Sargent had a great appreciation for literature as well as for music. His friend Eliza Wedgwood noted that he loved reading in a “wedge,” as he called it, devouring numerous books by the same author, one after another. He enjoyed historical works, such as Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and the exotic and fantastic as well. He thoroughly relished William Beckford’s novel Vathek, part Arabian Nights and part gothic drama, which had developed a cult following among aesthetes in Paris and London.
Sargent’s prodigious appetite for literature and the arts was matched by his enthusiasm for food. His meals were usually the multicourse affairs common at the time, including soup, fish, beef, chicken, vegetables, cheese, and dessert. On days when his schedule was full, Sargent was known to race into a restaurant or club at lunchtime, place his pocket watch on the table to keep track of the minutes, and work his way rapidly and efficiently through each and every dish. Even as a student, he loved dining out and rarely ate any meals at home; he maintained the practice for the rest of his life.
Collecting was another favorite activity. Sargent was a pack rat and tended to fill any given space with possessions—antiques, paintings, carpets, and fabrics. He captured butterflies, and killed them by gently blowing cigar smoke on them so their beauty would be preserved, then mounted them for his collection.
Sargent was famously generous, especially to fellow artists. Paul Helleu, one of his closest friends, was a ladies’ man who was more successful as a lover than as an artist. One day, depressed and questioning his vocation, Helleu was visited by Sargent, who insisted on buying a drawing of Helleu’s. He paid a thousand francs on the spot, cleverly helping Helleu in a way that allowed him to maintain his pride.
Whether people were talking about his character or his technique, his background or his prospects, John Singer Sargent was the subject of discussion in Parisian drawing rooms and artists’ studios. His name began to appear in the society columns. In June 1881, the gossip columnist Perdican used Sargent as an example to warn that the French were far too liberal in welcoming ambitious Americans into their midst: “Beware this people that grow ever larger. . . . Uncle Sam threatens with his gnarled, industrious hands our commerce, our agriculture, and our stables. . . . Their painters, like Mr. Sergeant [sic], take away our medals. Their pretty women, like Madame Gauthereau [sic] outshine our own—and their horses thrash our steeds, as Foxhall ridden by Fordham did on Sunday.”
Perdican’s point was that his countrymen should be wary of the Americans in their midst because they were encroaching on French territory. This was a sensitive matter at the time, for the United States had passed restrictive laws regarding French imports and imposed high tariffs on French art that was brought into the country. Since American artists were welcomed into Parisian art schools and benefited greatly from the fact that these schools were subsidized by the state, the French considered the U.S. government’s position extremely hostile. Newspapers demanded retaliation, one of them urging that “we will have to respond . . . by closing the doors of our art shows to the artists of a country that does the same to our artists.”
But with his statement, Perdican also made the point that John Singer Sargent and Amélie Gautreau were two of the most visible imports of the day. And Sargent, for one, was delighted by the fact that his name appeared alongside Amélie’s. She was famous, the subject of countless newspaper items. If Perdican referred to him in the same breath, he must be a star as well. Together, they were a perfect confluence of good looks and talent: Amélie Paris’s greatest American beauty and Sargent the city’s brilliant young American painter.
Amélie’s celebrity status made her more desirable to her adoring public, and now that he’d experienced the first indications of success, Sargent discovered he was suddenly desirable too, an excellent catch for a marriageable young lady. No one was more aware of his potential as a son-in-law than Mary Elizabeth Burckhardt, the mother of two daughters in need of husbands. She licked her chops when she realized that Sargent, a family friend, could be a candidate for marriage for either of her daughters, whether it be Charlotte Louise or her older sister, Valerie. Mrs. Burckhardt’s desire to have a successful artist as her son-in-law is significant. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, artists, especially portrait painters, were working professionals with solid financial futures. When Mrs. Burckhardt imagined a daughter of hers married to Sargent, she did not envision the couple living la vie de bohème in a chilly garret on the Left Bank. Rather, she foresaw recognition, considerable fees, and a comfortable future, just as if Sargent were a banker or a lawyer. Flourishing artists of the time could expect a level of economic security.
With this as her goal, Mrs. Burckhardt single-mindedly pursued Sargent, focusing on him as a mate for Louise after Valerie decided to marry a gentleman named Harold Hadden. People who knew Louise described her as a pleasant but unremarkable young woman. Some acquaintances even suggested she was a little stupid. Above all, she was a docile and obedient daughter, dedicated to fulfilling her mother’s ambitions for her.
Mrs. Burckhardt plotted several romantic excursions during the summer of 1881, contriving to bring the two young people together. She invited Sargent and his friend James Beckwith to Fontainebleau and other nearby destinations that would remove them from the distractions of Paris. Normally, Sargent seemed to have no time for romance. He painted constantly during the academic season, and when he took vacations, he usually traveled with his family. But this summer was different. Mary and Emily Sargent went off to America while, once again, Dr. Sargent stayed in Nice with Violet. Sargent was on his own, possibly missing the female companionship of his mother and sisters. He appeared to warm to Louise and actually welcomed opportunities to be alone with her. Beckwith caught them unaccompanied several times—something that would never have happened during those days of constant chaperones if Mrs. Burckhardt had not counted on a wedding in Louise’s immediate future.
Inexplicably, however, Sargent’s interest waned and evaporated completely by the end of the summer. At the very moment when Mrs. Burckhardt felt closest to attaining the prize of a marriage proposal for Louise, the artist baffled her by reverting to his friendly, yet decidedly platonic, relationship with her daughter. Louise confronted him at his studio, hoping for an explanation. Sargent had the difficult task of convincing her that their flirtation, if it could be called that, was over. Their unpleasant conversation was interrupted by Beckwith, who walked in on them and saw that there was “evidence of trouble.” Sargent confessed to him that although he valued her friendship, he didn’t care for Louise in a romantic way.
One of the reasons they had spent so much time together during the latter part of their “courtship” was that Sargent had started an enormous portrait of Louise. Titled Lady with the Rose, it depicted Louise in a black gown with a rose in one hand, recalling Carolus-Duran’s portrait The Woman with the Glove. Sargent’s interpretation of Louise was most striking for what it lacked: any sign of passion or sexuality. Lady with the Rose was more than competent, but it was utterly conventional. It was as bland as the young woman who posed for it. The painting revealed Sargent’s true feelings: this was not the work of a man, or an artist, in love. At best, Sargent liked Louise and enjoyed her company. But she occupied her own portrait tentatively—she was little more than a place saver for someone who might exercise a real romantic hold on Sargent in the future.
Sargent had higher ambitions than a bourgeois marriage, and he did not need the distractions of eager mothers and their hopeful daughters. He wanted to penetrate the inner circles of Paris’s social, intellectual, and artistic elite, not only because he knew he would find wealthier clients, but also because he was drawn to the “beautiful people.” He directed his attention to his canvas, which would be his passport to that elusive world.
John Singer Sargent,
Lady with the Rose (Charlotte Louise Burckhardt), 1882
Charlotte Louise Burckhardt hoped to marry Sargen
t, and her matchmaking mother considered the artist an excellent catch. Sargent spent time with Louise, but as his portrait of her might suggest, their relationship remained platonic. (Oil on canvas, 84 x 44¾ inches, 213.4 x 113.7 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of Mrs. Valerie B. Hadden, 1932 [32.154]. All rights reserved, The Metropolitan Museum of Art)
Brilliant Creatures
In a lull between commissions during the summer of 1881, Sargent busied himself with portraits of friends, all the while surveying the horizon for his next splashy assignment. He spotted an opportunity when he was asked by Carolus-Duran to attend a party at an apartment on the Place Vendôme, one of the most fashionable addresses in Paris. The host was Samuel-Jean Pozzi, a respected gynecologist, surgeon, and man of the arts who was even better known for his breathtaking looks, charismatic personality, and insatiable appetite for sex. Pozzi traveled with the most exclusive—and the most decadent—international set, consorting with the beau monde’s brightest luminaries.
In his prime, he embodied the Belle Époque romantic ideal. He was tall and well built, and his dark hair contrasted dramatically with his white skin. He wore every kind of clothing well, from close-fitting business suits to the sheik costumes he playfully donned for the photographer Nadar. Intelligent, artistic, and irresistible, Pozzi brazenly used his profession for entry to the best bedrooms in Paris.
Pozzi began his life as the son of a Protestant minister. He was born in 1846 in Bergerac, a town in the Dordogne, to Inès and Benjamin Pozzy. At some time, his father changed the spelling of the family name, ignoring his ancestors’ apparent preference for the dramatic flourish allowed by the y at the end of the signature.
Pozzi’s mother had inspired his interest in medicine, specifically women’s health. She was twenty-three when she married her husband, and over the next thirteen years, she bore five children. She was always pregnant or recovering from a pregnancy, and she died at age thirty-six. Her son was only ten, but he had vivid memories of her constant confinements.
A brilliant student, Pozzi could have entered any profession. He chose to follow in the footsteps of an older cousin, a successful physician in Paris who had treated members of the Bonaparte family. Pozzi may have imagined a similar physician-to-the-stars career trajectory for himself.
He entered medical school and was assigned to Dr. Gallard, one of the few physicians in Paris who specialized in the study and treatment of women’s health. Through Gallard, Pozzi was introduced to the intriguing new medical field of gynecology. He was enthusiastic about his work and applied himself to his studies with dedication. But his classes were interrupted by the start of the Franco-Prussian War.
Joining with other young men in Paris, Pozzi enlisted in the army in July 1870. For the first months of service, he was stationed in Paris, where he spent most of his time participating in parades and ambulance marches. When he arrived at the front, he demonstrated remarkable courage and dedication. He suffered a fractured leg in the line of duty, and was discharged and sent home to his family to recover. After the war and the bloody Paris Commune, he resumed his studies, and won a coveted position under the esteemed Dr. Paul Broca. Pozzi was awarded a gold medal for his outstanding internship and received his medical degree in 1873.
During the Third Republic, French doctors were encouraged for the first time to study the female body and address health problems that related specifically to women. Curiously, it was the Franco-Prussian War that promoted interest in women’s health and reproduction. The French believed that their defeat had been caused, in part, by the rampant physical and moral degeneration of their people. They had spent decades shamelessly indulging their baser instincts under the leadership of Napoleon Bonaparte and his descendants. Contaminated bloodlines and bad behavior were to blame for their degeneracy. Curing moral decay was a complicated proposition for which there was no simple solution. But, the French believed, the physical side of the problem could be addressed in a very practical way. Doctors, nurses, housewives, and mothers could promote better personal hygiene to combat alcoholism, venereal disease, and tuberculosis, among the conditions that had undermined the populace.
The French were also extremely concerned about their country’s plummeting birth rate. After the war, and through the early 1890s, years passed in which more people died in France than were born. Medical practitioners were encouraged to find ways to improve prenatal care, internal examinations, and deliveries, in an effort to make childbirth safer for mothers and babies. Even the reinstitution of the divorce law in 1884 was seen as a way of promoting births: childless marriages could be dissolved, to make way for unions that could produce offspring.
Doctors were interested in the challenging field of gynecology. Some of them wrote handbooks and endorsed beauty products, just as some physicians promote their own product lines today. The handbooks were not always specific, informative, or even accurate, yet they indicated a growing comprehension of women’s physical concerns. Pozzi, who was also studying to be a surgeon, pursued his interests in this area.
Pozzi was a conscientious medical student who demonstrated a great aptitude for his work. But his interests extended beyond the world of science. He was passionate about literature, art, and the theater, and was drawn to artists of all kinds. In 1869, Pozzi fell under the spell of Sarah Bernhardt. After seeing her in a production of Le Passant at the Odéon, he became one of the actress’s most devoted fans.
Two years older than Pozzi, Bernhardt was a fascinating bundle of contradictions. Although she was of Jewish descent, she was raised in a Catholic convent and baptized at the age of twelve. With her skinny body and curly hair, she was not a conventionally beautiful woman, but she had what some described as a “voix d’or,” a voice of gold. She was vivacious and full of life, yet she traveled everywhere with a satin-and-velvet-lined coffin, a prop guaranteed to generate publicity. She mounted extensive tours of England and America that kept her away from France for months at a time. No matter how long she was gone, however, she always returned to adoring Parisian audiences.
At first, Pozzi and Bernhardt restricted themselves to friendship. But they were two passionate people: a love affair was inevitable. The adoring young doctor and his diva often dined together at her home. Bernhardt usually dressed provocatively in black lace, with dramatic touches like accordion-pleated gloves that stretched to her shoulders. One night, after her son, Maurice, and his tutor had gone to bed, Bernhardt led Pozzi to her sumptuous coffin for their first amorous encounter.
Bernhardt was astonished by her lover: she called him “Dr. Dieu,” Dr. God. Once, when Pozzi had to cancel a date because he faced an important medical exam, a distraught Bernhardt raced to his apartment and kept him entertained in the bedroom for sixteen hours. Pozzi’s punishment for missing his exam was the odious assignment of translating a long scientific treatise by Darwin. Bernhardt wittily commemorated the evening by naming her new pet, a chimpanzee, Darwin.
Despite his handsomeness and his amorous reputation, Pozzi was not a frivolous man. Dedicated to his work, he was renowned in international circles for his achievements in medicine and science. Pozzi was a perfectionist: he always wore white cover-alls when he operated, to demonstrate to his students that it was possible to perform surgery without incurring the stain of even a drop of blood. He invented the bimanual manipulation, the method of performing an internal examination still used by gynecologists today. He maintained an active private practice as both gynecologist and general surgeon, did charity work at Paris hospitals, and found the time to write, among other books, A Treatise on Gynaecology, Clinical and Operative, the nineteenth century’s definitive textbook about women’s health.
Pozzi was considered an excellent catch when, in 1879, he married Thérèse Loth, a railroad heiress with a considerable fortune, but far plainer looks than her husband’s. The Pozzis moved into a spacious apartment at 10 Place Vendôme, a few doors from where Chopin had once lived. They were attended by a fleet of servants, includi
ng a chef and a footman. Their luxurious apartment was filled with objets d’art, valuable books, rare coins, and the beginnings of a significant art collection. They traveled often to resort towns such as St.-Malo. The only discord in their lives was the doctor’s complaint that his wife was far too devoted to her mother, a possessive and opinionated widow who was a constant presence, and to their children, Catherine and, later, Jean.
As time passed, the discord between the doctor and his wife grew more serious. When pressed to choose between her husband and her mother, Thérèse would always side with her mother. Pozzi was unaccustomed to rejection, especially from a woman, and his unhappy marriage was his first experience with failure. He consoled himself with the fact that Thérèse’s preoccupation with family matters gave him considerable freedom to move in intellectual and artistic circles—and to spend time with women who were not his wife. Bernhardt was not the only one who responded to Pozzi’s charms: famous and infamous women alike welcomed this intensely desirable man into their arms, and as he was their doctor, they did so without arousing the curiosity or the wrath of their husbands and lovers.
By 1881, Pozzi could have any mistress he wanted; he became drawn to the stunning new face in town, “La Belle Gautreau.” With her husband and child on hand to maintain an aura of respectability, Amélie traveled in the fast group of wealthy politicians and businessmen who owned the new Paris. She was their favorite ornament, and they provided her with a welcome distraction from her moneyed but unexciting marriage.
Amélie’s name was frequently linked to that of Léon Gambetta, a political force in Paris in the 1880s. It is likely that he had met Amélie when she was a child, during the dramatic days of the Franco-Prussian War. They had many opportunities to be in each other’s company at the home of Amélie’s uncle Jean-Bernard Avegno. Gambetta exuded the kind of raw magnetism that often accompanies political power, and his wartime heroism would have impressed a girl Amélie’s age. When an older Amélie entered society as a married woman, she attended political dinners where Gambetta was a guest, held his arm at public events, and, according to rumor, met him for private tête-à-têtes. Gossips speculated that she was the “Madame X” the newspapers referred to as Gambetta’s secret mistress. But Amélie’s reputation was protected by his long association with her relatives—he could feign familial interest in his beautiful young companion even as he was secretly making love to her.
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