One of the prettiest chapters of the volume in which French artists
of the Eighteenth Century have recorded with grace and freedom the
lighter manners of their age, is that certainly which was written by
Moreau le Jeune. He employed, with extreme diligence, half a life
in writing it. Born in March 1741, he died in November 1814. The
son of a Parisian wigmaker, of the parish of St. Sulpice--which was
also Chardin’s--he, with his brother, Moreau l’Aîné, a painter not
greatly known, was drawn early into the circle of the producers of
Art. He was a pupil of Louis de Lorrain, a now forgotten painter,
whom he followed, at seventeen years old, to St. Petersburg. Coming
back to Paris, he was in the workroom of Le Bas, the engraver, and
there he learned the secret of the burin’s expression. He engraved
with delicate skill. It was but slowly, however, that in his own
designs he showed himself an accomplished draughtsman; for though his
daughter, Madame Carle Vernet--who wrote an account of him--lets us
understand that he was born drawing, there is much of his early work
that is obviously laboured. Suddenly, the De Goncourts tell us--those
critics who, with M. Maherault, the industrious collector, have
studied him the best--suddenly his power of draughtsmanship declared
itself--the individuality of his vision and method. It was in a drawing
commissioned by Le Bas, who sought to engrave it, the ‘Plaine des
Sablons’--a review by Louis XV. In it he was revealed as the successful
draughtsman of festivals, the historian of lively ceremonies. And such
success was rewarded. For, with commendable promptitude, in 1770--the
year after the drawing was executed--he was appointed ‘Dessinateur
des Menus-plaisirs,’ and five years later, when Cochin retired,
‘Dessinateur du Cabinet du Roi.’ Thus, while still a young man,
Moreau’s position was assured, and he was left free to use much of his
time in works on which it was possible to bestow a more exquisite grace
than any which could be fitly employed upon labours in which official
portraiture counted for much. Moreau was free to invent for himself,
and free to illustrate the best literary inventions of a literary
age. His career was before him, and the day not distant when he would
produce ‘L’Histoire des Mœurs’ and the illustrations to the ‘Nouvelle
Héloïse.’
I have indicated now, by a brief line or two, the direction in which
Moreau le Jeune must chiefly be studied, and the places in which he may
be seen if men would see him at his prime. Perhaps it may be a matter
of taste, and a matter of taste only, whether one prefers him in his
more spontaneous or in his more official work. The draughtsman is the
same in either labour, though the inspiration is different. For me his
greatest achievement is ‘L’Histoire des Mœurs,’ or, in another phrase,
‘Le Monument du Costume,’ which must be spoken of in detail later on.
For many, and above all, for the lovers of curiosities, the seekers
in byways of history, his celebrity hangs chiefly on his performance
of the various ‘Sacres’; his records of the public functions, his
‘Fêtes at Versailles for the Marriage of the Dauphin and of Marie
Antoinette’; his ‘Crowning of Voltaire’--at the Théâtre Français--in
1788; his ‘Fêtes at the Hôtel de Ville,’ on the birth of a new Dauphin
to Louis XVI. Among these we may look perhaps principally at the
‘Crowning of Voltaire,’ for it has the virtues of them all. The drawing
was engraved by Gaucher, who has preserved in the print the lively
touch of the original. But what, one asks, was the occasion of the
ceremony, what the cause of the ‘crowning’? At the Théâtre Français,
Voltaire’s _Irène_ had been performed for sixteen nights. In those days
of limited audiences that was a brilliant success. The bust of the poet
is placed then in the middle of the stage, to be adorned and declaimed
before. Madame Vestris--another, of course, than the Vestris known to
Englishmen--reads aloud, and with emphasis, the lines of which the
Marquis de Saint-Maur has hurriedly been delivered. Other performers,
in more or less classic garb, cluster about her with garlands in their
hands, ready to bestow them on the bust. In a box, high up on one side
of the theatre, sits the demi-god, with two fair friends--one of whom
is his niece, Madame Denis, and the other that Marquise de Villette to
whom the print that represents the occasion is dedicated. The playhouse
is full. The clapping of hands is lusty and enthusiastic. People rise
in their boxes. Men stare upwards from the pit. Fine ladies crane their
necks to catch a glimpse of the hero with the thin angular face, with
its tell-tale lines of wit and mockery and observation.
Moreau must have seen the sight himself, and borne away the vivid
recollection of it. Never was _l’actualité_--the thing that passes,
the thing that may be insignificant to-day, but is to be History
to-morrow--never was _l’actualité_ designed with a more fitting mixture
of grace and precision. But in the more important work next to be
spoken of, there was greater room for invention. Therein was Moreau,
in the true sense, dramatist as well as draughtsman, for even if the
outline of the subject was suggested to him by the speculator who
undertook the publication, it was Moreau alone who gave veracity and
character to the head and gesture of each person in the play.
The ‘Suite d’Estampes pour servir à l’histoire des Mœurs et du Costume
dans le Dix-huitième Siècle’ began to be published in 1775 by Prault,
of Paris, though it has been of late suggested that it was really
conceived and undertaken by a German of the name of Eberts. The
notion was to give a series of plates in which the most correct and
fashionable manners, and the dress of the moment, and the furniture in
vogue, should be together portrayed. The artist first pitched upon to
recall them was, strangely enough, a foreigner. Freudeberg, a Bernese
settled in Paris, a draughtsman of grace and charm undoubtedly, but of
a closely bounded talent, had found favour with the public, and it was
he who was chosen to make--and he did make--the first dozen drawings.
The best engravers of the day were forthwith to engrave them. But by
the time the first series was finished--and two odd pieces, I believe,
not generally taken account of as belonging to the set--Freudeberg
became home-sick and resolved to depart, and the business of continuing
the work, which in the view of its promoter was to be a practical guide
to fashion, was assigned to Moreau. Moreau did the second series, and
then the third. The second dealt with the fortunes of a lady; the
third with those of a _grand seigneur_, who was likewise something of
a _petit-maître_. And for each there was a text, bald, it may be, but
in a measure appropriate. It was anonymous, and chiefly descriptive. A
little later, in a new issue, it was sought to associate the work with
popular literature, and Restif de la Bretonne--a free-spoken ‘realist,’
whom, after long neglect, it is now, not altogether without cause,
the fashion to enjoy--was invited to write his commentary, and his
commentary took the form of quite a new interpretation. ‘Restif,’ says
M. Anatole de Montaiglon, ‘au lieu de respecter le sentiment des trois
suites, a isolé chaque motif et chaque planche.’ Restif, that is, has
invented for each plate some fresh little story.
In life, the mind associates with a given and chosen landscape the
more magnetic and memorable of the figures that people it. These alone
bestow on it the reality of its human interest, and the others may be
ignored. And so, among the masses of description and criticism of the
arts of design, the writings which we really associate with the works
they endeavour to vivify are those generally which have a charm of
their own--the charm of the literary touch. Restif de la Bretonne’s
stories, with all their faults, have just that charm. There is that in
them which permits their author to take possession of the theme, so
that the theme belongs no longer at all to whatever dullard chanced to
be the first to treat it.
Two designs which I never see without wanting them are the most
vivacious of Moreau’s series. They are the ‘Sortie de l’Opéra’ and
‘C’est un fils, Monsieur!’ Others, even among the most admirable, are
more limited in their aim. The ‘Grande Toilette,’ for instance, as
its name implies, is occupied more particularly with raiment. It is
a very summary of fashion. It is the great lord, or the consummate
_petit-maître_, displayed to us when dressing is completed. The
edifice, it seems, has just been crowned. ‘Monseigneur,’ vividly
writes Restif de la Bretonne, ‘Monseigneur is dressed; for some
minutes already he has been standing; his cordon bleu is assumed;
they have just given him his purse, and he has his bouquet.’ Yes, the
edifice has been crowned: Monseigneur is ready; for--and the touch is
untranslatable--they have _achevé de le chausser_. You see the neat
shoes, the garter, the closely drawn stocking, the whole paraphernalia
of the leg he was proud of. ‘_Achevé de le chausser_’--it is all in
the phrase. And now he is free, no doubt, to enjoy the idleness of the
morning, to do a service to a comedian, and, after an author has had
audience of him, to accept the dedication of a book.
‘La Petite Loge’ is just as characteristic. What one sees is the
inside of an opera-box, of which the tenants are a couple of bachelors
of fashion. A dance is over, on the stage, and a girl who has taken
part in it has been brought into the box, to be encouraged--to be
touched under the chin. And here is an epitome of Restif’s story. A
Prince, struck with the beauty of a ragged little child in the street,
determined that she should be educated--pensioned her and her mother.
Soon, however, busied with the greatest business of his class and
day--‘occupied with intrigue,’ the story-teller tells us--he forgot
his little protégée. She had her money regularly--all that she was
promised--but he was too busy to think of her. Then, one night, at the
Opera, smitten with the charm of a new dancer, he inquired who the
dancer was, and ordered her to be brought to him. As soon as she was
in the box, ‘Il lui passa sous le menton une main un peu libre’; but
then it was disclosed to him that she was the child he had been struck
with. Coulon, the famous dancing-master, had by this time taught her to
some purpose. As for her future, her mother--an ancestress, I take it,
of Halévy’s ‘Madame Cardinal’--had already a register of one hundred
and twenty pages, filled with the propositions of the Court and the
town. ‘Sa mère se reservait le droit de les comparer,’--for nothing,
it seems, even by a Madame Cardinal, should be done in a hurry. Well,
among the girl’s many lovers there was one who was unselfish. What did
he want but to marry her! The Prince--not minded now to be outdone in
chivalry--generously urged that he should be accepted, and Isabelle
was glad to consent. But the King ordered the lover’s arrest, and
the young people were separated. The girl lived prudently, in London
and in Paris. She and her art were admired; but she died of a sudden
illness. ‘Her young lover was in absolute despair, and the Prince, her
protector, wept for her.’
In the ‘Sortie de l’Opéra’ we see the elegant and famous crowd that
surged out of the theatre after a performance long looked forward to.
‘Gluck’s new Operas--it is essential to see them,’ said a writer who
knew what it was that a fashionable woman could not afford to neglect.
The ‘all Paris’ of the day was there; and at the end, when the crowd
was in the lobbies, and the _aboyeur_ was calling the carriages, and
the flower-girl was a messenger of intrigue--that was the moment that
gave birth to plans for dainty suppers eaten away from home, the time
when ‘abbés without a family learned the secret of how they might
belong to all.’ What a bustle of flirtation! What a passing about of
love-letters! The elegance of the scene must make amends, as best it
can, for its light-hearted naughtiness.
‘C’est un fils, Monsieur!’ has no such forgiveness to ask of us. It
is the blithest picture that we need to be shown of the home joys of
the refined. A young husband, who is known already as ‘le Président,’
and who is a student and a fortunate collector of Art as well as a man
of the world, rises from his study chair with outstretched hands and
radiant face, as the newly born baby is carried in to him in triumph,
followed by a procession of household retainers, and preceded by the
lively Miss Rozette, the President’s foster-sister. Nothing is more
expressive than the joyous pantomime of this privileged young woman,
and the answering gestures of the newly made father; and delightful
is the sentiment of the piece. In England, popular Art has sometimes
made the joys of domesticity a little dull; but here the respectable is
actually gay, and nothing but sunshine lies upon the path of duty.
Of the many writers whom Moreau avowedly illustrated, as distinguished
from those who furnished a text for his designs, Rousseau was the one
in whom he most believed, and for Rousseau much of his best work was
executed. His designs for the _Nouvelle Héloïse_ were among the last of
the important drawings wrought by him before he made that journey into
Italy which his daughter speaks of as having ‘opened his eyes,’ but
which, to whatever it may have ‘opened’ them, certainly closed them to
the aspects of that France it was his truest mission to portray. The
types of Julie and Saint-Preux are types which Moreau understood--he
understood their impulse and their sentiment; and how many faults he
would have forgiven them for their grace! To illustrate Rousseau was
of course to have the opportunity--and in Moreau’s case it was also
to profit by it--of representing both a deeper and a more immediate
sensitiveness than most of that which claimed interpretation in the
sometimes callous figures of the ‘Monument du Costume.’ Moreau was
grateful for so fortunate an occasion, and he thoroughly responded
to it. His Julie is ‘un type de Greuze honnête,’ with her ‘bouche
entr’ouverte,’ her ‘regard profond,’ her ‘gorge couverte en fille
modeste, et non pas en dévote,’ her ‘petite figure de blonde, mouvante
et sensible.’ Moreau read Rousseau again and again: he genuinely cared
for him, and when Rousseau died, the death-scene was not suffered to
pass unrecorded, and of the grave in the Ile des Peupliers, by Geneva,
he made a little etching.
Presently, however, Moreau was to be led away from the very sentiment
of the scenes he had understood the best. His individuality was
lessened, his flexibility arrested by the journey to Italy,
undertaken with Dumont, the architect, in 1786. And his association
with David--‘le peintre de Marat assassiné et le membre de la
Convention’--operated to make more certain his style’s divorce from
all the natural grace and flowing sentiment and homely unheroic
dignity with which it had lived so fruitfully for more than twenty
years. The illustrator of Rousseau was already less happy as the
illustrator of Voltaire; and in 1791 Moreau was received into the
Academy; the drawing which procured him the distinction being that
of ‘Tullie faisant passer son char sur le corps de son père.’ Wille,
the engraver, writes, in his published journal, how he went to the
Academical Assembly when Moreau was received. ‘There was an Academician
to receive: it was Monsieur Moreau, draughtsman and engraver. He had
begged me to be his sponsor, and I presented him to the Assembly with a
great deal of pleasure.’ But Moreau’s entrance into the Academy was the
signal for his exit from the regions of his native art. The bibliophile
may seek with avidity for the editions of Renouard, which years
afterwards Moreau illustrated. But his verve had deserted him; his
talent was gone; his originality had yielded up the ghost. And somehow,
too, in his last years, and in his old age, poverty overtook him. In
February 1814, he wrote to M. Renouard that he was penniless--‘Je n’ai
pas le sou.’ Friends he had, though; and one of the first acts of
Louis XVIII. was to reappoint him to the old office--‘draughtsman to
the King.’ He held the place for but a short time; for on the 30th
November, in the same year, Moreau died. With his later style both he
and his daughter, and the group, too, by whom they were surrounded,
were content--no one assailed it then or looked back regretfully to the
earlier--but it is by the work of the first half of his career as an
artist that Moreau finally takes rank as one of the most precise and
flexible of draughtsmen, and as the closest possible observer of the
gay, great world that he portrayed.
(_The Art Journal_, 1885.)