An Artist in her Own Right

by Ann Marti Friedman

  Denon went with Bonaparte to Egypt, too. When he returned after two years, he regaled us with tales of its wondrous ancient monuments, the ferocity of its people and crocodiles, the bravery of our warriors, and the acumen of the savants who studied the natural and human history of the land. We hung on every word, eagerly poring over his drawings. The scarab he brought us became five-year-old Henri’s favorite toy, turned over and over in his hands and examined from every possible angle. Even when Denon became a figure of importance in the new régime of the Consulate as Director-General of all the museums in France, he had the time to concern himself with the artistic training of his friend’s young daughter.

  Only Grandmère Augustine was not pleased. “It’s a waste of money,” she declared flatly, surveying the contents of my portfolio and obviously mentally calculating the cost of the materials. “It might be something if she had a talent for faces. A portraitist can always find someone to pay for her work. But what good are landscapes, country scenes? Who will pay for that? Better to learn something that will catch you a husband, ma fille.” Little did she suspect that one day it would.

  I remember vividly the day Monsieur Denon took me to purchase supplies as a gift for my fourteenth birthday. I was very excited. I had never had him all to myself before, and I was just reaching that age when being alone with a man, even a family friend old enough to be my father, had a tinge of excitement. It was a crisp October day. I wore a white dress with a high waist, the neckline showing just a hint of my still modest bosom and the short puffed sleeves displaying my arms to advantage. With it I wore practical ankle boots and a coat of the deep yellow color called tabac d’Espagne, Spanish tobacco.

  He was punctual to the minute, a habit he had learned as a young man working for Madame de Pompadour. Gravely he threaded my arm through his and all the way to the shop kept up a stream of lively conversation on the art world of the day – the vanity of Jacques-Louis David, the odd behavior of Anne-Louis Girodet, and the promise shown by Antoine-Jean Gros. That was the first time I heard the name I was myself to carry for so long. Gros was working on a scene from the Egyptian campaign that would astonish us all, he said. I asked him to tell me more about it, but just then we arrived at the shop.

  It was a busy place. Shop assistants wearing color-splotched aprons to protect their clothes scurried back and forth filling orders. Several men were waiting their turn, but when we entered they immediately deferred to Denon. Serenely he moved us to the head of the queue. The artists came up to be presented to me, eager to meet the powerful man’s new protégée. He made quite a show of picking out the right paper, leads, pencils, and sketchbooks. I was delighted with the virgin surface of the smooth paper and the authenticity of the pencil with its lead-holder, the same kind I had seen him and other artists use. At the same time I could feel the others’ eyes on us. It started to make me feel uncomfortable. I could tell instinctively that his attentiveness was no longer principally for my benefit, but to show everyone there how gracious he was in his condescension. My cheeks grew warm, and he smiled slightly as if my shy discomfiture amused him. I was relieved that when he set up an account for me at the shop, he did so in a quiet voice none could overhear. As we left he made a great show of carrying my portfolio and pencil box, and he all but bowed as they all but applauded.

  Once outside, however, he reverted to his usual self with a sigh of relief and proposed that we go to the Tuileries Gardens to draw. It was a mild October day but with a cool breeze that tugged at my bonnet ribbons and riffled the pages of the sketchbook. The towering trees of the regimented groves were just beginning to turn color; the mottled green, yellow and orange foliage was very pretty. Children ran back and forth around the tree trunks, laughing and calling to each other, while more sedate parents and nannies kept a fond eye on them. Others gathered around the large basin that marked the junction of the main allées.

  “What should I draw?” I asked Denon, as we each took out sketchbooks and pencils.

  He smiled approvingly. “An excellent question! Nature – or any scene before you – will provide a confusing wealth of detail and incident.” He swept his arm wide to encompass the natural and man-made elements before us. “The artist’s role is to distill the scene to its essentials, and organize them into a pleasing rhythm on the page or canvas. What aspect of the garden pleases you most?”

  I looked about me again. It was difficult to decide. “The trees,” I said finally. “The changing colors, the full foliage before the leaves start to fall, the way you notice from one viewpoint that they’ve been planted in regular rows, but when you look straight ahead at the trunks when the children are running among them, the trees seem to be in a completely random order.”

  He nodded, his eyes full of lively interest. “So – how would you like to depict the trees?”

  I looked at the grove again, from the ground with its occasional eruption of thick roots to the tops far overhead. “The grove as a whole,” I replied.

  “Then you’re sitting too close to this particular one to get the proper perspective on it – you need distance.” He gestured to the grove on the far side of the central basin. “Take that one as your subject for today. Later, you can learn how to show large spaces from a bird’s-eye perspective.”

  I nodded enthusiastically and made bold to ask, “What subject will you choose?”

  “This sculpture will suffice for today.” He inclined his head toward one of the large, elaborately carved marble vases that punctuated the allées at intervals, reminding visitors that however lush the elements of nature, it was the hand of man that was uppermost here.

  We spent a companionable hour working side by side. Gradually the noises of the garden faded as I became absorbed in my task. When I later glanced at Denon, he was recording the details of the ornamental vase with the same scientific detachment as if it were an ancient Egyptian monument.

  I was brought back to the present only when a cold damp nose pressed itself between my ankles. I gave a little chirrup of fright that dissolved into laughter as I bent to pet the silky-haired dachshund. Its owner called it back. Only then did I hear the crunch of feet on the gravel paths, the clop of horses’ hooves and the rumbling of wheels on the Quai des Tuileries. I wiggled fingers that had become stiff holding the pencil for so long and shivered in the breeze that was now noticeably cooler. We put away our sketchbooks and crossed the new rue de Rivoli to finish the afternoon with hot chocolate and cakes in the garden at Galignani’s English bookshop. I remember he cast several penetrating glances both at my work and my person, shrewdly assessing my talent and the pleasure I took in drawing. I seemed to pass his inspection, for when we returned home he recommended to my father that I be placed in the studio of Nicolas-Antoine Taunay, one of the leading painters of the day, for drawing and painting lessons.

  When the Salon, the most important art exhibition of the year, opened in September 1804, I begged Papa to take me to see it. This would be the first Salon at which I could feel myself a member, however fledgling, of the company of artists. When he at last announced that the family would go the following Sunday, I was so excited.

  On the day I dressed with care in that summer’s new white frock trimmed with red ribbon rosebuds and a matching red sash, and Maman helped me put up my long brown hair in a new grown-up style. I blushed with pleasure to see my image in the mirror, and the heightened color suited me. My sister had a similar dress trimmed in pink but her figure had not yet begun to fill out and she wore her hair down: there could be no doubt, I thought, as to which of us was the young woman, which the mere girl. It was too warm for us to enjoy wearing our summer bonnets, but Maman insisted that she would not have our complexions spoiled by the sun.

  From our home on the rue Neuve Saint-Augustin, we walked down the rue Richelieu to the Palais Royal, where we detoured to stroll through its extensive gardens, nodding to acquaintances as we went. A few steps after leaving the garden at its southern end, we crossed the rue de Rivoli and j
oined the crowds streaming into the Louvre. Admission was always free on Sundays so that all citizens could visit and imbibe the lessons of the works exhibited there, especially those extolling the deeds of First Consul Bonaparte. The museum’s hallways and galleries were filled with the magnificent statues that he had brought back from Italy years before, and I was later to find out that Antoine had been responsible for selecting the pieces sent from Rome. I chattered all the way up the Grand Staircase, but Mama and Papa were both short of breath from the climb. (So would I be, if I attempted it today.) We doubled back through the galleries of the upper floor to reach the Salon Carré, the great square room where most of the paintings were hung. Because of its immense size, Gros’s Bonaparte visiting the plague-stricken soldiers at Jaffa, the canvas Denon had told me about, was in one of the large adjacent galleries. It was there that the crowds were thickest, the air buzzing with excited voices. There was no way to view it up close without impolitely shoving our way through. Fortunately it was hung high enough that all could see it. Then Denon, who was standing in front of the painting, caught sight of us, and motioned us to approach. The crowd obligingly parted, and we stood before the painting.

  Many words of praise have been and continue to be written about this work, and I am sure they will continue for generations to come. Both its name and its fame are now nauseatingly familiar to me. But nothing can describe the impact, on first seeing it, of its dazzling freshness, of its color and the glamour of its setting. We had heard about the Egyptian campaign from Denon and pored over his drawings, but here was a scene large enough for us to step into. It brought his tales of Egypt to life in all their heat and splendor, bravery and valor, sickness and squalor. I stood awestruck, my words of explanation to my family driven from my head.

  The painting was immense. The interior of the whole plague hospital was revealed before us. Bonaparte, then a general, now First Consul, and soon to be Emperor, had entered its gloomy depths to visit and encourage his men. Could he even cure them by sheer force of his personality? My eyes were immediately drawn to his brilliant figure that seemed to capture the sunlight. This image caught all our hearts. That the campaign had ultimately been a disaster could momentarily be forgotten. I was not alone in my wonder – all around me I heard “Ah”s of delight. Laurel wreaths, palm branches, and poems of praise were pinned to the frame of the painting.

  Denon beamed at me and enthusiastically greeted my parents, sister and brother. “Well?” he asked me. “Is it not as good as I promised it would be?” I nodded and smiled, but could not speak, glancing quickly to his face and then back to the painting. I scanned the work, seeing yet more details – the brilliant green of the Arab doctor’s robe, the man with the bandaged eyes groping his way along the columns, the almost comic figure of cautious Marshal Berthier covering his nose and mouth instead of bravely reaching out to the men.

  Before I could examine it further, however, Denon gestured me to his side. He had been talking with a short, slight, plainly dressed man of no particular distinction, who seemed ill at ease in the jostling, murmuring crowd surging around us and leaned on an ebony cane to steady himself. “May I present Monsieur Gros?” Denon asked. “He has been suffering from rheumatism and this is the first time he has seen his painting in the Salon. Antoine, this is Mademoiselle Dufresne, a young lady in whose talent I have taken an interest.”

  This was Gros, the creator of that marvelous image? I managed somehow to say the proper words of greeting, but my eyes kept flicking back and forth in disbelief between the brilliant painting and the unprepossessing artist in his sober black suit. It was as though the one had sucked all the brilliance out of the other and taken it for its own. Fortunately, he did not seem to guess my thoughts. At least I could wholeheartedly express my admiration for the painting as a whole and for the figure of Napoleon in particular. At my praise, his face lit up and he drew his body a little straighter: I caught a glimpse of the inspired artist within the ordinary shell. Then Denon claimed his attention as another acquaintance approached. I turned to examine the painting again, but Maman and Papa were ready to move to another room.

  My brother Henri was as reluctant to move on as I. Ten years old and just discovering his own artistic talents, he was impressed not only by the painting but also by the acclaim and admiration and accolades accorded the artist. He later told me that he resolved then and there to become a painter.

  Although I was not able to see as much as I would have liked that day, I was able to return several times. I looked at the other paintings, of course, but it was Jaffa that drew me again and again.

  Papa and Maman were hesitant about allowing me to go alone to the Salon, but they permitted me to go before and after my art lessons, if I went with a group of students. Several of us would set out with our drawing boards, paper, and pencils or chalk and walk to the works we were going to copy that day. Other art students did so as well, and it was a welcome chance to meet them. Women were always in the minority and sometimes we were simply ignored by the young men, but at other times they would talk to us, even indulge in mild flirtations. It seemed to me even then that the students of Jacques-Louis David, the most eminent painter of the age, held themselves apart, having absorbed their teacher’s sense of superiority to the rest of the art world.

  Only rarely did David himself deign to put in an appearance. One memorable day he stood in front of Jaffa while Gros and several others waited attentively for his pronouncement on the work. After examining the painting in some detail, he proclaimed, “One could do as well – but one could not do better.” Antoine’s face lost its anxious look and flushed with pleasure. David then turned to his students to exhort them: “Monsieur Gros was one of my students and you see the height to which he has risen. Work hard, develop your skills, and one day you too will be able to do as well as he has.” At such high praise from his master, Antoine’s face lighted up with devotion, looking almost boyish in its delight.

  I treasured the rare occasions when I found myself the only one sketching before Jaffa. Then I could lose myself in the scene. Once, as I sketched, two veterans of the Egyptian campaign approached the painting and saluted the figure of the Emperor. It was touching in its way, echoing the gesture of the sailor in the picture. One of them had to salute with his left arm, his empty right sleeve pinned to his coat. The other had an eye patch. They grew animated as they talked, gesturing extravagantly and raising their voices. I was very quiet in my corner and they seemed to have forgotten I was there.

  “It’s the General! Not as he looked in Egypt, however, more like he looked yesterday.”

  “He was thinner in Egypt.”

  “Weren’t we all – godawful food and the dysentery that wouldn’t stop! Somehow the General never got sick – he had the luck of the devil.”

  “This Gros fellow paints a good picture, but you can tell he wasn’t really there, can’t you?”

  “Who’d want to know the real truth? All that misery, and for what? We lost in the end.”

  “He didn’t. He got home okay.”

  “Quiet, you idiot! You’ll have the police on us.” He glanced around nervously and belatedly noticed me. Before I could think of what to say to reassure them, they bowed apologetically and left the gallery. I tried to concentrate on the painting then, but they had spoiled it for me for that day.

  The most memorable occasion was the day I copied the figure of the dying doctor in the lower right corner. His noble death in the course of duty never failed to touch my heart. To capture his blond good looks on paper was a challenge I was not certain I was equal to, but one day, as the end of the Salon drew near, I knew I had to try. Few people were in the galleries that morning, and I hoped there would be no one there to witness my frustration and failure. A young man in the blue and red uniform of the horse artillery stood looking intently at the very figure I had come to draw. I was annoyed at first – he blocked my view. As I set up my chair and drawing board I wished he would soon move on as most visi
tors did, but he continued to stand and stare. Suddenly I sneezed, the sound unnaturally loud in that echoing space. Startled, he turned around, and I was amazed to see tears shining on his cheeks. My heart warmed to this man who could be so affected by art. Embarrassed, he brushed away the tears with his hand. He could not help sniffling, and muttered with annoyance at finding himself without a handkerchief. I held out one of mine. He took it with a slight smile and I averted my gaze while he blew his nose and made a final dab at his eyes.

  “He was my uncle,” he said by way of apology, “my mother’s favorite brother. She was so heartbroken when we heard of his death...” His voice trailed off.

  And you were, too, I thought, but you were trying to grow up and be a man, and refused to let yourself cry as much as you needed.

  “He was my favorite. I always wanted to be just like him, strong and brave and adventurous. I have no talent for medicine, but at least I could go into the army.”

  And break your mother’s heart a second time. It was the rare young man of my generation who did not wish to be a soldier, however, and I knew better than to question his hopes. He must have found my silence encouraging, for he continued.

  “I’m training for artillery – I’m good at math, for cannon trajectories – but what I really want to do is become a cuirassier so that I can serve in the cavalry under Marshal Murat.”

  On and on he went. It was a world far from mine of stockbrokers and art students. He was, I gathered, learning how best to kill as many of the enemy as possible while exposing the absolute minimum of his own men. That all of their mothers would weep as bitterly as his had done seemed not to occur to him. In the gallery, men were uncles to be mourned, but in the military classroom they were nameless and faceless forces to be deployed.