An Artist in her Own Right

by Ann Marti Friedman

  I wondered if Charles’s death pleased Maman and Papa in some obscure way, vindicating their belief that loving a soldier was unreliable at best. They never said so, but my suspicions caused me to keep at arm’s length what genuine solace they might have given, and to further enclose myself in my grief.

  Of course, Grandmère Augustine chose this moment to make one of her rare visits and tell me how unbecoming black was to one so young. “No need for you to wear widow’s weeds,” she said briskly. Maman made me put on a blue dress, but it no longer fit properly; I had lost weight. This gave Grandmère a new subject to harp on. Cakes and rich cream sauces were thrust in front of me until I felt like a Strasbourg goose, force fed to fatten me up. It was a relief to me when the hot weather drove her back to Besançon.

  Oh, Charles! When I imagined our future, the Empire was at its apogee and we thought its success would go on forever. We could not imagine the humiliation, and political chaos that lay ahead, and the hard choices we would need to make. Would you, too, have grown as bitter and disillusioned as I? Perhaps, after all, it was better to go out in a blaze of youthful enthusiasm.

  Chapter 4

  Paris, 1808-1809

  All too soon after Charles’s death, I was again in mourning, this time for my beloved Papa. His final illness came upon him suddenly in the autumn. He was not so very old, perhaps sixty. The doctor said it was his heart. Maman, my brother and sister and I sat at Papa’s bedside, hands quietly folded in our laps, too stunned at first to cry. When Maman began to sob and my brother and sister reached out to comfort her, I sat still. Papa had been the anchor of our world. Losing him, I feared, would bring chaos. I kept vigil the rest of that long day and dolorous evening, long after the others had gone to bed, until I fell asleep in the chair.

  The front room of the house became a mourning chapel, hung with black velvet cloth embroidered with silver tears. Dressed in his best suit, Papa lay in the fine coffin Maman had ordered. Candles burned at its head and foot. Papa had been a popular man; we received a steady stream of visitors. Their kind words were a comfort, especially to Maman.

  There was also some comfort in the forms and ceremonies of the funeral, my prayers and the priest’s blessings. With two wrenching deaths coming so close together I was afraid that if I allowed myself to feel pain, I would be overwhelmed by it. I preferred to be numb, feeling and doing nothing at all. I stopped painting, drawing, reading, embroidering. I ate very little. Soon my face was thin and drawn, but I was indifferent to my appearance.

  Denon had been away with the army when Papa died. When he returned, he came to the house to pay his respects. He opened his arms to give me a big hug, so that for a moment I felt as if I were again in my father’s arms. My tears started to flow. He held me while I cried and produced a large white handkerchief so that I could blow my nose and dry my tears. Looking up to thank him, I realized that he was in his sixties, even older than Papa, and was gripped with a pang of fear that this protector, too, might be snatched from me.

  He gave me a long assessing look and was not pleased by what he saw. He talked with Maman in a low voice; I heard only snatches of their conversation. He was relieved to hear that Papa had left an estate of over two hundred thousand francs, so that we were far from destitute. “But Tine concerns me. Has she been ill?”

  Maman told him. He had not realized the depth of my attachment to Charles, but he had met him and was able to say kind things in a voice pitched just loud enough for me to overhear. I was grateful and gave a faint smile. “That’s better,” he said approvingly.

  A month later, Denon returned to the house and announced that he had an important matter to discuss with Maman and me. We sat in the front room, which had been returned to its everyday function and appearance. Maman and I were dressed in black. I had put up my hair in the style that Charles liked best, with dark ringlets framing my face. I wore no ornaments or jewelry except for the gold ring Madame Legrand had given me. Every so often I would touch it and turn it round my finger for comfort and strength, the way another woman might touch a cross at her throat.

  Denon had momentous news – he had found a candidate for my hand! Maman smiled. A prosperous man, an artist, one of the select few favored by the Emperor himself, and a particular favorite of the Empress! Maman relaxed and beamed more at every word. I kept my face neutral but inwardly grew wary. The artists favored by the Emperor were all, from my nineteen-year-old point of view, old men. I wished for a husband nearer my own age, as Charles would have been.

  “Which one?” I asked in a resigned tone of voice.

  “Antoine-Jean Gros, your favorite.”

  My favorite painter? Perhaps. My preferred bridegroom? “But he’s so old!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself.

  Maman scowled. “There are very few men your age who are not soldiers. You know all too well the risks they run!”

  “Maman!” I protested, shocked that she should say something so unfeeling, so soon after Charles’s death. I bit back the bitter reply that rose to my lips.

  “He is of an age and state of health that will prevent him from being conscripted into the army. He will be able to care for you for years to come,” Denon replied in a soothing voice. “His artistic skills are highly valued by the Emperor and Empress.”

  I was reassured by this despite myself. Such stability seemed very attractive.

  “I agree to receive a visit from Monsieur Gros, if it will make you both happy,” I told them with a resigned sigh, making clear my reluctance. I averted my gaze to avoid watching them conspire to marry me off. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Maman nodding enthusiastically to make up for my indifference.

  Before he departed, Denon came over to me and cupped my chin in his hand, raising my head gently so that I looked into his eyes. “Tine, I want only what is best for you and your family. With your Papa gone, you need a mature man to look out for all of you. Henri is too young – and anyway the sort that will always look out for himself,” he added wryly. He smiled at me. “I think you will find Gros worth a closer acquaintance.”

  Far from being reassured, however, I felt ill. Maman and Denon were in such perfect agreement that the match was so eminently sensible that what I thought and wanted did not seem to matter at all. This marriage seemed to be settled before Monsieur Gros and I had properly met. I wanted to scream; but what good would it do? What alternatives were possible? I was not cut out for the religious life. I did not yet have the painting skills that would enable me to support myself as an artist. I was finally emerging from the numb emotional state with which I had coped with the deaths of Charles and Papa. I felt raw and vulnerable, like a sea creature without its protective shell. I wept that night, missing Papa, his love, and his power to intervene on my behalf. I did not go to my mother for comfort, knowing I would find little there. I thought of going to Madame Legrand, but I could not bring myself to tell her of another man in my life. I felt alone and afraid.

  Gros wrote the next day, proposing to call upon us two days after that. Maman replied on our behalf.

  For our meeting, Maman insisted that I wear something other than black. Deep mourning was not the most auspicious of costumes for meeting a prospective suitor. I chose a dress of simple white cotton that my sister had embroidered with white flowers – a blank canvas for the start of a new life – and small gold earrings. I refused to leave off my gold ring, over Maman’s objections. She was in black, as was the custom for widows; one saw all too many of them as the Empire dragged on. Her black dress formed a backdrop against which, she assured me, I would shine all the more brightly.

  As the hour of his visit approached, I sat nervously with Maman in the front room. When the maid announced Monsieur Gros, we stood to welcome him. Shyly I met his eyes for a moment but looked down again quickly as he greeted my mother.

  I had seen Gros several times since first meeting him at the Salon of 1804, but always at a distance, never to talk with him. I had certainly never contemplated hi
m in the role of lover and bridegroom. I scrutinized him now as carefully as manners would allow. He was short and slight, unlike my tall imposing Charles, and exactly twice my age. His brown hair was no longer curling over his collar but cut short and graying a little at the temples, not an unpleasant effect. He was scrupulously clean and dressed in his customary immaculate black suit and white shirt and cravat. Magpie colors, I thought, and could almost imagine the blue sheen that he would give off in the sunlight. For the first time in months, I felt an impulse to giggle. He wore proudly in his lapel the insignia of the Légion d’honneur that he had recently received from the Emperor’s own hand. His unsmiling face looked very stern and I inwardly quailed at the prospect of “loving, honoring, and obeying” him. Although he no longer carried his ebony cane (his health, he said, had improved when he no longer needed to stand for hours on end in his damp, cold Versailles studio), he stood stiffly to attention, all too like a reluctant groom at the altar. I did not realize until afterward that the rheumatism he had contracted in painting Jaffa made some movements stiff and painful for him. For a moment neither of us spoke, as we regarded each other.

  “Enchanted to meet you,” I said, softly and nervously, falling back on formula. The ice was broken. At last he smiled, animation came to his face, and the stiff mask was gone. I realized in some surprise that he was as shy as I. I gave one of those nervous little laughs that one so often feels embarrassed about afterwards, but to my relief, he too laughed. His eyes began to sparkle and he acted more naturally. Warming to his role of suitor, he began to say witty things. I wish I could recall some now. Clearly, he was exerting himself to please me. He was a man who knew how to be charming in the presence of women, an invaluable quality in a portrait painter. I was charmed.

  Moreover, he moved in high circles. He spoke of Joséphine, our Empress; of the Emperor’s sister Caroline Murat; of the Duchesse d’Abrantès, wife of General Junot, the hero of the battle of Nazareth; of palaces and salons and ladies’ dresses, fans and tiaras (he had an eye for fashion and for what would suit each woman best); of the splendors of the Tuileries, Napoleon’s chosen palace; of the Elysée Palace, where the Murats lived; and of Joséphine’s beloved Malmaison, with its grey and gold silk interiors and its gardens with hundreds of roses and rare flowers. He had seen them all. His paintings, he said modestly, hung in each one. The two hours flew by. We were entranced. When Maman invited him to visit again, I seconded her warmly.

  Three days later he came bearing a large box of bonbons from Debauve, whose chocolate coins called pistoles were all the rage. On this visit he was introduced to my sister and brother. Ange at sixteen found the thought of any suitor exciting. Thirteen-year-old Henri, who wanted to be a painter and had been studying at Taunay’s studio for several months, regarded Gros with open hero-worship.

  Maman drew Gros’s attention to the paintings on the wall of our salon. He looked over Henri’s student work and said, in a non-committal voice, what every mother hopes to hear: “He shows promise.” Maman beamed; she and Henri tactfully withdrew.

  Gros looked at my two military scenes much more attentively, examining them minutely without saying anything. Why did he not smile? I grew nervous, fearing to have my work dismissed as Henri’s had been.

  Finally, he turned to me with a warm smile of approval, and I could let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “You’ve done well, with lively action and good use of color. I like the brushwork here and here,” he said, pointing out passages. “You haven’t quite got the twist of this figure” – a woman casting an admiring glance over her shoulder at the hussars – “but I commend you for not being afraid to try things beyond your skills. That is how you will learn how to do them.” He went on in this vein, warming to his role as teacher.

  Encouraged by his praise, I told him, “These are the kinds of subjects I wish to paint. Not the grand battles you do so beautifully – I would not dream of attempting something so vast – but military scenes.”

  His smile faltered for a moment. “You have ambitions for a career as a painter.” It came out as a statement rather than a question, but in a thoughtful voice, as if he were considering the idea for the first time.

  It was my turn to be surprised. “Didn’t Denon tell you? It was he who first encouraged me.”

  “Of course he told me of your studies. And your work is quite good. It’s just that my mother gave up her painting when my sister and I were born, to devote herself to taking care of us and my father, so I assumed…” I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, because he quickly amended, “It appears I was hasty in my assumption.”

  I could breathe again.

  Our courtship fell into a comfortable pattern. One evening a week he came to dinner; on another evening, he took me to a play or concert or opera. On Sunday afternoons we went out again, sometimes on our own, sometimes with my family. After two weeks we began to call each other by our first names and use the familiar tu instead of the formal vous. I had yet to meet his mother or sister, however, as they were visiting friends in the country.

  We spent one memorable afternoon with Anne-Louis Girodet, his best friend since their days as David’s students and a painter of immense talent and unconventional imagination. Their bond strengthened during their time in Italy, when Girodet nursed Gros back to health in Florence, and Gros did the same for him in Genoa. Girodet told me, warmly, how happy he was that Antoine would now have someone to look after him. “He needs more taking care of than he likes to admit,” he said. (Fortunately Antoine was across the room and could not hear us.) Girodet’s ungainly face with its heavy jaw and wild aureole of dark hair softened into an unexpected beauty as he gave his friend a fond glance. With a rare flash of insight, I knew that he loved Antoine, who did not reciprocate that love in the same way, and that Girodet had long ago come to terms with this, but not without regret. That he should nonetheless welcome me so warmly was another act of love on his part. On impulse I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, startling but pleasing him. “I will,” I promised, with tears in my eyes.

  Reluctant as I had been to consider Antoine as a suitor, I found myself warming to his attentions. He knew how to charm and to please. He did not press physical attentions upon me, merely chaste kisses on both cheeks in greeting and parting. I was grateful that he did not expect more of me than that. But one day when I was by myself in the Tuileries, strolling in search of a likely sketching spot, I came across a blond hussar kissing his sweetheart with youthful exuberance, eliciting from her a response in kind. I do not think they even noticed me. All the pent-up desire that I had locked away after Charles died came rushing upon me. I ached to be held and kissed with such ardor. Had another young soldier approached me, I would willingly have thrown myself into his arms so that I could again feel desired. But every man in uniform seemed to have a sweetheart on his arm or be deep in conversation with a friend. It was as if I, too, had died and now returned no more substantial and visible than a ghost, to haunt the garden. Tears running down my face reassured me that I was among the living, but no one stopped to inquire what was wrong.

  I could not go home in this state. I made my way to a nearby garden café and sat at a table in the corner. A pot of tea helped to steady me. I will be married, I thought. Antoine and I will share a bed. I tried to imagine making love to this chaste stranger who had never shown passion in his courtship, and I shivered.

  Two days after this, Antoine stopped at our home in mid-morning to explain that he could not take me for our planned outing, as he needed to go to the Versailles studio where he produced his monumental works, to pick up a drawing that Denon wished to show to the Emperor.

  “That’s all right. I would enjoy seeing your studio!” I assured him. “Just let me change my shoes and fetch my shawl.”

  He looked startled. “I don’t allow—” he began to say, until he reminded himself, with a visible effort, that I was the girl whom he was courting. He smiled and added, “But of course, you’
re a very special visitor. Wrap up warmly – it’s a cold drafty place in any season.”

  I put on boots and long sleeves, and took a coat instead of a shawl. It was the first time I had been to Versailles. To my disappointment, we did not approach the imposing palace through the front gates but entered the grounds by a utilitarian side gate. Antoine’s studio was in the Jeu de Paume, the old tennis court at a little distance from the palace, a plain box of a building from which any royal insignia had long since been stripped. Inside, it was an impressive space with a high ceiling and windows that flooded the interior with light. The scents of oil paints and turpentine were familiar ones, however, like being back at Taunay’s studio in the Louvre, and I felt at home. But unlike the Louvre, with the noise of a teeming city making its way through even closed windows, here it was eerily silent.

  While Antoine looked for the drawing he wanted, leafing through a portfolio here, a haphazard pile there, I examined the finished and half-finished paintings that hung on the walls or stood on easels. I smiled in recognition at small early versions of Jaffa and Aboukir. I was puzzling over a study for another battle scene I did not recognize, when Antoine came to stand beside me.

  “The battle of Nazareth, a great victory for General Junot,” he told me. “It was to have been even larger than Aboukir. That is when I was given this space for a studio. But the commission was canceled because of politics.” He gave a frown of disgust at that word but did not elaborate. “I re-used the canvas for Jaffa.”