THE ART OF MONARCHICAL FRANCE
(FROM FRANCIS I., 1515 A.D., TO THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, 1789)
Among the commonplaces uppermost in latter-day thought is that which
usually finds expression in the phrase, “For East is East, and West is
West, and never the twain shall meet.” Whether this dogma be ultimately
true or not it certainly enshrines a far-reaching truth. The difference
between the typical Eastern and the typical Western mind goes down to
the deepest philosophical beliefs of both. The circumstances under
which the two types have been moulded differ so widely that they hardly
appear to move on the same mental plane.
But the Eastern and the Western are not the only types which offer the
strongest contrast the one to the other. Between the North and the
South, too, there is a great gulf fixed—a vital historical fact which
Heine has expressed with unforgettable vividness in two short stanzas.
In the first, he pictures the black fir-tree on the bald hill-brow
of the North. He speaks of its icy garb, and shows it sleeping and
dreaming amid the eternal snows:
“It sleeps and dreams of a palm-tree,
Far off in the morning land,
Lonely and silent, pining
On a cliff o’er the shimmering sand.”
For thousands of years the great mountain chains of mid-Europe cut off
the man in the North from the man in the South, as completely as the
barren steppes of Eastern Europe and Western Asia divided East from
West. To this very day the long winters and cool summers, the sombre
skies and deep forests, have operated to produce a body of thought
and emotion in the North of Europe that differs entirely from that
nourished under the clear skies and in the warm winds of Italy and
Greece. The mysticism of the Northman, his yearning to be at one with
the Ultimate Reality, is foreign to the typical Southern intellect—as
foreign as the dim forests, in which the mystical gloom of the Northern
imagination arose, are to the fruitful plains in which the sunnier
creed of the Southerner had its birth.
These general considerations prepare the way naturally enough for a
review of the history of sculpture in Northern Europe. Hitherto we have
considered the progress of the art in Italy and Greece. The sunny human
creed of the Southern temperament, at any rate, was able to find full
expression in marble and bronze. Can we say as much for the mystical
philosophy of such countries as Germany, France, Holland and England?
The influence of the prevailing trend of thought can be clearly traced
in several northern arts—in architecture and music, for instance—or,
again, in a Rembrandt portrait. Surely this is as typical a product of
the northern imagination, with its mysticism and gloom, as a picture by
Botticelli or Correggio, with its wealth of fancy and its delight in
light and space, is of the southern temperament.
But, turning to the work of the northern sculptors, we cannot say
this. The deepest emotions of the northern artist have found more
natural expression in the drama, in poetry, music and painting. The
reason is not far to seek. All these arts are far more universal in
their range. Sculpture depends entirely upon so human a thing as
the body of a man or a woman. It is naturally more fitted for the
exposition of a creed in which mankind occupies the chief place.
Equally naturally, the other arts serve better for the unfolding of a
belief which bases everything upon the will of an extra-mundane God,
manifesting Himself not in man alone but in the whole of the natural
world.
Be that as it may, it is certain that when we turn to the sculpture of
the North, we find few traces of the mystical outlook upon life which
is implicit in other northern art. By the time the sculptors of the
North had acquired the technical skill to express their thought and
emotion they apparently found themselves unable to embody their deepest
belief in their works. This, no doubt, explains why sculpture has never
been a popular art in any Northern country, why it has never occupied
the place there which it did in Greece or Rome; why it has always been
a stranger art, making its appeal to the few and not to the many.
It must not be imagined that the failure of sculpture to take a strong
hold upon the popular imagination of the North has been due to the
absence of craftsmen of the first order. Directly the Renaissance in
Italy made itself felt in the countries beyond the Alps, a vigorous
school of sculpture arose. Nothing could exceed the technical skill and
the sincerity of purpose displayed in Peter Vischer’s “King Arthur,”
one of the twenty-eight colossal figures surrounding the tomb of
Maximilian at Innsbruck. But seeing that the sculptor died in 1529,
and that the best years of his working life practically correspond
with the age of Luther’s Reformation, surely something more than
earnestness of purpose and profound technical skill might have been
shown. The Maximilian memorial certainly proves that the leading German
sculptors of the Reformation era had progressed beyond the Gothic
decorators whom they succeeded. But why has not the “King Arthur” the
vital interest of a Durer engraving? Why does it lack the inspiration
of a really fine Holbein portrait? Surely it is because the sculptor
had never realized the true meaning of the word “humanity.” He lacked
that passionate delight in the beauty of the human body which lay at
the root of the Hellenic sculptor’s success. The vital element of a
vigorous school of sculpture was wanting. Under these circumstances it
is not wonderful that even the standard of craftsmanship attained by
Peter Vischer was not maintained by the German sculptors who followed
him. The conversion of Germany to Protestantism entailed a general
discouragement of all art effort. As had been the case in the early
history of the Christian Church, the leaders of the religious movement
sternly opposed anything that satisfied the æsthetic cravings of
mankind.
[Illustration: PETER VISCHER
KING ARTHUR The Maximilian Tomb, Innsbruck]
THE AGE OF FRANCIS I.
Fortunately this sternly anti-humanistic creed was not adopted
throughout Northern Europe. In particular, it failed to find acceptance
among the Frenchmen who made their country the first power in Western
Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As in Germany,
the growth of an independent school of sculpture in France dated from
the early years of the sixteenth century when the influence of the
Italian Renaissance began to spread beyond the peninsula. The French
equivalent of Peter Vischer was Michel Colombe. Colombe was the
_tailleur d’images_ to three kings of France, Louis XI., Charles VIII.,
and Louis XII. His best known work is the tomb of Francis II., Duke of
Brittany, at Nantes. But it is rather as the founder of the school of
sculpture at Tours that Colombe claims our attention.
Early in the sixteenth century Tours was the foremost art centre in
France. Fouquet, the miniaturist, who died about 1480 A.D., was a
native of the town. Jean Clouet (Janet), the portrait painter, also
lived at Tours for some time. About 1520 there was an official studio
in the town, presided over by Babou de la Bourdaisière with a full
complement of sculptors, jewellers, engravers, and painters. The chief
product of the school of sculpture at Tours was the long series of
Royal Tombs at St. Denis, set up by the French kings of the sixteenth
century. It is here that we can best estimate the capacity of the
earliest native French sculptors.
The similarity in the general design of the royal tombs at St. Denis
is so marked that almost any example would be equally illustrative.
In many respects the most representative is that of Henri II., upon
which Germain Pilon worked for sixteen years. It is remarkable for
the magnificent kneeling figures of the French King and Catherine
of Medici. But, perhaps, from the historical standpoint, a more
instructive example is the tomb of Louis XII., by Jean Juste. This was
removed from Tours to St. Denis in 1531. It therefore represents the
sculpture of a period midway between Michel Colombe and Germain Pilon.
Jean Juste’s design is of a highly conventional character. As in the
tomb of Germain Pilon, the central figures are the nude corpses of the
King and Queen, rendered with a realistic fidelity which, at any rate,
commands respect. Above the tomb Louis and Anne of Brittany figure
again. This time they are pictured as in life and fully dressed. The
keynote of Jean Juste’s work—its vigorous truth—is the same as that
pervading Peter Vischer’s “King Arthur.” Like the work of the Nuremburg
sculptor, it is devoid of real charm. It entirely lacks the emotional
quality which attracts us in Quercia’s “Tomb of Ilaria del Caretto,”
though five hundred years have passed since it was set up in the
Cathedral at Lucca. Unlike the Italian sculptor, the French artist has
failed to realize the peculiar power of marble and bronze as a medium
of artistic expression.
Even in the days of Jean Juste (about 1530), however, a change was
beginning. It became an accomplished fact a few years later, when the
French sculptors finally abandoned the effort to express the thoughts
and emotions of the masses and accepted the lesser responsibility of
catering for the needs of the few. The importance of French sculpture
during the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries arises
entirely from its association with the dominating factor in the history
of the time. The age in which France was the first power in Europe was
an age of the _few_, not of the many. This fact entailed the loss of
much that might have been stimulating. But, at any rate, it enabled the
sculptor to appeal to those who were shaping the history of their time.
Roughly, the political situation was as follows:
As the sixteenth century advanced it became evident that France
could only preserve its place in the councils of Europe through an
all-powerful monarchy. The earliest French king to realize this was
Francis I., who succeeded to the throne in 1515 A.D. He was then
twenty-one years of age. He proved to be the first Renaissance king
of France, as Louis XII., his predecessor, had been the last mediæval
monarch. Francis’ experience during the early years of his reign showed
the absolute necessity of concentrating the resources of France into
the hands of the king. His first step was naturally to deprive the
French nobility of the power it had exercised in the past.
The effect of this general policy upon sculpture was instantaneous.
If Julius Cæsar and Augustus were the fathers of Roman portraiture,
Francis I. was the creator of what we term French sculpture. In the
first place, Francis was forced to create an imposing Court where his
turbulent nobles could be tamed into courtiers. This required the
building of palaces where the reformed Court could meet. In other
words, circumstances compelled Francis I. to be a great builder. The
fortresses, which had been necessities during earlier centuries, were
needed no longer. These were either suffered to fall into disrepair
or the gloomy buildings with their turrets and moats were replaced by
manorial châteaux with their lawns and their bowers. Naturally the king
led the way. Equally naturally the necessity of building compelled him
to become an energetic patron of the decorative arts. When Francis
started to put up the Château of Chambord he employed such sculptors as
Goujon, Bontemps, Cousin and Germain Pilon as a matter of course.
Francis’ greatest effort was the building of the Palace of
Fontainebleau. It was begun in 1528. In a very short while he found
that he could not rely upon French native talent for the extensive
decorative scheme which he had planned. The discovery was not a new
one. As early as 1495 Charles VIII. of France brought “makers of
ceilings and turners of alabaster” from Florence and Milan. Cardinal
d’Amboise, the minister of Louis XII., persuaded a number of Italian
artists to try their fortune in Paris. He also installed several others
at the Château de Gaillon. In those days the art instinct in France was
dead. At the time when Raphael was working in the Vatican, the walls of
the Cardinal d’Amboise’s castle at Gaillon were decorated with leathern
hangings or simply-patterned cloths. No Frenchmen had considered the
possibility of decorating his living rooms with pictures.
Under these circumstances Francis I. was compelled to turn to Italy.
First Rosso and Primaticcio were summoned. A few years later, in 1537,
Cellini accepted an invitation and spent some time at the French court.
We can judge of the artistic enthusiasm of the kind and the marked
change in the general appreciation of art owing to the growth of Court
life from a spirited chapter in Cellini’s “Autobiography.”
While Cellini was in France, Primaticcio had been sent to Italy to
collect art treasures on behalf of the king. The painter returned with
the moulds of some of the most celebrated statues of antiquity. Bronze
castings were made from these at the foundry at Fontainebleau and the
statues were finally set up in the long gallery at Fontainebleau ready
for the king’s inspection. They included the Vatican “Ariadne,” the
“Apollo Belvedere,” the “Laocoon,” the “Aphrodite of Cnidus” and the
“Hercules Commodus.” Cellini had certainly some ground for complaint
when he found his silver statue of Jove placed in such a company, and
it is not surprising that he attributed the chance to the envy of
his rival, the painter. Readers of the “Autobiography” will remember
the wealth of artistic detail intended to “add verisimilitude to an
otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative” with which Cellini narrates
how the malice of Francis’ mistress, Mme. d’Estampe, was used against
him. The visit of Francis to the gallery was delayed until evening
in the hope that Cellini’s silver statue would appear mean among the
ancient masterpieces with which it was to be shown. Of course the
wayward Florentine was fully equal to the emergency. He placed a great
torch in the hand of Jove and ordered his assistant to avoid lighting
it until the king had passed the rest of the statues and was inspecting
the silver one. The flood of light produced the effect which Cellini
had anticipated. It was the modern statue, not the old-time bronzes
which appeared the more effective.
The experience of Cellini at the Court of Francis I. proves that
sculpture in France had now a body of influential and appreciative
patrons—the first essential of a strong art movement. As we have seen,
these patrons had very solid reasons for the interest they extended to
the artists they employed. Francis’ marked preference for painting and
sculpture of the Italian manner was not, however, without drawbacks.
By selecting Rosso and Primaticcio to supervise the decoration of the
palace at Fontainebleau, Francis practically endowed a foreign style.
No doubt his judgment was sound. The native sculptors and painters had
neither the experience nor the skill to carry out a scheme so foreign
to anything upon which they had worked before.
In a very short while, however, the example of the Italians and the
heavy premium placed upon any artistic talent led to the rise of native
sculptors of distinction. The first French sculptor of supreme ability
was Jean Goujon. The name first occurs in the building accounts of St.
Maclou at Rouen in 1540. By 1547 Jean Goujon had entered the service
of Francis I. Two years later he was at work upon the Fountain of the
Innocents of Paris. The most instructive example of Goujon’s work is,
however, the famous “Diana” now in the Louvre. The statue originally
surmounted a fountain in the courtyard of Diana of Poitiers’ Castle of
Anet, built by Henry II. for his mistress. The marble rested upon a
sarcophagus raised upon tier after tier of carved decorative work. It
was, therefore, intended to be viewed at an elevation, as can be seen
in the well-known drawing by Goujon himself at the British Museum.
In estimating the genius of Goujon, the fact that he was first and
foremost an architect must never be forgotten. The full beauty of
his statues can only be properly appreciated when considered in
connection with the sites for which they were designed. When we
realize the decorative scheme of which a statue like “Diana” was
intended to be the culminating-point, we can see that the claims of
Goujon to be considered as the founder of modern French sculpture
are not ill-founded. In addition to its fine decorative effect,
the “Diana” possesses that balance which has always been a feature
in the finest French art. For the rest, Goujon owes some prominent
characteristics of his style to Cellini and the painters of the
Fontainebleau school. Note, for instance, the elongated limbs and the
over-slender proportions of his figures which Goujon has accentuated
in his endeavour to endow his statues with all possible grace. The
justification for the inclusion of Goujon among the great masters of
sculpture depends upon the fact that he was the first French sculptor
to introduce the nude figure as an object of æsthetic admiration into
French decorative art. In doing so he freed French sculpture from the
bonds of asceticism, and showed how its eventual greatness was to be
secured.
[Illustration: JEAN GOUJON
DIANA (FROM THE FOUNTAIN AT ANET) Louvre, Paris]
Nor does this exhaust the interest attaching to Goujon’s “Diana.”
It equally emphasizes the second great characteristic of French
sculpture—its connection with the feminine element, which has always
been a dominant factor alike in French art and French social life.
It is said that in the statue of “Diana,” Goujon has portrayed the form
of his patroness, Diana of Poitiers. And, indeed, the cold nude figure
of the goddess of Chastity might well serve as a character-sketch of
the passionless beauty who captivated the Dauphin Henry when he was
half her age, ruled France for half a decade, and—a _poseuse_ to the
last—died leaving large sums to found a home for repentant Magdalens
of Paris. Almost every prominent French artist during the sixteenth,
seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries was closely connected with one or
other of the Court favourites. In the case of Goujon it was Diana of
Poitiers. His career was immensely helped by the friendly aid of the
mistress of Henry II.
The part played by Diana of Poitiers in the career of Goujon can be
paralleled from the history of almost every prominent French artist.
Indeed, women played so great a part in French Court life that it would
be strange if traces of their influence could not be readily found.
French sculpture was in the first place an art of the Court. It was
equally an art of the boudoir. For the market-place and the forum of
the Hellene, the Frenchman substituted the bedroom. Here policies were
discussed and shaped; here culture grew and the arts were moulded.
A complete history of the relationship between French sculpture and
French womanhood would certainly prove that the influence of the French
Court beauties upon sculpture was at least as potent as that of the
“blue stockings” led by Madame de Rambouillet upon literature.
One thing, however, must be remembered. This influence differed
entirely from that which Phryne exercised over the art of Praxiteles,
La Bella Simonetta over Botticelli, or Emma Hamilton over Romney. It
was not emotional, but material. The impulse behind it was not love,
but a desire for power. Indeed, the same thing may be said of the
influence of the Court beauties upon French life in general. When the
Marquise de Montespan set herself to attract the attention of Louis
XIV., she knew that he did not love her. “He knows that he owes it to
himself to possess the most beautiful woman in France.”
This holds true of most of the other women who exercised such power
throughout this period of French history. Montesquieu has summed up the
motives inspiring their efforts in a sentence in the “Persian Letters”:
“Do you think, Ibben, that a woman consents to be the mistress of a
minister for love of him? What an idea! It is in order that she may lay
before him every morning five or six petitions.”
The far-seeing Frenchman enables us to grasp what the blackguardly old
father-in-law of the Marquise de Montespan meant when he heard of his
daughter’s success, and cried, “Here’s fortune knocking at my door at
last.”
Had the influence of the women of France been of a more emotional
character, French sculpture would doubtless have approximated much more
closely to that of Greece during the age of Praxiteles. As it was, it
leaves us cold. It has the feminine grace but not the feminine passion.
It seems to be inspired by a love which would stop at flirtation,
fearing to lose itself in the depths of complete surrender.
THE AGE OF LOUIS QUATORZE
The insistence upon the social circumstances which moulded the earliest
phase of French sculpture is justified when it is remembered that they
were no less important during the two following epochs. Until the
coming of the Revolution, France was ruled by an absolute monarch, and
practically all the artistic life of the country centred around him.
Throughout this time French sculpture was dominated by its connection
with a great court, and by the feminine influences which were so potent
in French Court life. The great revival of sculpture during the reign
of Louis XIV., which now claims consideration, is at once explained
when it is correlated with the fact that political considerations
forced France to accept an even more absolute monarchical rule, and
an even more complete centralization of French culture than had been
necessary in the time of the Valois kings.
At the end of the sixteenth century Henry IV. had settled the
religious difficulties in France, and had proved how heartily the
advent of a monarchy able and willing to vindicate its authority was
welcomed. The administrative zeal of Sully, Henry’s minister, and the
taxation reforms which he carried through, laid the foundations of
the vast wealth which Louis XIV. controlled. Without this the great
efflorescence of art, a few years later, would not have been possible.
But the complete supremacy of the French king in the seventeenth
century was due rather to pressure from surrounding nations than
to internal considerations. The reign of Louis XIV. was the age in
which Europe reconstructed her political system upon the principle
of territorialism under a system of absolute monarchy. The natural
complement of Sully, with his maxim, “Plough and cow—these are
the breasts of France whereat she sucks,” was Richelieu, with his
vigorous foreign policy. Richelieu carried the ideals of Francis I.
and Henry IV. to their furthest limit. In everything Richelieu was
pro-Louis—never pro-France. He was not satisfied until the whole
financial and judicial administration had been brought under royal
control by means of a bureaucracy depending entirely upon royal favour.
The brilliant success of Richelieu’s policy was evident when the peace
of Westphalia left France with an Eastern frontier bordering on the
Rhine. The Frankish kingdom of Charles the Great, for which France had
been struggling for centuries, was secured. In 1661, after the death of
Mazarin, Louis found that he could carry the policy of centralization
one step further. As he himself put it, “In future, gentlemen, I shall
be my own Prime Minister.”
[Illustration: PIERRE PUGET
THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION Church of St. Philip of Neri, Genoa]
One of Louis’ first acts as a complete autocrat was to commence
building the Palace at Versailles. The place lay ten miles out of
Paris, and the king had visited it in 1651 when a lad of thirteen.
The Château evidently engaged his fancy, for between 1662 and 1669 he
did much to adorn the parks. At the end of this time he started to
build in real earnest. The magnitude of the work can be realized from
the fact that 36,000 men were still at work in the palace and park
when the Court moved in on May 6, 1682. Some twenty million pounds
sterling were spent in twenty years. But expense, after all, was a
small consideration. The palace at Versailles was not a luxury but a
necessity. It was to Louis XIV. what Fontainebleau had been to Francis
I.
The first impulse of the courtly party had been to make the Louvre
the headquarters of Louis. Colbert, Louis’ financial adviser at the
time, was an ardent advocate of the Louvre. So much importance did he
attach to the scheme that in 1665 the great Bernini was summoned from
Italy to advise as to extension of the Louvre. Louis’ judgment was
sounder than that of Colbert’s in this matter. He saw that a Court in
the centre of Paris was out of the question. The nobles composing it
would have been far too easily influenced by intrigues started amongst
the restless _bourgeoisie_ of the French capital. Moreover, apart from
this political objection, there was the practical difficulty caused by
the absence of sufficient space. Room for a great palace was not the
only requirement. If the nobility were to be permanently settled around
the king, a small township was essential. The hotels de Richelieu, de
Condé, de Soissons, de Noailles, du Plessis, de Guise, and de Saint
Simon, which eventually arose at Versailles, had to be provided for.
Yet Colbert, who realized the difficulty of meeting the heavy
expenditure, was very insistent. In a last effort to dissuade Louis
from the enterprise he wrote:
“Your Majesty knows that, apart from brilliant
actions in war, nothing marks better the grandeur
and genius of princes than their buildings, and that
posterity measures them by the standard of the superb
edifices which they erect during their lives. Oh, what
a pity that the greatest King, and the most virtuous,
should be measured by the standard of Versailles.”
Louis, however, had his way, and Colbert was forced to find the
necessary funds.
Could the subtle relation between art and politics be more aptly
illustrated? The connection between the patronage of Louis and the
growth of French sculpture in the latter half of the seventeenth
century is equally clear.
Perhaps the best known sculptor who depended upon the patronage of
Louis XIV. was Pierre Puget, who came to the Court in 1688, late in his
career.
[Illustration: FRANCIS GIRARDON
APOLLO AND THE NYMPHS The Gardens, Versailles]
The “Milo of Crotona,” in the Louvre, is often cited as Puget’s most
typical work. An equally good illustration is the colossal group
“Perseus and Andromeda.” Both were commissioned by Louis XIV., and the
anecdotes relating to the statues prove the close interest the king
took in their execution. The story runs that after seeing the “Milo,”
Louis proposed that the sculptor should start upon another work, “if he
is not too old to undertake it,” he added. The remark was repeated to
Puget, who replied characteristically: “I am in my sixtieth year, but
I still have ample force and vigour, for great works sustain me.” The
“Perseus and Andromeda” took two years. Finally Puget sent his son to
present it to Louis. “Your father is great and illustrious; there is no
man in Europe to equal him” was Louis’ verdict. Even more attractive
is Puget’s “Immaculate Conception,” which dates from about 1665, and
was designed for the Oratory of Saint Philip of Neri at Genoa, where it
still remains. At fourteen years of age Puget had started by carving
the ornamental decorations of the galleys at Marseilles. A few years
later, however, he visited Italy, where he fell under the spell of the
Italian artists of the Catholic Reaction and, particularly, of Bernini.
“The Immaculate Conception” represents Puget in his Bernini mood.
The French sculptor never altogether escaped from Bernini’s tendency
towards theatrical restlessness, but when his statues are compared
with the passionless and artificial productions of most of the French
sculptors of his day, it is clear that the Marseilles artist represents
a real advance. For the rest, Puget introduced into sculpture the
sensuous representation of flesh—the suggestion of the living
texture—which the Italians term _morbidezza_. In this respect, he has
fathered a long progeny of sculptors, ending with such ultra-modern
artists as Jules Dalou and the Belgian, Jef Lambeaux.
If Pierre Puget was closely connected with Louis XIV., Francis Girardon
(1628-1715), the second great sculptor of the seventeenth century,
was equally identified with Versailles. The decoration of the palace
proceeded under the general direction of Charles Lebrun, the painter.
Girardon acted as chief inspector of sculpture under Lebrun. The post
was no sinecure. In all, ninety-five sculptors were employed, and about
half a million sterling was spent upon sculptural decorations. The
greater part of this was expended upon the fountains in the gardens.
The elaborate nature of these garden decorations can be realized from
Girardon’s great group “Apollo and the Nymphs.” This is still at
Versailles, but it has been moved to the grotto in which it is now to
be seen—the so-called Temple of Thetis.
But the greatness of the seventeenth-century sculptors of France cannot
be properly appreciated from any single work. The keynote of the Louis
Quatorze style is the fact that the work was intended to enhance the
effect of the room or garden in which it was placed. Alone it is as
meaningless as a Greek pedimental group away from the temple it was
designed to decorate. A just judgment of the genius displayed in
Girardon’s “Apollo and the Nymphs” presupposes a mental picture of the
Gardens at Versailles.
They were designed by André le Notre. When Louis commenced to rebuild
the old château the gardens consisted of two groves. The rest was
practically an uncultivated wood. It is told that after André le Notre
had satisfied himself as to the general scheme to be followed he laid
it before Louis. The king wandered with the great garden-architect
through the grounds talking the matter over. As le Notre explained
his ideas Louis became more and more enthusiastic. “I give you
20,000 francs,” he cried. André le Notre moved on to another point
and developed a new aspect of his scheme. “I give you another 20,000
francs,” exclaimed the delighted Louis. After the third or fourth
repetition André began to feel hurt. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if I
tell you more you will be a ruined man. You must leave the rest to me.”
[Illustration: PIGALLE
MERCURY PUTTING ON HIS SANDAL Louvre, Paris]
[Illustration: FALCONET
L’AMOUR MENAÇANT Louvre, Paris]
The results must have more than reached the king’s anticipations. In
those days, the gardens were studded with statuary. There was, for
instance, the early Fountain of the Dragon. Water spouted from the
beast’s mouth to a height of twenty-eight metres. Around sported four
dolphins, while the design was completed by the cupids seated on swans,
which darted their arrows at the dragon in the centre. Similar groups
arose from every basin. Two of these were set up on the terrace. A
double flight of stairs, richly ornamented with statuary, led thence
to the grounds. Here the wanderer came upon such a beauty spot as the
Allée d’Eau, with its border of pines and its hundred and four copper
vases set with yew-trees. Throughout the Walk were groups of statues.
Or, maybe, he visited Girardon’s “Pyramid.” This consisted of four
superimposed basins. The highest was supported on four cray fish, the
second on four dolphins and the others on tritons, the lowest tier
rising from the four larger tritons who swam in the great basin. The
lavish expenditure upon the sculpture at Versailles may be judged
from the payment of 1400 livres in 1671 to the painter-gilder Bailly
“on account of the gilding and bronzing applied to the _fontaine en
pyramide_.”
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
If a clear realization of the gardens at Versailles is necessary for
the true appreciation of such a work as Girardon’s “Apollo and the
Nymphs,” the interior of a French palace must be pictured if the
smaller sculptures of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are
to be understood. The sculptors worked with the knowledge that their
works were eventually to be placed in such rooms as the Salon of Venus
at Versailles with its marble walls, its green velvet hangings and
silver chandeliers, or the Throne Room, with its decorations of crimson
and gold, its ceiling by Delafosse and pictures by Titian, Guido
Reni, Rubens and Van Dyck, or even the great Galérie des Glaces, 240
feet in length, with its seventeen great windows framed by Corinthian
pilasters, and faced by the seventeen mirrored arches running along
the opposite side. Many sculptures of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, which we rightly consider insipid and unsatisfying, may
well have served their purpose at the time. They cannot, however, be
properly judged apart from the richly decorated salons which they were
designed to complete.
This is true of a portion of the sculpture of Louis Quatorze. It is
even more true of practically all the sculpture of Louis Quinze and
Louis Seize. If the seventeenth century was the period of the great
decorative sculptors, the characteristic of the eighteenth century was
its demand for smaller works. The reign of Louis Quatorze had been
a building age. In the main, it called for architectural sculpture.
Eighteenth-century taste, however, ran in the direction of the
single-figured statue and the statuette. The tendency was exactly that
which, in the art of painting, produced a Watteau and a Fragonard
in place of a Nicholas Poussin and a Charles Lebrun. The growing
popularity of smaller statues was the equivalent of the increased
demand for easel pictures.
Under the circumstances it is not to be wondered that the
eighteenth-century French sculptors lost the fine sense of decorative
effectiveness with which the school of Louis XIV. had been endowed.
As a consequence they were far less successful in carrying out the
larger public works which every nation demands from time to time. On
the contrary, the smaller works produced in the eighteenth century were
often instinct with vivacity and charm. It was only when they essayed
the greater tasks that the sculptors failed to throw off completely
what may be termed the boudoir manner.
[Illustration: CLODION SATYR WITH FLUTE Musée Cluny, Paris]
Our meaning may be illustrated from the history of the tomb of the
Marshal de Saxe in the church of St. Thomas, at Strasbourg. It was
designed in 1756, by Jean Baptiste Pigalle—then the foremost sculptor
in France.
Marshal de Saxe was, of course, the victor at Fontenoy, and Pigalle
depicts Death welcoming the hero while France vainly attempts to stay
Death’s hand. The scattered trophies, as well as the Austrian eagle,
the Belgian lion, and the English leopard, speak of the Marshal’s
success as a soldier. The work is clearly a national memorial, and, had
it been the work of a great national sculptor, would have suggested
national feeling and pride in every line and mass. In point of fact
it is evident that it does nothing of the kind. The sculptor, finding
himself unable to feel the design as a whole, has been content with
“building up” the memorial. Being a competent craftsman he naturally
produced a satisfactory, if uninspired, work.
There is a quaint little story concerning the inception of the Saxe
Memorial which happily illustrates the mood in which Pigalle designed
the work. The Marshal’s reputation for gallantry was by no means
confined to military affairs. He was, perhaps, the only commander who
ever entered into a campaign accompanied by a first-rate opera company.
Pigalle was well aware of this. That no side of the dead commander’s
character might be unrepresented, he added the figure of Love with
torch reversed. “The Marshal cared equally for love and war. Love
must figure among the mourners,” he explained. The Marshal’s friend
objected, and finally Louis XV. was asked to intervene. To satisfy
all parties, the King decreed that Cupid should wear a helmet—“the
insignia of the genius of war,” as he explained. But Pigalle was not
to be moved, “Aujourd’hui,” he said; “je plie, mais je me redresserai
bientot.”
It will be seen that Pigalle proved right. To this day Love is without
his helmet. Moreover, the tiny god is perhaps the most charming
figure in the great monument, a lasting reminder that the genius of
the eighteenth-century sculptor dealt more naturally with the dainty
and the graceful than with the great and the sublime. Pigalle’s own
reputation depends much more upon his charming “Mercury putting on his
Sandal” (The Louvre) than it does upon the far more ambitious memorial
at Strasbourg. This is equivalent to saying that Pigalle was at his
best when he was most interested. The same remark applies to his fellow
sculptors. Seeing that men’s interests had moved in the direction of
the boudoir, a boudoir art naturally followed.
The demand for smaller works increased as the eighteenth century went
on. No sculptor reached the height attained by Watteau and Fragonard in
the sister art of painting, but an immense amount of fine sculpture was
produced.
The typical Louis Quinze and Louis Seize style is well represented
by the work of the Parisian sculptor, Etienne Maurice Falconet
(1716-1791), a pupil of Lemoyne. His “L’amour Menaçant” is a charming
instance of the skill with which the eighteenth-century sculptors
adapted themselves to the wider range of subjects created by the new
demand.
[Illustration: HOUDON DIANA (BRONZE) Louvre, Paris]
Falconet shows the god of Love, with a finger of caution at his lips.
The idea of the hand slyly stealing round to the quiverful of arrows
slung across his shoulder is expressed with delightful art. The dainty
work is remarkable for its grace and the vivacity of expression
animating it. It is significant that the work was commissioned by
Madame de Pompadour in 1756.
Two more sculptors call for notice before we close this chapter—Clodion
and Houdon. Both were followers of Pigalle and both lived to a good
old age and worked well into the nineteenth century. But in essence
their work was dominated by the factors which moulded the rest of the
sculpture of Louis XV. and Louis XVI.
The lesser of the two men, Claude François Michel, called Clodion, was
to sculpture what Boucher was to painting. His favourite subjects were
satyrs and bacchantes, as, for instance, in the “Satyr with Flute,”
with which we illustrate his art. Some of his most delightful works
are at the Musée Cluny. There is also a fine “Satyr and Nymph” in the
Wallace collection at Hertford House, London. With rare exceptions, all
Clodion’s works were designed for the drawing-room or the dancing-hall.
He was a master of the statuette and, perhaps, without a rival in the
skilful use of terra-cotta.
It is easy to cavil at the frankly sensuous style of Clodion but, after
all, his justification is complete. It depends upon the success with
which he carried out that at which he aimed.
On the whole, the great body of eighteenth-century French sculpture
defies criticism by the same triumphant grace and vivacity and the same
plea that what was aimed at has been done. There are times when
“Eternal smiles its emptiness betray
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.”
But, judging it by its own standard and looking for neither deep
feeling nor high thinking, it amply justifies its place among the art
movements which have given humanity a fresh thrill.
Houdon (1741-1828), the last of the eighteenth-century French
sculptors, was a far greater artist than either his master Pigalle or
Clodion. He lived throughout the sculptural period dominated by Canova,
and might, on that account, claim consideration in our next chapter.
Houdon as an artist, however, seems to have been little impressed by
the events of the French Revolution, so we have chosen to represent him
by two of his earlier works.
Like many other French sculptors of genius, Houdon won the Grand Prix
at the outset of his career and directly after visited Italy. While
there he modelled the well-known “St. Bruno,” of which Clement XIII.
said “he would speak were it not that the rules of his order enjoin
silence.” A little later came the celebrated “Diana,” perhaps the most
remarkable work by an eighteenth-century French sculptor in view of
the originality of its design and the skill with which the technical
difficulties incidental to such a pose are overcome. There are various
replicas of the “Diana.” The Hermitage copy is in marble, and dates
from 1780. The Louvre bronze was cast in 1790.
Houdon’s “Voltaire” is equally famous. This, too, exists in more
than one state. There is the seated figure belonging to the Comédie
Française—recently moved to the Louvre—as well as the bust which we
have preferred to reproduce. The latter represents the old cynic during
the last weeks of his life. It is a magnificent instance of Houdon’s
unrivalled power in the expression of mental vivacity. It is said that
the sculptor had complained to a friend, the Marquis de Villevieille,
that the old wit’s face had lost every vestige of life. Villevieille
realizing that Houdon’s sitting might well result in failure, bethought
himself of the crown which Brizard, the actor, had placed on Voltaire’s
head during his triumph at the Français. The next day while Houdon was
working before his model, Villevieille suddenly placed the crown on the
old man’s head. For a moment the ancient fire returned. It was only for
a moment. Bursting into tears, Voltaire cried: “What are you doing,
young man?” Then he added bitterly: “My tomb is already prepared; put
it on that.”
[Illustration: HOUDON VOLTAIRE]
Fortunately the momentary impression was sufficient. Houdon was able to
fix for all time the insight which chance had given him into the secret
of the man who, perhaps, did more to prepare the way for the French
Revolution than any other thinker. Houdon’s “Voltaire” appropriately
closes the history of the sculpture of the French Court. Equally
appropriately it ushers in the history of European sculpture during the
Revolutionary era.