Nicholas Poussin was born at Andelys, in Normandy, in June 1593. His
father, Jean Poussin, had served in the regiment of Tauannes during
the reigns of Charles IX., Henry III., and Henry IV., without having
risen to any higher rank than that of lieutenant. Happening to meet in
the town of Vernon a rich and handsome young widow, Jean Poussin
married her, left the service, and retired with his wife to the
pleasant village of Andelys, where, in a year afterwards, Nicholas was
born. His childhood resembled that of many other great painters.
Whitewashed walls scribbled over with landscapes--school-books defaced
with sketches, which _then_ drew down anger and reproof on the idle
student, but which _now_ would form precious gems in many a rich
museum--these were the early evidences of Poussin's genius. He was
treated severely by his father, who thought that every vigorous,
well-made boy ought of necessity to become a soldier--secretly
consoled and encouraged by his mother, who loved him with an almost
idolatrous affection, and who approved of his pursuits, not from any
abstract love of art, but because she thought the profession of
painting might be pursued by her darling without obliging him to leave
his home.
It happened that the painter, Quintin Varin, was an intimate
acquaintance of the elder Poussin. Somewhat reluctantly, the
ex-lieutenant gave his son permission to study the first principles of
painting under their friend. The boy's first attempts were
water-colour landscapes, his very straitened finances not allowing him
to use oils. His subjects were the beautiful scenes around Andelys;
and, despite of his inexperience, he knew so well how to transfer the
living poetry of the scenery to his canvas, that his master one day
said to him: 'Nicholas, why have you deceived me?--you must have
learned painting before.'
'I assure you I have not.'
'Then,' said Varin, 'I am not fit to be thy master. There is a
revelation of genius in thy lightest touch to which I have never
attained. I should but cloud thy destiny in seeking to instruct thee.
Go to Paris, dear boy; there thou wilt achieve both fame and fortune.'
The advice was followed, and with a light purse, and a still lighter
heart, Nicholas Poussin arrived in Paris. He bore a letter of
introduction from Varin to the Flemish painter Ferdinand Elle, who
consented to receive him as a pupil for the payment of three livres a
month.
There were already a dozen young people in the studio. When their new
companion joined them, they amused themselves by laughing at him, and
playing off practical jokes at his expense, which at first he bore
with good-humour. It happened, however, one morning, that on examining
his slender purse, he found that its contents had fallen to zero; and
this unpleasant circumstance caused him, no doubt, to feel in an
irritable state of mind. On reaching the studio, and just as he
entered the door, he was inundated by the contents of a bucket of
water, which one of his companions had suspended over the door, and
managed to overturn on the head of Nicholas. Furious at this
unexpected _douche_, he flew at its unlucky contriver, and gave him a
hearty beating. There were three other lads in the studio; they all
attacked Nicholas, who, however, proved more than their match,
overthrowing two of his assailants, and obliging the third to fly.
After this occurrence, Poussin became free from the petty annoyances
which he had hitherto endured; but he found no friend in the studio of
Ferdinand Elle, and he felt, besides, that he was losing his time, and
learning nothing from that painter. These reasons determined him one
day to write a respectful letter to his master, declining further
attendance at the studio; and then, furnished with little of this
world's goods, besides some pencils and paper, he set out, very
literally, 'to seek his fortune.'
It was then the beginning of summer; everything in nature looked
lovely and glad, and Poussin insensibly wandered on, until he found
himself in a fresh green meadow on the banks of the Marne. He lay down
under the shade of an osier thicket, and presently became aware of the
presence of a young man about his own age, who was busily employed in
fishing. Nicholas watched him for some time, and then said: 'May I
remark, that the bait you are using does not appear suited to this
river?'
'Very likely,' replied the stranger; 'I am but an inexperienced
fisher, and will feel greatly obliged by your advice.'
Poussin then arranged the line, put on a fresh bait, and in a few
minutes a fine perch was landed on the grass.
'Many thanks for your assistance,' said the young man; 'will you do me
the favour to join in my repast?'
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and Nicholas had had no
breakfast. He therefore gladly consented; and the angler, drawing
from his fish-basket a large slice of savoury pie, a loaf of bread,
and a flask of wine, they made a hearty meal together.
After the fashion of the days of chivalry, the two knights-errant told
each other their names and histories. The stranger, whose name was
Raoul, was a young man of considerable property. His parents, living
in Poitou, sent him to finish his education and polish his manners by
frequenting fashionable society in Paris; but his tastes were simple,
his habits retiring, and he had not met amongst the rich and noble any
who pleased him so well as the poor penniless painter. With cordial
frankness, he pressed Nicholas to take up his abode with him in Paris,
and promised to advance him in the study of his art.
The offer was accepted as freely as it was made, and Nicholas Poussin
was thus enabled to pursue with ardour the noble studies to which his
life was henceforth devoted, free from those petty cares and sordid
anxieties which so often clog the wings of genius. By the interest of
Raoul, many valuable collections of paintings, including the unique
one of Segnier, were opened to him. Becoming acquainted with a brother
student, Philippe de Champagne, he joined him for a time in receiving
instruction from Lallemand, until, perceiving that that painter was no
more capable of teaching him than Ferdinand Elle had been, he left his
studio, and gave himself up to severe and solitary study.
At twenty years of age, Nicholas Poussin steadily renounced every
species of youthful pleasure and dissipation, that he might pursue his
one noble object. He rose at daybreak, and regularly retired to rest
at nine o'clock. During the winter months, he spent the early hours of
the day in studying Greek and Latin under an old priest, who loved him
and taught him gratuitously. The remainder of the day was devoted to
painting, and the evening to short visits amongst the friends to whom
he had been introduced by the active kindness of Raoul. In the summer,
he loved to spend occasionally a long bright day in rambling through
the beautiful scenery of Auteuil, taking sketches while his friend
fished. The extent of their innocent dissipation consisted in dining
at some rural hostelry on the produce of the morning's sport, washed
down with a temperate modicum of wine. Thus pleasantly and profitably
passed two years, at the end of which Raoul was recalled to his home.
Despite of the excuses and remonstrances of Poussin, his friend
insisted on his accompanying him to Poitou, assuring him of a hearty
welcome from his own parents. From Raoul's father, indeed, the young
painter received it; but his mother was a proud, ill-tempered woman,
who affected to despise a dauber of canvas, and treated her son's
friend as a sort of valet attached to his service. In short, she
heaped insults on the young man, which even his love for Raoul could
not force him to endure; and in order to escape the affectionate
solicitations of his friend, he set out secretly one morning alone and
on foot.
Weary, penniless, and attacked with inward inflammation, he at length
reached Paris. Philippe de Champagne received him, and watched over
him like a brother until he recovered. A great degree of weakness and
languor still depressed him; the air of Paris weighed on him like
lead. He sighed for his native breeze at Andelys, and still more for
his mother's embrace--his good and tender mother, whose letters to him
were so often rendered almost illegible by her tears, and whose memory
had been his sweetest comfort during the weary nights of sickness.
He set out on his journey with six livres in his pocket, which he had
earned by painting a bunch of hats on the sign-post of a hatter, and
arrived safely at home. Soon afterwards, his father died, and Nicholas
determined never again to leave his mother. She, tender woman that she
was, grieved for a husband who had rarely shewn her any kindness, and
who, in his hard selfishness, had now left her totally destitute. All
the money she had brought him as her dowry, he, unknown to her, had
sunk in an annuity on his own life, and nothing now remained for her
but the devoted love of her only son.
This, however, was a 'goodly heritage.' Those who zealously try to
fulfil their duty, may be assured that a kind Providence will assist
their efforts; and Nicholas succeeded for some time in maintaining his
mother by the sale of water-colour paintings for the decoration of a
convent chapel. At length, this resource failed; and the ardent young
painter determined to relinquish all his bright visions, and learn
some manual trade, when his mother was seized with illness, and,
despite of his anxious care, died.
No motive now detained him at Andelys. The sale of his slender
possessions there furnished him with a little money; and, partly in
order to assuage his grief for his mother, partly to see the works of
the great masters, he determined to go to Italy.
Rome was naturally the goal of his steps, but on this occasion he was
not destined to reach it. On arriving at Florence, he met with an
accidental hurt, which confined him to a lodging for a month, and when
he was cured, left him almost penniless. Finding it impossible to
dispose of the sketches which he drew for his daily bread, he
determined to retrace his steps. Arrived at Paris, he was once more
received by his faithful friend, Philippe de Champagne, and by him
introduced to Duchesne, who was then painting the ornaments of the
Luxembourg, and who engaged both the young men as his assistants.
This promised to be a durable and profitable engagement; but Duchesne,
who had but little pretension to genius, soon grew jealous of his
young companions, and seized the first pretext for dismissing them.
Shortly afterwards, the Jesuits of Paris celebrated the canonisation
of St Ignatius and St Francis Xavier. For this occasion, Poussin
executed six water-colour pictures, representing the principal events
in the lives of these two personages. The merit of these works
attracted the attention of Signor Marini, a distinguished courtier of
the day. He was attached to the suit of Marie de Medicis, and held a
high place amongst the literary and artistic, as well as gay circles
of the court; his notice was therefore of importance to the artist,
who by it was introduced amongst the great, the learned, and the gay.
Wisely did he take advantage of mixing in this society to improve his
knowledge of men and things, and to satisfy that craving for
enlightenment which he felt equally when rambling in the fields,
standing at his easel, or sitting as a timid listener in the splendid
saloons of Signor Marini.
This pleasant life lasted for a year; Marini was his Mecænas; orders
for paintings flowed in on him; and when, in 1625, his patron went to
Rome to visit Pope Urban VIII., Poussin would have accompanied him,
but for an honourable dread of breaking some engagements which he had
made. Amongst others, he had to finish a large piece representing the
_Death of the Virgin_, undertaken for the guild of goldsmiths, who
presented every year a picture to Notre-Dame.
Marini tried in vain to shake his resolution. Nicholas Poussin had
pledged his word, and nothing could make him break it--not even the
advantage of accomplishing, in the company and at the expense of the
generous Italian, that journey to Rome which had always formed his
most cherished day-dream. The following year, Poussin went to Rome,
and, to his great sorrow, found his kind patron suffering from a
malady which speedily terminated his life. Thus was the painter once
more thrown on his own resources in a city where he was a stranger;
but his was not a nature to be discouraged by adversity. There was
something grand in the serenity with which he spent days in examining
the wondrous statues of the olden time, while a cheerless attic was
his lodging, and his dinner depended on the generosity of a
printseller for whom he worked occasionally, and who was not always in
the humour to advance money.
Many years afterwards, Poussin, in speaking of this period, said to
Chantilon: 'I have sometimes gone to bed without having tasted food
since the morning, not because I had no means of paying at a
hostel--although _that_ also has befallen me at times--but because,
after having my soul filled with the glorious beauty of ancient art, I
could not endure to mingle in the low, sordid scenes of a cheap
eating-house. Indeed, it was scarcely a sacrifice to do so, for my
heart was too full to allow me to feel hunger.'
Poussin studied nature with a minuteness that often exposed him to
raillery. Whenever he made a country excursion, he brought back a bag
filled with pebbles and mosses, whose various tints and forms he
afterwards studied with the most scrupulous care. Vigneul de Marville
asked him one day how he had reached so high a rank among the great
painters. 'I tried to neglect nothing,' replied Poussin.
True, indeed, he had neglected nothing. He gave his days and nights to
the acquirement of various sciences. He understood anatomy better than
any surgeon of his time; he knew history like a Benedictine, and the
antiquities of Rome as a botanist does his favourite flora. But
architecture was the art which he esteemed most essential to a
painter; and accordingly his landscapes abound in exquisite
delineations of buildings.
His veneration for the works of his predecessors was very great. We
find him, in a letter addressed to M. de Chantilon, requesting that a
painting which he sent might not be placed in the same room with one
of Raphael's--'lest the contrast might ruin mine, and cause whatever
little beauty it has to vanish.'
He was an ardent admirer of Domenichino, and copied many of his works.
It happened one day, that as he was in a chapel busily employed in
copying a painting by that master, he saw a feeble old man tottering
slowly towards him, leaning on a crutch. The visitor, without
ceremony, seated himself on the painter's stool, and began
deliberately to examine his work. Poussin greatly disliked inquisitive
critics, and now feeling annoyed, he began to put up his pallet, and
to prepare for leaving.
'You don't like visitors, young man?' said the old man smiling.
'Neither did I. But when I was your age, and, like you, copying the
works of the old masters, if one of them had come to look over my
shoulder, and see how I succeeded in reproducing the form which he had
created, I would not for that have put away my pallet, but I would
gladly have sought his counsel.' And while he spoke, the handle of his
crutch was rubbing against the centre of the picture.
'Signor, are you mad?' exclaimed Poussin, seizing the offending
crutch.
'So they say, my child; but 'tis not true. No, no; Domenichino is not
mad, and can still give good advice.'
'Domenichino! what! the great Domenichino?' cried the young man.
'The _poor_ Domenichino. Yes, you see him such as years and grief have
made him. He has come, young man, to counsel you not to follow in his
track, if you wish to gain fortune and renown. That,' he continued,
pointing to his own painting,'is true and conscientious art. Well, it
leads to the alms-house. I see that you have the power to become a
great artist. Change your place; be extravagant, capricious,
unnatural, and then you will succeed.'
One may fancy the feelings of Poussin at hearing these words. He told
Domenichino that he was ready to sacrifice everything to the love of
true art, and respectfully accompanied him home.
From that time until Zampieri's death, Poussin was his friend and
pupil. He afterwards paid a debt of gratitude to the painter's memory,
by causing his picture of the _Communion of St Jerome_, which had been
thrown aside in a granary, to be placed opposite to the
_Transfiguration_ of Raphael.
By degrees, the marvellous talent of Poussin became known, and orders
for paintings flowed in on him. He might have become rich, but he
cared not for wealth, and was perhaps the only artist that ever
thought his works too highly paid for. On one occasion, being sent one
hundred crowns for a picture, he returned fifty.
Cardinal Mancini paid him a visit one evening, and when he was going
away, Poussin attended him with a lantern to the outer gate, and
opened it himself. 'I pity you,' said the cardinal, 'for not having
even one man-servant.' 'And I pity your eminence for having so many.'
In his days of adversity, Poussin had been kindly received and nursed
in the house of a M. Dughet, whose daughter he afterwards married. She
was a simple, kind-hearted woman, and fondly attached to her husband,
who appreciated her good qualities, and always treated her with
affection, although she probably never inspired him with ardent love.
Some years after their marriage, not having any children, Poussin
adopted his wife's younger brother, Gaspard Dughet, who, under his
instructions, became a painter of considerable merit. The remainder of
Poussin's life was singularly prosperous. He continued to reside at
Rome until summoned to return to France by Louis XIII., who, finding
that several invitations to that effect, conveyed through ambassadors,
failed to bring back Poussin, did him the honour to write him an
autograph letter, entreating his presence. The painter obeyed the
flattering summons, but unwillingly. He felt that he was sacrificing
his independence to the splendid bondage of a court, and he often
remembered with fond regret, 'the peace and the sweetness of his
little home.'
Two years he resided at court, tasting the sweets and bitters of
ambition--the caresses of a powerful king, and a still more powerful
cardinal--mingled with the envious intrigues and malicious detraction
of jealous rivals. Poussin loved not such a life; his free spirit
languished, his noble heart was pained; and in 1642, he requested and
obtained leave to visit Italy, promising, however, to return.
The deaths of Louis and Richelieu, which took place within a short
period of each other, released Poussin from his pledge. From that
time, he constantly resided at Rome, and executed his greatest works.
Amongst these may be named: _Rebecca_, _The Seven Sacraments_, _The
Judgment of Solomon_, _Moses striking the Rock_, _Jesus healing the
Blind_, and _The Four Seasons_, each being represented by a subject
from sacred history. All these, with the exception of _The Seven
Sacraments_, are to be seen in the Louvre.
Poussin died at Rome in 1665. His wife had expired a short time
before, and grief for the loss of this fond and faithful partner broke
down his energies and hastened his decease.
'Her death,' he wrote, 'has left me alone in the world, laden with
years, filled with infirmities, a stranger and without friends.' All
those whom he loved had preceded him to their tombs, and the only
relative at his death-bed was an avaricious nephew, eager to seize his
possessions.
The name of Nicholas Poussin will never die. He was the first great
French painter; and in him were united what, unhappily, are often
dissevered, the highest qualities of the head and of the heart--the
lofty genius of the artist with the humble piety of the Christian.