An Artist in her Own Right

by Ann Marti Friedman

  The young man had ceased to talk while I was musing; either he had no more things to say or perhaps he was waiting for a more encouraging reply from me. Then a clock in a nearby bell tower struck three, and he started, almost stiffening to attention. “I’m meeting my mother at three – I’m late!” The budding military officer fell away to reveal the boy caught out in some naughtiness. “I’m sorry, I must run, I – ” He became aware that he was still holding my handkerchief, a sodden ball crushed in one hand – not his property, but in no state to return to me. I almost laughed out loud at his confusion and hastily scribbled my name and address on a scrap of drawing paper. “Augustine Dufresne,” he read, and extended the hand not holding my handkerchief. “Charles. Charles Legrand.”

  He left the gallery. My eyes followed his retreating figure with its confident military stride – so tall and handsome a young man was not an everyday occurrence. With their blond good looks and their uniforms, it was easy to believe that he and the dying doctor could be uncle and nephew. I could not help letting out a small sigh of regret at his departure.

  But further reverie on Charles Legrand was forestalled by the sound of a man laughing. It startled me, as I had thought Charles and I were alone in the gallery. The laughter was soft, but not pleasant, with a mocking note to it. I was painfully self-conscious, as one is at fifteen, and I thought he might be mocking my conversation with Charles or my drawing, although there was nothing on the paper yet. Perhaps he thought me not an artist at all but a poseur, someone who only pretended to sketch as a pretext for meeting young men? My cheeks burned, and I was gathering the courage to confront this interloper, when he spoke.

  “His uncle, was it? That’s a new one! Usually I’m every mother’s son.” He removed the hat he had been wearing low over his eyes, and faced me. There was something familiar about his face but I could not quite place it. He shook his blond locks impatiently to dishevel them. A vacant, unfocused look came over his face as he leaned his head to one side. I gasped. It was the dying doctor from the painting. He came out of the pose, and grinned.

  “Jacques Dupré, artist’s model, at your service.” He gave a slight bow. “Yes, I sat for that figure, and very dull it was, two days of Monsieur Gros positioning me this way and that until he’d got the pose he wanted. That’s a long time for someone who works as fast as our Monsieur Gros – and so serious! All my friendly overtures rebuffed in stony silence. If Girodet had not stopped by from time to time, I should have died of boredom. He, at least, is not afraid to flirt. I was positively glad to be paid and let go, let me tell you. Little did I know he’d make me immortal.” The mocking note was replaced by grudging respect. “I come here sometimes just to watch the crowd. Your young man is not the first to have cried for me. Usually it’s mothers or grandmothers. Jules! Louis! Michel! You can see them longing to touch my cheek, kiss my brow.” He sounded moved despite himself. “Fortunately it’s hung too high for that, or my famous image would be gone by now.”

  “And what do they say when you tell them the truth?” My voice was hostile.

  “I never do. That would be cruel, my dear. There’s a fine line between mocking and hurting, and I try not to cross it. I didn’t tell your friend, did I?”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “Oh, but you’re an artist. You understand about models and painting and emotional impact. You’re not taken in.” The mocking was back again. He seemed to know how to take my good motives and twist them around to make me hate myself for them. He could see me inwardly squirming and enjoyed it.

  “Shall I sketch you, then, instead of the painting?” My voice had an edge to it, showed him I was hurt, which made me even angrier. I picked up my pencil as if to begin.

  “You don’t want to sketch me, my dear. You want to sketch what Monsieur Gros has made of me. It’s much better suited to your imagination and sentiments.” He gave a deep bow with a sweep of his hat, like an old-fashioned gallant in a play, and left the room.

  I sighed with relief. At last I could get down to work. I was looking forward to learning how Gros had created so moving a figure from such unpromising raw material. It took some effort to give my figure on canvas the same unfocused, moribund look as the doctor in Gros’s painting; try as I would, he would seem to have Jacques Dupré’s mocking smile. It took all my skill to erase the real man from my mind and regain the thrill I had felt on seeing his transformed image in Gros’s canvas. Only then could I give the figure the expression that Gros had given him. It was a valuable lesson in how to prevent being overly swayed by imperfect reality, when there was a nobler goal to pursue.

  As 1804 turned into 1805 and 1806, the focus of my life turned from my family to the studio. I went to Taunay’s studio at the Louvre two mornings a week. It was exciting to be part of the world of the artists – of prizes to compete for; prestigious clients to win; and the big official commissions that only rarely went to someone new. Taunay was one of those favored few, and we all felt proud to be studying with him.

  I learned to prepare a canvas: to construct a wooden frame so that it was light, yet strong enough to support the sometimes ponderous weight of the linen canvas; to unfold the stiff fabric and nail it tightly to the wood so that no trace of folds remained on its taut surface; and to prepare the surface to receive the paint. The raw canvas was primed with one layer, and then another, of lead white mixed with oil and turpentine. The primed canvas was then sized with a thin layer of rabbit skin glue, warmed in a little pot on the studio stove, mixed with gesso. Finally a layer of ground color was painted over the sizing. Only then were we allowed to begin to apply our oil paints. In the process, I learned patience and attention to detail – mix the materials in incorrect proportions, or apply one layer before the previous one had dried, and I would waste hours, sometimes days of work. In extreme cases, the canvas would need to be thrown away, wasting money as well. I wondered how long it had taken Gros, who, as I had been told, liked to work alone, to prepare his immense canvas for Jaffa.

  The time waiting for our canvases to dry was not wasted, as we spent it learning how to grind and mix our pigments with the correct amounts of linseed or walnut or poppy oils, depending on each color’s preference. Once mixed properly they were my friends; until then, they were like Grandmère Augustine and her cronies – fussy, demanding, obstinate, and determined to demonstrate I could never do things correctly.

  Only when we had mastered the preparation of the canvas and the pigments could we begin to realize in paint the ideas we had worked out so meticulously with pencil and paper. It was not a process that encouraged carefree spontaneity, but I did not mind; it fit well, I thought, with my new sense of maturity as I grew from a girl into a young woman. I treasured the warm inner glow when the work was going well and I could lose myself in it.

  When Maman complained that I had a dusting of pigment or a smudge of paint still on my hand, I would protest: “But, Maman, it shows I’m an artist!”

  “You’re a young lady of good family first and foremost, and you should look and behave like one.”

  When, despite my smock, a splatter of red paint stained my white dress, this garment was demoted to “that dress you wear to the studio.” None of this mattered when Papa proudly framed one of my early paintings and hung it in our salon.

  Taunay would grow exasperated at his female students’ daintiness. “You are artists, or wishing to be. Do not be afraid of your paints!” He said this more than once. What marvelous advice it was for a young woman: do not be afraid but be bold and take risks and chances. As I grew older I discovered the restrictions that hampered a painter, even a man, of subject matter and rescinded commissions and pleasing the patron, or by one’s own fears and timidity, as in Gros’s case. Taunay, too, was aware of those, which is why he wanted to give us as much courage as possible while he could.

  This was when I took to wearing bold jewel colors – red, gold, deep blue and green. No more the white dresses of my girlhood favored by my mother, meant
to emphasize our purity but, it seemed to me, making us seem insipid as well. White was the color of a blank canvas: I resolved to paint mine boldly and live my life in color. Maman objected but Papa supported me.

  My friends were envious when I told them about the studio, where most of the students were male. “All those young men,” they sighed. I tried to talk about the paintings but they were as little interested as Grandmère had been. I sensed myself growing away from them.

  Then I saw Charles Legrand again, and was one of them once more.

  Chapter 3

  Paris, 1806-1808

  Tine. He called me Tine. It was a family nickname given me by Baby Henri when he couldn’t pronounce Augustine. I was starting to outgrow it, but Charles said it with such affection, such a smile and a caress, that it became an endearment. “Augustine” was Grandmère, stern and critical; “Tine” was myself, a girl in love; “Mademoiselle Dufresne,” hovering somewhere between the two, was the budding artist.

  Charles had returned my handkerchief but never answered the letter I sent him. Sadly, I let go of the daydreams our meeting had inspired. It was a loss not only for my future possibilities but also for my current status among my girlfriends from the lycée. We would meet in each other’s houses or in a café where our parents were known and the proprietor could be trusted to keep an eye on us. My painting studies made me different from the others, who stayed at home to learn how to run a household, in preparation for the marriages we all expected to make. I, too, received domestic instruction, but I did not listen to it as intently as did my friends. I had indulged in a few mild flirtations with other art students but had not yet had the kind of romance that was the stuff of novels, swooning in the arms of a devoted young man.

  We all dreamed of young officer husbands: they looked so handsome in their uniforms, and the army was a quick route to advancement and riches. Charles’s father, a career soldier who had achieved only modest promotions during the Ancien Régime, was promoted much more rapidly under Bonaparte, commanding key divisions at Austerlitz and other important battles. It was not surprising that Charles wished to follow in his footsteps. More than one friend’s older sister had begun married life in a modest flat and later bought a country house. It was possible for us, too, we told each other fervently. The young men not already in the army talked of nothing but when they would be old enough to join. Charles’s eager monologue on this subject was not the only one I heard in these years.

  Of course, we girls did not have this to look forward to, just our usual lives made more difficult by their absence. Unfortunately, Bonaparte’s penchant for war was swallowing up our generation.

  My friend Lucie’s sister Mireille lost her husband Paul. The day she heard the news, we were helping to prepare her trousseau. It was the week before Christmas. They had married on his last leave, and he had departed to join his regiment. Mireille’s eyes sparkled with pride when she told us “my Paul” had taken part in the Battle of Austerlitz two weeks before, a great victory for France against the combined forces of our enemies. She was sure he would be promoted for his bravery! Mireille and Paul were to move to their own home upon his return. Linens embroidered with the couple’s initials were spread around the room. A wedding gift of engraved silver napkin rings had just arrived and Mireille caressed the monogram as she expanded upon the dinner parties she would give for other officers and their wives, the faience plates she had now but would replace with porcelain when she was able, the table and chairs she would order from Bernard Molitor’s fashionable shop near the Church of the Madeleine.

  We did not hear the knock on the door. The maid came upstairs to say that two military gentlemen wished to speak to her. Mireille started, grew pale; the napkin in its ring clattered to the floor, and Lucie stooped to retrieve it. With an effort, Mireille made her face calm again. “Thank you, Lucie,” she said as she went down to find out what they wanted. The rising fear I felt was mirrored in Lucie’s face as our eyes met. Would he return like Reine’s brother, with only one arm, or like Ninette’s sister’s fiancé, missing his right leg below the knee? In my mind’s eye I saw Paul at the dinner party we had just imagined with one sleeve pinned to his shirt.

  We had left the door ajar and we could hear an indistinct rumble of male voices below. Mireille’s “No!” was all too clear. She began to scream; the maid shouted for Lucie; I hastily folded up the scattered linens and put them aside as Mireille was brought in. She had fainted; one of the officers carried her upstairs and laid her gently on the bed. Seeing her in his arms, I felt a thrill despite myself. “Was Paul badly wounded?” I asked him.

  “He was killed,” the officer said gruffly, clearly apprehensive lest I make a similar outburst.

  “Where?” I asked inanely. As if it mattered.

  “At Austerlitz. He died bravely, helping to bring about victory.” That must have been a phrase he repeated over and over. It came out in a flat voice telling it by rote.

  “Can I do something?” I asked Lucie.

  “Find Mama and Papa and tell them to come home.” She gave me directions to the friend they were visiting, so it became my sad duty to break the news to them.

  I went to the private service held for Paul in their home. Mireille was inconsolable. She began correspondence with a school friend who had entered a convent in Belgium and eventually joined her there, taking the napkin rings as an offering for their treasury.

  Lucie married the middle-aged sergeant who had broken the news; they have five children and are by all accounts a happy and devoted couple.

  By the time I saw Charles Legrand again I had almost forgotten him in my growing interest in my painting studies. It was much more difficult to forget Jacques Dupré, for artists’ models and their role in bringing to life the history scenes so prized by our professors, had become a constant presence in my life. No longer could I take them for granted and lose consciousness of their personality apart from the characters they portrayed. Taunay criticized me more than once for being too particular in my sketches of models instead of transcending them to state a higher truth.

  Charles and I met again by chance early in 1806. A fellow painting student had a brother at artillery school, who one day brought Charles to the studio. He paid me the flattering compliment of recognizing me and remembering my name. I later learned that the other cadets had found the handkerchief and the paper with my name and address on it, and teased him unmercifully about “your Mademoiselle Dufresne”: he had had little chance to forget it.

  Twice more Charles came with his friend to visit my colleague and said little more than “Bonjour” to me. I had resigned myself to his lack of interest when he appeared alone one day. “Edmond isn’t here,” I told him. “He didn’t come to the studio today.”

  “I know. He and his brother are visiting their parents in Meudon. I came to see you.” I startled and blushed, then recovered my composure to smile at him. “Are you free this afternoon? Would you like to go for a walk?”

  I was, and I would. I was glad that I had worn a deep blue dress that day and my wine-red coat, colors that showed my complexion to advantage. It was a mild winter’s day, the right weather to bring flattering roses to my cheeks when out walking with a handsome young officer. Charles had matured in the fifteen months since we had first met – no longer a gangling youth but a muscular one, his chest filled out, his voice deeper, with a new ease of bearing: no longer a cadet among his instructors but well on his way to becoming a man among men. He now wore the uniform of the cuirassier, white trousers with a blue coat.

  We left the Louvre and turned west toward the Tuileries. By Napoleon’s order, the space between the two palaces was being cleared of the houses, shops, and other buildings that had been there for centuries. The Louvre was connected to the Tuileries Palace by the Grande Galerie that ran parallel to the river, and it was reported that Napoleon planned construction that would connect the two palaces on the side facing the rue de Rivoli. Although paths had been mostly cleare
d through the rubble, we had to pick our way carefully. Considerately Charles did not break into his natural long-legged stride but kept pace with my short steps further constricted by my long straight skirt. Once clear of the palaces, we made our way to the Tuileries Garden. I had long envied the young women who strolled in the company of young officers. Finally, I was going to be one of them!

  We said little at first. I could sense that he wanted to start a conversation but was unsure how to begin. For my part I could talk to young painters easily enough but was not sure what to say to a young lieutenant. Happily, I remembered that he had mentioned his mother at our first encounter. I inquired after her health. She was well, and happy to have him again in Paris. His father, too, was well, and had been decorated for his bravery at Austerlitz. Charles should have liked to be there himself. Ironic, was it not, to prepare for action and never see the most glorious example of it? He chafed for the gloire of it. He had graduated from artillery school and was now receiving further training in Paris. He hoped to fulfill his dream of joining the cavalry division led by the dashing Joachim Murat. For the first time I truly understood the impulse of our young men to throw themselves into battle for their own sake. Charles had grown up in a military tradition, trained from the start to look forward to risking his life.

  Suddenly he stopped, embarrassed. “I did not mean to go on like this. You’re very easy to talk to.” Indeed – being a good audience to the ambitions of men is drilled into women from birth. We walked a little further in companionable silence. “Edmond says your painting studies are going well. What do you like to paint?”

  “Landscapes. The gardens.” I gestured to the scene about me. “The Seine – I love to catch the light on the water.”