continued to write and expostulate with his former pupil, pointing out to him the value and importance of the time he was losing. Vandyck, however, was not wholly idle while at Saventheim; he painted (it is said at the instigation of his mistress) two pictures: one a Holy Family, in which he introduced likenesses of Anna and her family, and the other a St. Martin, being his own portrait, riding a horse which Rubens had given him. The last-mentioned painting was held in such high estimation by the inhabitants of Saventheim, that on three separate occasions, at the interval of many years, the peasantry rose en masse to prevent the treasure from being carried away, either by fraud or purchase.
At length Rubens hit on an expedient to extricate his friend from the spells of his rustic Armida. He sent the Chevalier Nanni, who was en route for Italy, to urge on Vandyck the expediency of accompanying him thither. The arguments chosen were successful; the lovers parted with mutual regret. Poor Anna was left disconsolate, and Vandyck set forth on a journey which was destined to be a triumphal progress. We have no space to detail his residence at Venice, where he studied Titian and Veronese, or his still longer sojourn at Genoa, where he became the favourite guest of the proudest nobles of the proud city, in which almost every palace is enriched by the works of the great Fleming, chiefly consisting of portraits, with a sprinkling of sacred subjects. This was the period when, as Vandyck afterwards confessed, he painted for fame, and not alone for money. At Rome, where he remained several years, the first order he undertook was the world-renowned portrait of Cardinal Bentivoglio, which, when once seen, attracted crowds of sitters to the studio, as at Genoa, including not only the nobility of the city, but most of the visitors sojourning there at the time. A most curious portrait of that period may now be seen at Petworth, representing Sir Robert Shirley, who had come from the East on a mission to his Holiness, representing him and his Persian wife both in Oriental costume. In the Duke of Buccleuch’s invaluable collection of miniatures there is a most eccentric effigy of this same lady, in the dress—or shall we say undress?—of her country.
On leaving Rome, many writers say driven thence by the jealousy of fellow-artists, especially among his own countrymen, Vandyck proceeded via Florence to visit the more northern cities of Italy, and after paying a second visit to his favourite Genoa, he sailed with his friend, the Chevalier Nanni, for Sicily, whither he had been invited by Prince Philibert of Savoy, who sat to him, as did also the famous painter Sofonisba Angusciola, celebrated alike for her talents and her romantic adventures. This remarkable woman was in her ninety-second year, and quite blind, but her mind was clear, and her love of art as keen as ever; and Vandyck said he had learned more from the conversation of this blind old lady than from all his former studies.
There is a charming portrait of her by her own hand, when young and handsome, in the collection of Earl Spencer at Althorp. Vandyck was driven from Sicily by the breaking out of the plague, and he once more set out for Antwerp, which he reached about the end of 1626. In his native city he at first shared the proverbial fate of the prophet in his own country; he found few patrons, and many cavilled at the prices, which were less than had been gladly paid him in Italy. Rubens came to his rescue by buying every completed picture in his studio, and, departing from Antwerp on diplomatic missions (from the Archduchess Isabella) to Portugal and England, left his friend Vandyck the undisputed master of the field.
His hands were now full. Orders from numerous religious fraternities in the city and neighbourhood, anxious to enrich their several churches and chapels, poured in on all sides, and the candidates for the honour of sitting to the great painter were incalculable. Yet Vandyck’s cup was mingled with gall, through the envy and jealousy of his fellow-artists, who attacked and traduced him on all occasions. He paid another short visit to England, where the Earl of Northumberland was his chief patron and employer, and afterwards to Paris; but it was not till 1632 that he listened to the persuasions of the Earl of Arundel (who many years before had admired the early promise of Vandyck’s talent), and once more went over to England. In consequence of the death of Buckingham, who literally ‘brooked no rival near the throne,’ Lord Arundel was in high favour with his Royal master, and King and subject were alike enthusiastic worshippers of art.
Vandyck was received at Court with every mark of distinction. Charles I. provided apartments for him, and in all respects treated him as a personal friend, taking the greatest delight in his society. It was supposed that his Majesty had even entertained the idea of building a house expressly for his guest, since among the State papers, in the handwriting of one of the officials, there is an entry, ‘Things to be done: to speak with Inigo Jones concerning a house for Vandike.’
The painter was however well lodged at Blackfriars, and a pleasant summer residence at Eltham was also allotted him. Indeed, wherever he went, Anthony Vandyck was the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all eyes. Pre-eminently handsome, brilliant in conversation, a good linguist, an enlightened traveller, even without the crowning quality of his splendid talent, the painter must assuredly have proved a shining light in the refined and aristocratic circles of the English capital. Courted in society, foremost in art, crowds resorted to his studio. The King himself was not only his constant sitter, but often dropped down the river in his royal barge as far as Blackfriars, to pass a pleasant hour, and gossip of art and artists with his newly-created knight, Sir Anthony Vandyck, to whom he had presented a valuable miniature of himself, splendidly set with diamonds. Neither of their Majesties ever appeared wearied of sitting for their portraits to their ‘Painter in Ordinary,’ and few records of a sad life can be more touching than the three heads (at Windsor Castle) of Henrietta Maria, in which Vandyck so truthfully delineated the mental and physical changes wrought by grief and misfortune.
Amongst Vandyck’s closest and most intimate friends may be reckoned the Earl of Strafford, whose noble and characteristic countenance gazes intently at us from the walls of so many dwelling-houses, and who was said to have sat oftener to his artist friend than any one in England, with the exception of Charles I. and his Queen. Sir Kenelm Digby was another of Sir Anthony’s chosen companions, and the portraits of the learned knight and his beautiful wife, Venetia Stanley, have become familiar to us by the magic touches of Vandyck’s brush. On the sudden and mysterious death of the ‘divine Venetia,’ her widower summoned the great painter to portray, for the last time, that lovely countenance in ‘a calm unbroken sleep, that hath no awakening,’—a beautiful and touching picture, which forms one of the gems of Lord Spencer’s collection. Notwithstanding the number of his sitters, and the large sums (by comparison) paid for his paintings, Sir Anthony was invariably in pecuniary difficulties. Luxurious in his manner of living, splendid even to ostentation in his dress and equipages, his hospitality was boundless, his generosity to struggling members of his own profession proverbial. Added to all his other expenses, there was invariably a Margaret Lemon, or one of her class, ever ready to drain his purse. On the subject of his monetary troubles, the noble knight was candid and outspoken. One day the King and Lord Arundel were sitting in intimate conversation with the painter in his studio at Blackfriars, when Charles began a sorrowful dissertation on his own lack of money. Turning to Sir Anthony, he said with a smile, ‘And you, Sir Knight, has it ever happened to you to be at a loss where to turn for one or two thousand pounds?’ ‘Sire,’ was the reply, ‘when a painter keeps an open house for his friends, and an open purse for his mistresses, he is not unlikely to have empty coffers.’ It was doubtless on account of these pecuniary difficulties that Vandyck in his latter days painted in so hurried and slovenly a manner, as might well have gained him the name of ‘Fa Presto.’ He got into the habit of intrusting many of the details of his paintings to the numerous scholars in his studio, and the similarity of the shape and character of the hands in his portraits, which has so often been remarked and marvelled at, may surely be accounted for by the fact that he usually painted the hands from those of models of both sexes retained by him for that purpose. Yet there were exceptions to this rule, for Vandyck, who had beautifully formed hands of his own, was a great admirer of that particular personal charm; and an amusing anecdote is told of him, when he had a no less noble sitter than Margaret de Bourbon, daughter to Henry IV. of France. The Royal lady, after watching Vandyck for some time, ventured the question, why he gave so much more attention to the painting of her hands than of her head, or indeed any other detail of the picture. ‘It is, Madam,’ replied Sir Anthony, with a sly smile, ‘that I anticipate a rich compensation from those beautiful white hands.’
It would not have been difficult, by all accounts, for Vandyck to have selected a bride from the noblest and most wealthy in the land, so generally admired was he by the fair sex; but his friends, the King and the Duke of Buckingham, had already arranged a suitable match, desirable in every way, excepting that the lady was poor, a fact which seemed an oversight in the circumstances, or rather in Vandyck’s circumstances.
Mary Ruthven was the granddaughter of the unfortunate Earl of Gowrie. Her father, suspected of complicity in the so-called conspiracy, had in consequence not only been imprisoned, but his property confiscated; therefore the winsome lady’s dower consisted of goodness, beauty, and gentle birth, but tocher the lassie had none, excepting a small portion given her as Lady of the Queen’s Household. She was much esteemed at Court. During his residence in England Vandyck had paid flying visits to his native country, and we hear of him, in 1634, serving as Dean of the Guild of St. Luke’s at Antwerp, which, be it remarked, is the date of the magnificent portrait, in this same gallery of Panshanger, of John of Nassau Siegen, and his family.
After his marriage he proceeded once more with his bride to his native city, where they were received with every possible demonstration of respect and affection. Sir Anthony, then, hearing that Louis XIII. intended to have the walls of the Louvre adorned with paintings, after the fashion of those by Rubens in the Luxembourg, went to Paris in hopes of obtaining the order, but in this design he was frustrated, and, disappointed and depressed, he returned to England. It was a dreary time. His Royal and private friends were all involved in trouble and perplexity, through the gathering of heavy clouds on the political horizon. His friend Lord Strafford had perished on the scaffold; the King was absent from London; the Queen had sought safety in France. Vandyck’s spirits sank, and he gave himself up to a fatal and visionary consolation.
In the pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, he became a professed alchemist, and, as it was well said, ‘the gold he had gained by his labours fast melted away in the crucible.’
He would stand for hours over a hot fire, which conduced not a little to undermine his failing health; he grew haggard and wrinkled while still in the prime of life. The King, on his return to England, hearing of his friend’s illness, sent his own physician to minister to the patient, holding out, it was said, a large sum of money in the event of a cure. But human aid was unavailing; a severe attack of gout, combined with other maladies, proved fatal, and on the 9th December 1641, the man who by many has been esteemed the chief of the world’s portrait-painters breathed his last. Followed by a large retinue of friends, he was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was but eight days before he died that a daughter was born to him, and on the very date of his death there was an entry in the register of St. Anne’s, Blackfriars, ‘Justiniana, daughter of Sir Anthony Vandyck and his lady, baptized 9th December 1641.’
Whatever ignorance or mismanagement of money matters the great painter had shown during his life, his last will was most praiseworthy and considerate in all points, and he had waited until the birth of his child to complete the same. There was not much to leave, but no one he loved or esteemed was forgotten; wife, child, sisters, servants, were all remembered; even the poor in the two parishes—that of his residence and that of his burial—had a small sum dealt out to them. Sir Anthony Vandyck’s widow married a Welsh baronet, Sir Robert Pryse, as his second wife, but they had no children. Justiniana married Sir John Stepney of Prendergast, Pembroke (their grandson was George Stepney, the poet), and her second husband was Martin de Carbonell. She received a pension from King Charles II.
No. 10.
FRANÇOIS DUQUESNOY, DETTO IL FIAMMINGO, SCULPTOR.
Green, red, and white slashed dress. Black cloak. White collar and cuffs. He is sitting.
BORN 1594, DIED 1646.
By Nicholas Poussin.
A NATIVE of Brussels, his father was his first master, and while quite young he found a generous patron in the Archduke Albert of Austria. This Prince gave the youth a pension to enable him to go to Rome, and study the art of sculpture, for which he evinced a considerable talent. But the Duke dying when Fiammingo (as he was called at Rome) was only twenty-five, the young artist found himself in great poverty, and obliged to work very hard to keep the wolf from the door. In the same straits was at that moment the afterwards celebrated painter Nicholas Poussin, and the two students became friends and companions, sharing a scanty but common purse. The painter and the sculptor sympathised in their love of art, but differed in their taste of subjects. Poussin’s tendency was for the severe, Fiammingo’s for the tender; his admiration for the works of Albano led him to the execution of childish forms in every imaginable attitude of grace and beauty; these were seldom of large dimension, but he modelled the ‘Putti’ for the high altar in St. Peter’s, the Santa Susanna in the Church of Our Lady of Loretto, near the Trajan Column, and a colossal St. Andrew, also in St. Peter’s. Bernini, who was evidently jealous of Fiammingo’s talent and popularity, said he was incapable of executing anything more than a gigantic boy, but the admirers of pure art gave the palm to Fiammingo far and away before the mannerist Bernini. Added to his ability, the Flemish sculptor was a conscientious and indefatigable workman. He not only produced statues, but made careful studies in detail of the human figure, the hands and feet in particular; but in spite of his industry he never extricated himself from poverty. In 1646 he meditated going to France, where doubtless his faithful friend, Nicholas Poussin, would have befriended him, but a cruel death awaited him in Rome. He was poisoned by his own brother, Jerome Duquesnoy, himself a sculptor, who was jealous of Fiammingo’s increasing fame. But the murderer did not escape vengeance; found guilty of many crimes, he was (according to the barbarous practice of the age) burned alive at Ghent. Of a gentle, amiable disposition and winning manners, Fiammingo was much esteemed and respected. Poussin and Albano were among his closest friends.
No. 11.
THE WIFE OF CARLO DOLCE.
Red dress. Brown cap. Holds a scroll and an olive branch.
By Carlo Dolce.
THIS painter was born in 1616, and died 1686. His heads of Madonnas, female saints, and Herodias, are, for the most part, portraits of his wife or daughter. Of the latter there is a head in a Florentine palace, crowned with bay leaves, representing Poetry, which has more depth of colouring and expression than is generally observable in the works of this master.
No. 12.
ELEANORA D’ESTE.
Blue and pink cap. White dress. Red drapery. Pearl necklace. Chain and pendant.
BORN 1537, DIED 1581.
By Pierin del Vaga.
SHE was the sister of Alfonso d’Este, the second Duke of Ferrara, but is immortalised in history and fiction, prose and verse, as the object of Torquato Tasso’s unfortunate passion. The story of his residence at her a brother’s Court, and at that of Urbino, where her elder sister, Lucrezia, was Duchess, has so often been told, and the details of his relations with the two Princesses so ill authenticated and so variously narrated, that we do no more than allude to the fact of the affection which subsisted between them, although by many writers it is questioned which of the two Princesses reigned supreme in the heart of the Laureate, who was never wearied of singing the praises of both these noble ladies.
This picture was bought in Italy by Emily, wife of the fifth Earl Cowper, and given by her to her husband at the time he was occupied in building the new picture gallery at Panshanger.
LIBRARY.
