Antoine Boulanger

At last I may have found a weak spot in history's attempt to hide from me the who-about's of Antonio Boulanger, Edouard D. Boulanger's father. It seems that through all my searching I did not find any secretary noted of the Boulanger name as belonging to Talleyrand despite the fact that small forests sacrifice themselves regularly so that the big T may have yet another book written about him.

But I did find a man, the diplomatic agent Comte the Montrond (Casimir de Mouret 1768-1843) who was an intimate (read, puppet) of Talleyrand, that is to say, a close friend (his mother Angelique d'Arlus was actually close to Talleyrand) who had a secretary name Antoine Boulanger whom surviving sources seem puzzled over for he acted as valet de chambre, secretary, banker, friend, counsellor and other various roles to the Comte. The reason that this was strange is that the Comte was not rich (he had been, having practiced what we call now 'insider trading') yet Antoine Boulanger had his own wealth sufficient to have a domestic servant for himself and his family and retain a family lawyer. In other words, Antoine had more money than his boss. Huh?

What's more, Casimir seem's to be a fascinating man;  like a Talleyrand drawn in crayon and possibly a little 'unique'. He had a brother named Edouard de Mouret. Where did Antoine get his money? Was he the Boulanger in the English law case Talleyrand vs. Boulanger (a French money lender)? What happened to the money? Was it lost in the musical chairs of who-governs-who this week that was the early 19th century of France?

Smythe, Sultan of the Cerebellum

I was trawling today, as is my habit, amongst the digitized newsprint of the 19th century journals of the day, fishing for any item, be it minnow or marlin, that might give me insight into Smythe's life and character and today I got a bite.

It seems that in July of 1855 Smythe did not go straight to South Australia as I had thought but under the influence of the Australian sun, three months of salt air, ship's library books and his natural 21 year old's enthousiasm fueled by his intellectual life at Robson and Levey, set himself in as one of the honourable secretaries of the Victorian Institute and Philosophical Society which had just been formed and was awaiting royal grant for it's charter, being to develop Victoria through science and education by instrument of original researches and papers of it's members. Well this is a turn up. I did notice he noted as R.S.Smyth, not quite ready to abandon his bog-standard Smithness in favour of his now well known and bespoke monicker.

But he didn't stick around. I know he left for South Australia soon afterward's to take up as Parlimentary Reporter on the South Australian Register, a paper which I have been reading much about lately and about which I will emblog anon.

July and Smythe's Angry Face

It is the first of July. Another dull unwieldy and nerve-grinding month ahead. I found these juicy Smythe quotes. 

"When a man begins a letter to the editor of a newspaper by anticipating an ex-parte and incorrect statement from the other side, and declaring that he is ready to substantiate under oath all that he is going to say, you may safely conclude that he is going to say something which he thinks people will not believe" -R.S.Smythe, Letter to the Argus, 3rd Sep 1874

"The proverb states that a certain class of people ought to have good memories [prov: Liars should have good memories]. Mr. Bennett's memory is remarkably bad. Most people in writing a sentence can remember what they said in the preceding one, but Mr. Bennett before he gets to the end of one forgets what he said at the beginning" -R.S.Smythe, Letter to the Argus, ibid.

All of which is Smythe's floral way of saying 'Liar, liar, pants on fire." I love that kind of prose.

Smythe's Second Son

Smythe had an affair, at least I think he did. Mary Elizabeth Christian was a contralto; very pretty, bright blue eyes, fair hair and a sweet disposition. The son, Robert Christian Holmes Smyth(e) was born 3rd November 1874 and resembles both his mother and father. Where does the Holmes come in? Was Mr. Holmes, M.E. Chrisitian's singing partner at one concert, a god-father or something else? The ill-fated boy would died in the Boer War later at be wounded and buried at Thaba Nchu, near Bloemfontein and is interred there. Smythe's first son Bryan Bailey Smythe who was five years old when he died some where in India. I noted with a frisson of unease when a"Christian Smyth" was travelling with Frederic Villiers and R.S.Smythe on a coastal steamer to Queensland one year. Did Smythe's peddling of War stories via Villiers inspire his son to pursue the light-horse? I hope not, but I suspect it was so, along with an urge to prove himself against his more golden, taller and more accomplished half brother Carlyle. Christian Smyth looks very likable in his photos. How sad.

He must have been conceived when Smythe returned from India when he had been travelling with Arabella Goddard, Amelia and his family of two daughters and son. Was there a fight? Was Amelia having another affair? Did Goddard and Bailey gang up on old Smyth-y Boy? Was the marriage so dead in the water? Smythe formed a new company with Miss Christian, Solange and Andrée Novaro, Mister Farley and Charlie Huenerbein as accompanist and instrumentalist.

And today I found out that Amelia was teaching in 1872 at Motcombe Cottage in Chambers Street, South Yarra. No doubt Heidi knows that street as well.

Boulanger, deux

I have been knee deep in French googling. The Argus online has just in the last day put 1861 on which enabled me to find an death notice for an Auguste Gréterin, Director-General of Customs of France who had just died. He was "first Cousin to Mr. Boulanger of this city" (Melbourne. He was living in Williams Rd. at that stage). Calloo-callay! The man in question wasn't registered as Auguste but Théodore Gréterin (1792-1861 and a Senator with a bit of bling) who had three brothers (Phillipe, Pierre-Dieudonné and another unidentified) all of whom were in customs. The important bit was the revelation of his parents: Evrard Gréterin and Jeanne Nicole Hanus (1765-1833). All of which means that Edouard Boualnger's father Antonio had married either a Géterin or a Hanus. Well, there's a maiden name. Evrard is a variant of Edward, used in Nordic countries and Belgium (Walloon). I'd bet a guinea to a goose that Edoaurd was named after his mother's brother Evrard (or the father if Evrard was a Jnr.)

Now, I have to find Antonio Boulanger's link to the Duc de Montebello.

Boulangerie

Don't expect baguettes and croques-messieurs in this emblogation. This one is about the French pianist Edouard Desirée Boulanger (ca.1820, France-1863, Imperial Hotel, French Concession, Shanghai) whose father Antoino Boulanger was reputed to have been private secretary to Talleyrand that imposing Crystal Chandelier of Gallic History. Thanks to the strange gymnastics of Google-books I thought I'd try and find out who was Talleyrand's secretary. Their were not very many. To whit: Le Clement, Louis Paul d'Autremont, Charles Edouard Colmache (husband of Alice Lee, friend of Helen Faucit), Gallois, Charles Antoine Osmaond, Msr. de Montrond, Rouen, Le Chevalier, Roux-Labourie, Mathieu, Maubreuil (?), Baron D'Ideville, P.A. Heiberg and a Msr Perrey. No Boulanger though. But it looks like ol' Talleyrand went through more secretaries like a Hedge-fund Baron would go through a jumbo box of tissues. 

There was a French money lender named Boulanger who sued Talleyrand's brother in London in 1797. Boulanger had borrowed a VERY LARGE sum of money from that Boulanger. Talleyrand vs. Boulanger is famous it seems in English and American Law, setting some kind of precedent about suing in domestic courts over matters of the breaking of foreign law.

There was an Antonio Boulanger in Paris in the 1770s and he was the one from whom we get the word "restaurant." Wouldn't that be a hoot, if Edouard the pianist, accompanist of Catherine Hayes, pupil of Chopin, teacher, traveller and composer was the grandson/son of the original inventor of a comestible house of restoration? I'd like that.

Seredipity-doo-dah

Whilst trawling the seabed of the great internet ocean down a deep sea trench named google books looking for information on Horace Poussard or any Poussard connected with him, I found a published history of the Paris Conservatoire of Music. It had a list in 1849 of the prize winners and there was Horace's name, as I expected in tie for First Place for le Prix du Violon with Victor Cheri. But my eye caught the left column of the page  to see Gougenheim, Sophie receiving an accesit (certificate of merit for singing). I searched Musicsack to see if she ever became a person of interest and she was listed in the Conservatoires Lauréates and having been born in London. She did move to New York and married a minor singing teacher named Mariano Manzocchi of Naples whose claim to fame in these times was to have taught Adelina Patti for all of five minutes when she was a girl. I think it was three lessons, but whose quibbling? Mme. Manzocchi quibbled of course. She sued Patti in 1883 for the money that her parents owned her deceased husband (he died in 1860 and had kept scrupulous books). Poor Sophie must have been desperate for the cash to run her finger down Mariano's musty old ledgers.

It explains too, why Augustus and Theresa, the parents of the three Gougenheim girls did not leave New York. And all this was revealed by accident just a few days after I had lost an auction on the Gougs to a faceless nemesis who must know a little of them but not as much as is squirrelled away in my dossiers. See my earlier emblogation (enblogation must be now spelled emblogation. The n has to change to an m before  b or p word-pioneering is a messy business).

Karmic compensation or just the karmic credit limit on the matter of my interest in the Gougs. The cosmic abacus has pistoned it's beads thus and has calculated my allotment. I do have good information and learning karma. What one studies in one life becomes instinct in the next.

A small complaint about google books and the institutions that apportion small snippets accessible to certain zones: What the **** is the point of a snippet? Do you want to be deluged by annoying e-mails pleading to have copies of the rest of the thing made that may not even contain anything important? Do you hope to make a small fortune from the rivers of money pouring like molten gold into the coffers of your Document Delivery Service? Why the tease? Is the great God of Copyright such a vengeful deity that you grip to items containing all of humanity's intellectual family silver that is way out of date for the long dead authors whose work you did not publish, pay for or sponsor, but merely own? What happened to the uni in University and the latin root to read in library? When things no longer universal you cannot call yourself a University, but an Emporium, store or shop, and when we are unable to read them you are no longer a library but a frozen brick bonfire. The snippets on google books quite appropriately remind me of floating portions of burning books.

Google books recognize the importance of unifying through accessibility but public edifices do not. Top praise to Google Books and their triumphant vision and boo to the neuro-parochial neo-luddites.