On the appointed day, I brought my picture to the Louvre for submission. I went alone, as the painting Josée had planned to send had been sold and its purchaser was unwilling to part with it for the length of the exhibition. There was a long line of us and my hopes quailed before so much competition. What if, after all my efforts, my work would not be good enough? Luckily, I had reached the head of the line before my courage failed me. The secretary and his clerks made note of my entry in the register and wished me luck. I began to feel better. As I walked away past the long line of entrants that waited patiently, it struck me – I was an artist who had prepared and submitted a painting to the Salon! I looked again at the receipt in my hand to verify that what had eighteen months before been unimaginable had become a reality: I was an artist who had submitted a painting to the Salon!
Three weeks later, Marie and I learned our paintings had been accepted. Marie’s success had never been in doubt, but it was a tremendous first step for me. Josée and I approached Marie’s studio in high spirits, prepared to celebrate.
Usually there was the sound of voices and laughter in the studio, and sometimes the notes of young Augustine’s harp. Today, however, it was unnaturally silent as Josée and I climbed the stairs. Instinctively I wondered who had been killed, only belatedly remembering that France was now, supposedly, permanently at peace. Puzzled, we entered without our usual joyful greetings. Marie and Charlotte sat at the far end of the room in the doleful attitudes of the women anticipating disaster in David’s Oath of the Horatii.
“What has happened?” we exclaimed in alarm and hurried over to them.
Marie was too upset to answer, and it was Charlotte who spoke in a voice that seemed to bite off each word in anger. “She has had a letter from her husband saying that she can no longer show her work at the Salon because it is beneath the high status of his position in the new government.” She thrust this document at us.
“Not in keeping with his position?” Josée was instantly outraged. “What about her position as one of the leading painters of our time? Portraitist to the former Emperor of France, successful exhibitor in the Salon year after year, medal-winner in 1801 for her Portrait of a Negress, which was purchased by the State as an outstanding example of the accomplishments of modern French painting? Haven’t her talents been part of what helped him gain his position? And this is his gratitude for them?”
She was splendid in her indignation, her red hair coming loose from its demure chignon like a burst of flame, her eyes throwing sparks. I admired her fighting spirit. Even Marie, warmed by the energy of her defense, was able to smile. Later, we painted Josée as Marianne, spirit of the French, urging her troops to victory.
I was always slower to react, and when I did I was puzzled as much as indignant. “But he has been in the government for years, as long as you have been married. Your father was a government minister before the Revolution, and it was perfectly all right then for you and your sister to exhibit at the Salon de la Jeunesse. No one objected before. Why is it different now?”
A puzzled silence was the only reply.
We did not know then how much the new regime would want not just to return to the past but to invent a new, even stricter etiquette for a society in which everyone knew and kept his or her place. Gros could escape these strictures because the Bourbons needed him to turn his talents to their glorification and remind their sometimes fickle subjects of the legitimacy of their rule. But Marie Benoist, as a wife, could not.
“But what will you do, Marie?” Josée asked, her voice gentle.
She gave a profound sigh. Her shoulders sagged as though all the responsibility of living up to her husband’s new status lay heavily upon them. “I will do as he asks. After all, we live in society and must obey its rules. And yet, after all my hard work and success––” Her brave words could not stem the flow of tears.
Charlotte signaled us to go. We tiptoed down the stairs in subdued spirits.
The episode shook me profoundly. The return of the Bourbons was something I had longed for since childhood, and I had never questioned it. I was still glad of it – I could be certain of that. Yet Marie was my friend and a fellow artist who took pride in her work. Her husband’s request hurt her deeply and I felt that hurt. Perhaps her sacrifice was a small price to pay for the return of the rightful order. But why should she have to pay it at all?
She continued to paint portraits of the family with her customary skill and polish, but her heart was no longer in her work. Josée and I still came on Thursday afternoons, at her urging, but we felt embarrassed, almost guilty, to discuss our Salon hopes in front of her. She could not bring herself to visit the exhibition. It was a sad end to a fine career.
It was nonetheless exciting to be part of the exhibition on opening day, instead of on the outside looking in. Just ten years before I had been an eager young student attending my first Salon – and now mine was one of the paintings other art students would look at. Pleased with its placement, I attended the prize-giving ceremonies, applauded the winners whole-heartedly, and collected congratulations from Taunay, Denon and Antoine, my mother and sister, Charlotte and Josée, and my friends from Taunay’s studio.
The Salon of 1814 was the first one in more than a decade in which big paintings praising Bonaparte did not take center stage. By now we were so accustomed to them that we noted their absence even more than we had paid attention to their presence. It seemed very odd, the exhibition somehow diminished because of it. There had not yet been time to paint the deeds of Louis XVIII, but celebration of the monarchy was everywhere. Kings of the Middle Ages and Renaissance were resurrected and the acts, faults, and foibles of more recent royal families were tactfully avoided. Antoine sent François I and Charles V at Saint-Denis.
I turned a corner into the next gallery and found what I had been unconsciously looking for, paintings with an emotional impact. The talented young painter Théodore Géricault had sent a pair of subjects – an eager young cavalry officer charging into battle and a wounded cuirassier leaving it. Antoine stood in front of the latter and I went to join him. It was a figure of tremendous power, raising more questions than it answered. The wounded warrior showed no blood, no gaping tears of flesh, but he looked back warily at the field of battle as he led his nervous high-stepping horse down the slope. The one painting headed with confidence into Russia, sure of victory, the other headed out of two years of decline looking back in pain. I thought of Marie’s wounds and how they hurt even if they did not bleed.
The Wounded Cuirassier drew many viewers. Some, wanting only to be entertained, shrugged off its effects and walked on. Others turned as somber as the painting’s lowering sky as they looked at and absorbed it. An old man looked at it with tears running down his cheeks. He reminded me a little of Charles’s father. I went over to him, putting my hand on his arm in sympathy. After some minutes he gravely nodded his thanks and walked away. We had not spoken a word but had shared the emotional bond this painting had the power to evoke. I felt a profound gratitude to the artist.
I knew that painting could do more. I knew that I could do more. To be accepted to the Salon was no longer enough. Already my ambitions had grown.
Chapter 8
Paris, March-June 1815
On 10 March 1815, Bonaparte escaped his confinement on Elba and returned to France. As everyone knows, Marshal Ney vowed to bring him back in a cage but returned him at the head of an army. For over a week they made a triumphal progress the length of France, gathering support as they went. Antoine was overjoyed, but my heart sank as I read the reports. To my dismay, the King and the government did nothing to attempt to stop them. Sending Ney had been their one decisive gesture, and they were at a loss to propose another. The change in the country’s loyalties from Bonaparte to the Bourbons was too new to be trusted and, as events had shown, could all too easily be reversed.
As Bonaparte neared Fontainebleau on 19 March, Louis XVIII prepared to flee Paris. Antoine, having gone t
o the Tuileries Palace that night to await his hero’s expected arrival, was a witness to the King’s shameful midnight flit. Ironically, he was later to do a painting of the royal departure, investing it with pathos, honor and fervent loyalty.
Bonaparte reached the Tuileries at dawn. Antoine came home for breakfast exhausted but glowing, having cheered himself hoarse. He had seen Larrey in the crowd, he said, and for once they were in complete agreement, embracing like old friends.
I groaned inwardly. Not again! Whatever doubts I had had about the return of the Bourbons were swept away by the sure knowledge that the return of Bonaparte was far worse. Not all the battle, all the worry, all the mobilization and expense – not all the change and transition when we had just adapted to the last changes. Poor Charlotte! Just when she thought her husband was home for good. I did not realize I had said it aloud until Antoine looked at me in amazement and asked, “Charlotte? What does she have to do with anything? Is that all you have to say?”
“If Bonaparte is back, there will be war.”
“There will be an opportunity for France to regain her supremacy!”
“There will be grievous wounding and killing of men who are husbands and sons. There will be wives and parents left worrying, then grieving. Charlotte and the women of France have everything to do with it.”
Gros stared at me as if unable to believe his ears. His Emperor was back; the fortunes of France were looking up. He was like a man coming upon sweet water after a drought. Always emotional and excitable, he burned as if with an inner flame. He is in love, I realized, and his loved one, given up for lost, has come home to him. Not for the first time I envied him his happiness even while I deplored its cause. And all I could think of to say was this prattle of the suffering of women! He shook his head pityingly, then shrugged, and went upstairs to wash and shave and change clothes. He did not ask me to accompany him, and I did not volunteer. I could not celebrate. I would stay indoors to express my disapproval of Bonaparte’s return.
By mid-afternoon, however, I was tired of being inside, forced to listen to Maman Madeleine enthuse about her son’s excitement, unable to ignore the growing murmur of the crowd streaming down the rue des Saints-Pères on its way to the palace. I intended to walk in the opposite direction – to the Luxembourg Gardens, perhaps, to take solace in the Fontaine de Médicis – but it seemed as if all of Paris was in the streets, irresistibly drawn to the Tuileries, delighted to have their Emperor back again, believing new victories to be in the offing. It was impossible to push my way against the human tide. I was carried along, almost lifted off my feet. Was it only ten months since this same populace had welcomed Louis XVIII and the promise of peace? “Don’t you remember?” I wanted to scream at them.
A huge hand slapped me on the back. “Cheer up, Madame!” ordered a rough but friendly voice, as its owner fell in step beside me. “He’s come back to us!”
I turned to remonstrate but the words died in my throat at the sight of the empty sleeve pinned to his chest. He grinned broadly. “First Grenadiers,” he said proudly. “He pointed me out with his sword after the battle of Iéna as an example for the new recruits to look up to. Twenty thousand troops on the field and he singled me out for praise.” Tears sprang to his eyes. He blinked them away and lifted his voice in joyous acclaim. “Vive l’Empereur!” The crowd responded enthusiastically. “Come, Madame, you’ve more voice than that.” He gave me another resounding slap on the back as if to shake it loose from my lungs. Fortunately, we had now crossed the Seine and reached the Tuileries Gardens, already tightly packed with the cheering populace. The Tricolor flew over the palace, replacing the white flag of the Bourbons. My companion took his hand from my shoulder to remove his hat, and I managed to slip away from him. Still, the crowd bore me onward.
At that moment, Bonaparte made an appearance on the central balcony. Flanked by officers resplendent in uniforms lavished with gold embroidery and braid, he stood out by the plainness of his grey coat and black hat, to emphasize that his person needed no embellishments to exert its authority. The crowd roared. A group of young men near me – I recognized Antoine’s nephew Paul among them – set up a rhythmical chant: “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur! VIVE L’EMPEREUR!” It spread throughout the crowd and my body thrummed with the sound. I alone was silent. Bonaparte spread wide his arms to embrace the Parisians before him, then cupped his hands to bring its love to his heart – like an opera singer shamelessly milking his audience while taking a bow, I thought. The crowd again roared its approval. He inclined his head – he would not bow to the people of France, not him – and went indoors again. Vainly the crowd tried to call him out. Finally, reluctantly, they began to depart, and I could escape.
The royal family and its followers fled to Belgium. Gleefully, Gros stopped painting Louis XVIII and the Duchesse d’Angoulême on the Dome of the Panthéon and applied for reinstatement of his original commission. With luck, he would be able to spend the summer on it. The government, however, had more pressing matters to deal with. The coalition that had vanquished Napoleon once before now sought the opportunity to do so again. A wide plain in Belgium was chosen for the battle site.
As I had feared, France was about to be plunged back into war. In my mind’s eye I could see Bonaparte and his Marshals eagerly rubbing their hands, ordering maps to be brought and unrolled, and poring over them to strategize for the coming battle. Here was a business they knew, a course of action they understood. Wellington and his allies were no doubt doing the same.
It was a situation we had seen before – France facing overwhelming odds, France against the rest of the world – but it did not bring the ease of familiarity. Antoine and other apologists for Napoleon claimed that it was all the fault of the coalition. I, among many others, felt that Bonaparte, by his very presence, invited hostility and battle. All that spring, debate raged in Paris – privately, as his government would not admit of any doubts – about Napoleon’s chances for success. With his army depleted of seasoned troops, victory was not going to be the certainty it would have been ten years before. It would be, instead, the last throw of the dice by a desperate gambler who had nothing left to lose. France, on the other hand, would have a great deal at risk.
Orders went out requisitioning men and horses. An appeal was made for new recruits – eager French youths who had feared only that they were never going to have the chance to see action. To the dismay of the Gros family, Paul Amalric, then sixteen years old, responded. Having grown up on his uncle’s stories and paintings of the Emperor, he believed passionately in the glamour and glory of them. “This is France’s last chance for glory!” he told his parents. “The Bourbons will bring us nothing but mediocrity!” His was a sentiment well captured by Stendhal several years later in The Red and the Black.
A family conference was called. Of habit, I scanned the Amalrics’ salon to see what new treasure Jacques had brought home from the shop – he changed the décor often, according to what was in fashion, feeling it a good advertisement. This time it was a chandelier in the form of a star-covered globe girdled by candle-bearing griffons, but I had no time to examine it closely. Jacques was distraught. It was a father’s role to be proud to have a son in the army, just as it was a son’s role to make this part of his passage into manhood. But his reality could not hold to this principle. He wanted his son home and safe, and was telling him so at some length when we entered.
Paul was furious. “What would you understand? You’re just a shopkeeper!” He invested the word with all the scorn with which Bonaparte spoke of the English. Jacques, turning red from the double embarrassment of his son’s public rebuke and his own shame, had no words to reply. It was Gros’s sister Marie who spoke up to scold their son: “Show respect for your father!”
Paul scowled. Half-boy, half-man, wanting to stand on his own feet but hating the thought of upsetting his mother, he reminded me of how he looked as a small boy in a pout. I would have smiled had the occasion not been so serio
us. He turned to appeal to his uncle, hope lighting his face, feeling sure of Antoine as an ally.
“Uncle Antoine – you understand. You’ve served the Emperor for twenty years. You’ve told the world of all he’s accomplished on and off the battlefield. You’re proud of me for wanting to enlist, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Antoine, so he’s been telling us. Your paintings have created a patriot.” Marie’s tone of voice would have blistered the paint off Antoine’s canvas. “We thought you should hear it.” This is your fault, her stony expression said. Now do something about it.
Antoine looked appalled. It was the first time such an accusation had been leveled at him – by his family, no less! He was at a loss how to reply. Love for his Emperor and his nephew were, I knew, struggling within him. The “woman’s argument” that he had shrugged off as a matter of little importance when I put it to him on the morning of Bonaparte’s return now struck home with all its force. As always at a time of crisis, his first instinct was to appeal to his mother for support. His anguished gaze, seeking her out, found her eyes not approvingly upon him but studying Paul’s face with an intense hunger, memorizing it feature by feature lest she not see him again.
“No, Antoine,” Marie said, “Maman can’t help you this time.” Years of buried resentment at being the second-best child found their way to the surface and rang in her voice. Being mother of the only grandson gave her a status in the argument that she was not slow to take advantage of.
Gros answered his sister’s look with a steely gaze of his own, lifting his head and straightening his shoulders. “I love my nephew,” he said, “but I will not speak against my Emperor.” He turned to the boy. “Paul,” he said in a much warmer voice, “it is indeed a noble thing that you wish to do. I would not try to persuade you otherwise.”
An Artist in her Own Right Page 12