When the Carthusians rebuilt their church at Lyons, Soufflot’s design for the dome was accepted, and he achieved celebrity in consequence. Then settling in Lyons, built several edifices there, including the theatre (one of the finest in France), and the Hôtel-Dieu (the hospital). Invited to Paris, he became architect to the king. His designs for the Church of Sainte Généviève were adopted; but the cupola exciting much adverse criticism, the architect fell into despondency, languished and died. Blunt in his manners, but of a generous and noble mind. He was called the “benevolent cross-patch.”
[From the marble in the Louvre, by Prévot.]
208*. Marie-Anne-Botol Dangeville. French Comic Actress.
[Born 1714. Died 1796. Aged 82.]
Actress at the Théâtre Français, and perhaps one of the most perfect mistresses of her division of the art that have trodden the French stage. The original of this bust, in the Théâtre Français, has not the name of the sculptor, but is a work of singular delicacy of expression, and evidently from the hand of a master.
[Bust to come.]
208**. Mademoiselle Clairon. French Tragic Actress.
[Born 1723. Died 1803. Aged 80.]
The most accomplished French tragic actress of her time. Born of poor and illiterate parents. Made her first appearance on the stage in her thirteenth year. At first unsuccessful, she proved eventually a sublime tragedian, and during twenty-two years held possession of the public. Disraeli the elder has a curious story from her life. He relates that as a child she was cruelly treated by a violent mother, and driven all day to manual labour. One day when locked in a room for punishment, she climbed upon a chair to look about her. In the house opposite she saw a celebrated actress amidst her family; one daughter performing her dancing lesson. Clairon noticed with excitement every motion: not one was lost upon her. The lesson over, the rest of the children applauded, and the mother embraced her clever dancer. The scene melted the heart of Clairon, reflecting on her own bitter lot, and she burst into tears. She ascended the chair again, but the vision had vanished. Henceforth she was a new child, and never so happy as when locked in that room: from her chair she watched again and again the happy dancer—imitated her gestures—reflected her grace. She worshipped a divinity. She had never been to a theatre; yet, without knowing what an actress meant, she had herself become an actress. Her ardent studies were soon manifest. Her first victory was over her barbarous mother, whom she softened. Her later conquest was the subjection of all Paris, and in Paris, of all polite France and Europe. The anecdote lives, how Voltaire, when his tragedy of “Oreste” was to be brought out, insisted that his Electra, compelled in the palace of her fathers to the discharge of menial offices, should appear habited as a slave. Mademoiselle Clairon, to whom the character fell, resisted. She shrank from flying in the face of the artificial French taste, and of the traditional stage decorum—both expecting a princess arrayed in proper theatrical splendour. The poet persisted. The piece over, she came to him and said, “Ah! M. de Voltaire, you have ruined me. All my gorgeous wardrobe is no longer worth a sou.” She had been released for once to act up to the truth, nature, and simple reality of her part; and had astonished audience, actors, herself—all save the poet—by her self-excelling success.
[This bust, which is to come, is from a marble by Lemoyne, dated 1761.]