An Artist in her Own Right

by Ann Marti Friedman

  I was never very close to Gros’s sister, Jeanne-Marie-Cécile, called Marie. Although we spent time together to get acquainted we had little in common. Three years younger than her brother, she was still a generation older than I. She had married about the time that Antoine departed for Italy – just a few years after I was born – and was completely wrapped up in her family, one of those women with whom you can never have a coherent conversation because they are always being interrupted by the children and will not say “no” to them. Marie confessed she was grateful that I would be on hand to look after Maman Madeleine, who had turned sixty that year. “I’ve been worried because it’s always been Maman who looked after Antoine, more than he after her. I’m so busy with my own family that there’s really no time to look after Maman at all. It’s all I can do to get us over there for Sunday dinner.” She did not ask how I got on with her mother; I could sense that she did not wish to know, lest she have to cope with her mother’s care instead of me. I was appalled by this attitude at the time; however, I must admit, in all fairness, that I did much the same in leaving my own mother to my sister’s care.

  One of Antoine’s pleasures in the early days of marriage was showing off his connections to the powerful and introducing me to this world that I now shared by marriage. I had already been to Malmaison. Now he took me to the Tuileries, the palace that was the center of Bonaparte’s empire. He had a pass that permitted him entry whenever he pleased.

  We could easily have walked there from our flat – it was just a short distance across the river – but Antoine felt it more fitting that we should travel by fiacre and enter at the porte-cochere. I was glad of it, as the day was damp and I was wearing my best dress and Joséphine’s shawl.

  As we prepared for our visit, I watched Gros pin to his lapel the silver Légion d’honneur that the Emperor had given him. He wore it always with pride, a badge of honor and the mark of the Emperor’s highest approval. I observed, not for the first time, how he stood a little taller and straighter after he put it on. While his battle paintings showed the excitement of heated conflict, he had taken pains to avoid actual fighting after his first taste of it in Italy. He was a little ashamed of this, as though weighed up and found wanting in his own opinion, compared to all those hardened veterans who had gone out year after year while he stayed home. The medal helped soothe him, telling him he too had served in his way.

  Our objective that day was to see the Galerie de Diane, the long public gallery on the upper floor of the palace. It was a popular gathering place for the court as well as the site of official receptions and state dinners. The chairs, sofas, tables and cabinets placed along the walls were of the highest quality. Scattered among them were massive, skillfully carved tables and vases of Russian malachite mounted in gilt bronze, gifts from Tsar Alexander. But for me the highlights of the Galerie de Diane were the dozen monumental paintings by the leading artists of France that hung in shallow niches set in each wall. It was in this space in Bonaparte’s chosen palace at the heart of the empire that Antoine’s Surrender of Madrid and Meeting of the Two Emperors would hang as soon as he had finished them. Today he had to be content to extol Bonaparte’s virtues – clemency, generosity, humane acts, the ability to lead and inspire – as others had rendered them.

  My teacher Taunay had contributed an over-door of the Crossing of the St. Bernard Pass, a delightful scene of pine trees towering over the army and large clumps of falling snowflakes. Ostensibly celebrating a military feat, it nonetheless had an air of serenity about it that made me smile. This painting gave me heart and hope that I might one day be represented here. I knew I could not carry out a grandiose scene, but the size and subject of this one were within my grasp.

  I was distracted from examining this and the other canvases as closely as I wanted to by the bustle of the crowd around me. It was important to attend court even when the Emperor was away from Paris, as his officials kept count of who came and reported this back to him. Thus the rooms were as full with the leading figures of society as if he were present. Some gave amused glances at this plain little bourgeoise who actually looked at the paintings instead of treating them as merely part of the setting. My fascination with the courtiers, however, lasted only until I overheard the utter banality of their conversation. Then I was able to return to my normal self and give the paintings their due.

  The Revolt in Cairo, by Antoine’s friend Girodet, had recently been placed in the gallery. It showed a tumult of hand-to-hand fighting between our troops and the turbaned natives that had taken place during the Egyptian campaign a dozen years earlier. A few foreground figures stood out – a hussar in red, white and blue who ran with his sabre upraised to challenge a dark, heroically nude native. This man countered the hussar’s attack with a scimitar, even as he tenderly supported, with his other arm, a gorgeously dressed dying pasha. Another native seated on the ground dangled a French soldier’s head by its blond braids. There were none of the calm virtues embodied by the other paintings but an energy and delight in the mêlée for its own sake.

  A throng of courtiers had gathered in front of this work. The women tittered gently at the nude man, pretending to be shocked, while the men commented eagerly on the surging action and tangle of bodies. As I listened to their excited chatter I could not help looking back and forth between the crowd in the painting and the crowd observing it, imagining how the Galerie de Diane would look should they break out into a frenzy of violence – the shouts of the men, the screams of the women, the utter bewilderment of the liveried servants. An almost hysterical laugh bubbled up within me and would have burst out had I not smothered it in a fit of coughing. “Are you all right?” solicitous voices inquired. A footman appeared at my elbow with a glass of water on a tray.

  When I had recovered I went in search of Antoine, whom I found laughing with a flirtatious young woman. I envied her beautiful costume – a dress of dark green silk and a pale green turban shot with gold and silver threads, with feathers that danced animatedly as she spoke. Her parure of emerald necklace, bracelets, rings and earrings winked in the candlelight.

  “You wretch!” she cried, tapping him with her folded fan. “I heard you married! You didn’t wait for me.” She pouted to make her point. “She’s a dazzling beauty who brought you a great fortune, I hope?”

  I winced when I heard this: neither characteristic described me and only served to highlight the difference between us. “She’s pretty enough and suits me very well,” replied my husband. Not exactly rapturous words on the part of a newlywed, and my spirits sagged a little. I stole a look at Antoine; he too was animated in his charming flirtatious mode. He would no sooner consider marrying this woman than she would truly wait for him, but their banter was a social code they both knew and understood, to which I was an outsider. Antoine now looked for me, caught my eye, and signaled me to come over. I felt shy and tongue-tied, but the other woman put me at my ease with a practiced grace I envied whole-heartedly.

  “Pretty enough, indeed!” she scolded Antoine, then praised my face, figure and shawl, and made suggestions for the feathers and jewels similar to her own that she would have had Antoine buy for me.

  I was not displeased, but Antoine laughed outright. “One must be rich as your financier husband to afford them.”

  Again I felt my spirits fall. I had not brought him so great a fortune that he could afford such things. I was too shy to say anything else. It would have been rude to excuse myself to look at the paintings again. I was forced to stand there while their conversation flowed around me.

  The woman, in the same teasing tone of voice, told Antoine that she had decided it was high time to commission another portrait. “My husband will be away on the Emperor’s business and cannot take me with him. I must do something to while away the lonely hours—” with a meaningful wink at Antoine. Immediately he took out the small sketchbook he carried everywhere and made an appointment for her to come to the studio.

  Before they could resume the
ir conversation, however, an older but still commanding figure appeared in the doorway. He was twice her age, solid in his figure and balding. Small eyes peered out of a fleshy face. The woman had her back to him, but I could see how impatiently his eyes scanned the room. “Marie-Ange!” he bellowed as they came to rest on the woman. A look of intense annoyance came over her face, to be carefully smoothed away as she turned to smile at him. “Yes, my darling?”

  “I’ve been ready to leave these ten minutes. Where have you been?”

  “Standing here in plain sight, my love, waiting for you to find me.” Her voice was musical, intending to tease him as she had teased Antoine, but I could detect an edge of tolerance in it.

  “Well, let’s go. I’m tired, and I have things to do before I leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course. But first, won’t you at least allow me to present––”

  “Another time, Marie-Ange. Allons!” She turned around, made a face at Gros with a slight shrug, whispered “Désolée” at me, and obediently followed her husband, whose expression softened into a dour smile as she turned the beam of her charm on him. I watched them thoughtfully until they faded from sight. For all her apparent advantages, she was no freer than I, merely tethered on a longer, albeit a gilded, chain.

  Antoine looked pleased. “Another commission. At least he pays promptly.”

  “How much––?”

  “Four thousand francs for a full-length.” He said it casually, merely stating his price, but I was stunned.

  “If you stopped doing history paintings and concentrated on portraits, you would be very wealthy indeed.”

  He flinched as if stung. “It’s the history subjects that are the important work of a painter – the enduring themes of the classical past and the Bible, and the high moments of our glorious new age. Portraits are mere likenesses. Didn’t Taunay teach you that?”

  “Don’t be angry,” I pleaded. This side of Antoine was still new to me. “I’m not greedy but this portrait that will take you a month to paint is as much as my dowry would bring us in an entire year. I wish I had a talent for faces!”

  “I painted many portraits when my prices were lower, to get out of poverty. Now I don’t have to paint them any more unless I want to.”

  And you wanted to paint her, I thought, beginning to feel jealous again.

  “Did she mean it when she scolded you about not waiting for her?”

  Taken aback by the change of subject, he struggled to shift mental gears. When he realized what I meant, he laughed.

  “Of course not. I’m a mere painter and not nearly wealthy enough. The four thousand francs that loom so large to us is not a tenth of what her husband spends on her clothes and jewels each year. He’ll grumble about my price but pay up in the end because it’s what the government paid for the marshals’ portraits, and it will make him look good.” Whatever charm Antoine had shown the wife was lacking in his assessment of the husband. “Besides, you saw him. It didn’t look as if he were about to leave us very soon, did it?”

  “No, not at all.” I was sorry I had asked, but it was a useful insight into social distinctions that not even a revolution could sweep away. Noble birth and good breeding may no longer have been the deciding factors; perhaps it was merely a matter of economics these days, but the strata of society were still in place. Money had gone from being suspect to being desirable and estimable. Yet, no matter what prices he might command, no matter how much wealth Antoine might accumulate, he would always remain “Gros the Painter.” Away from his canvas he would be someone to flirt with but not to take seriously. And I would always be Madame Gros, the painter’s wife, a plain little bourgeoise in Joséphine’s shawl. Was that really all I wanted from life at twenty? It couldn’t be – there must be more than that!

  But what? And how to achieve it?

  At last, on 12 March 1810, I met Napoleon Bonaparte face to face. Antoine and I were visiting Denon at the Musée Napoléon (the new name for the art collection housed in the Louvre) that day, about eight months after our wedding. Denon gave us a warm welcome. Over a glass of wine in his office with its view of the Seine, he conveyed the latest news from the court. The previous day the Emperor had married, by proxy, the Austrian Archduchess Marie-Louise, the daughter of Francis II of Austria and great-niece of Marie-Antoinette. She would soon be coming to France for their formal wedding in the chapel of the Louvre and then would reside alternately in Joséphine’s former apartments in the Tuileries Palace and the newly decorated Château of Compiègne, north of Paris.

  Denon then took us down to the storerooms. A new shipment of treasures culled from Prussian and German courts during the last round of conquests had just arrived. Workmen stood over several open crates in which cloth-wrapped bundles were nestled in sawdust. Denon’s personal secretary supervised the taking of inventory that two clerks wrote down at his dictation. One of the men had just unwrapped a footed dish whose golden gleam contrasted with the humble setting. Lovingly Denon took it into his hands and showed it to us.

  “It’s called a tazza, and it was made in Florence in the sixteenth century as part of the dowry of one of the Medici brides. The workmanship is superb.” He pointed out the engraved scrolling on the dish and the sculptural qualities of the foot and stem. “The Florentine workshops were unsurpassed for the mounting of the gems around the border.” He caressed a cabochon agate with his thumb and returned the tazza to the patient workman to be re-wrapped.

  “Here we have a cabinet, also made in Florentine workshops, that was part of the same dowry.” He led us to it. “The eighteen drawers are mounted with pictures of animals made of inlaid stones of different colors and patterns. The Italians call this technique pietra dura. The large panel in the center shows Orpheus playing a violin to charm the beasts. It was used to store a collection of shells and corals and rare stones.” He stood back to let us look at it more closely. Each enchanting animal was a mosaic of stones carefully selected to mimic its natural coloring. The whole was encased in gleaming ebony.

  We turned eagerly to see what other things he would show us, when a loud commotion in the hallway caused us to turn our heads. A voice was shouting orders in heavily Italian-accented French; muted French voices were making hasty agreement. “It’s the Emperor!” the secretary said in panic, as he and the clerks rose from their chairs. The workmen ceased what they were doing and Denon and Gros straightened to attention. I was still wearing my hat, as it was a cold day; quickly Antoine snatched it from my head and laid it down on one of the crates, as Napoleon marched briskly into the room. The men bowed; Antoine tugged at my skirt so that I too should show the proper respect. I curtsied.

  “I’m a married man again,” the Emperor told us. He caught sight of Gros. “I hear you are, too.” Antoine, obviously proud to be singled out by this comment, introduced me. Bonaparte gave me a quick glance and a nod and turned back to my husband. “I got a young one this time. I hope she’s a tigress in bed – like yours, eh, Gros?” He gave him a playful shove. I blushed. Antoine, so adept at court banter, was for once at a loss for words. Bonaparte snorted in delight at having tongue-tied him. “A man needs a son of his own,” he continued. “The Archduchess will be here for the official wedding by the end of the month.” He turned to Denon. “Now her apartments must be made ready. I brought Duroc to pick out more of those treasures you’ve been hiding in storage and put them to good use.”

  Antoine introduced Marshal Duroc, whose portrait he had painted the year before. As Superintendent of Buildings he oversaw the decoration of the royal apartments in the many imperial palaces.

  “I assure Your Majesty that I have only put aside those things too delicate or too rare for––”

  “Nonsense, Denon! If they fall apart we can have new ones made. It will be even more impressive to show the world we are so wealthy that we can treat these things as mere ornaments. That cabinet, for instance” – he nodded at it – “would serve well for her jewels.” The secretary signaled the cle
rks to make note of his choices. “And that dish would do for sugared almonds. My spies tell me she’s very fond of them.”

  Denon gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of his treasure put to such vulgar use. He attempted a tactful reply. “Sire, these are the treasures of France.”

  “I AM FRANCE!” Bonaparte’s cannon roar made us all jump. His next words had the brisk precision of an artillery volley. “These things are here because of my battles, my victories, my treaties. I take the lead and France follows.” Abruptly he wheeled his forces to face me. “Am I right, Madame Gros?”

  “Y-yes, Sire, of course, of course,” I stammered, instinctively dropping another curtsy. I trembled in the direct glare of his attention.

  He transferred that glare to Denon and fired another salvo. “Even a mere girl knows more than you about what is due me! Duroc!”

  Reinforcements appeared at his flank. “Yes, Sire?”

  “Apparently Monsieur Denon needs some assistance in selecting which items from his storerooms would be suitable. Perhaps you would care to assist him? Persuade him to answer de oui instead of de non?” Pleased with his pun, he guffawed. Obediently we all followed suit.

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty.”

  “Excellent. I am glad someone is pleased this afternoon. I AM NOT.” With this final bang of artillery, he turned on his heel and strode out, beckoning Duroc to follow.

  To my surprise, Duroc winked at us as he left. Denon explained later that both of them had often seen such tantrums before and took them in their stride.

  It seemed very quiet in the storeroom after the Emperor had gone. The workmen resumed their unpacking. Gradually my heartbeat returned to normal.

  Denon sighed. “When I bring something into the collection, I don’t like to let go of it again,” he said ruefully. “But if I must, I must.” He was a true connoisseur and collector. Works of art and precious objects were not merely things to be used, as they were for Napoleon. To Denon, they had lives and personalities and needs of their own. He remained guardian over his treasures until 1815, when he resigned to protest Louis XVIII’s insistence that they be returned to the countries from which they were taken.