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Fragonard

176. The High Priest Corésus immolates himself to save Callirhoé.

It is impossible for me, my friend, to talk to you about this painting ; you know that it was no longer at the Salon¹, when the general sensation it made², called me there. It's your business to report on it; we'll talk about it together; it will be all the better for perhaps discovering why, after an initial tribute of praise paid to the artist, after the first exclamations, the public seemed to go cold. Any composition whose success is not sustained³ lacks real merit. But to fill out this Fragonard article, I'll share with you a rather strange vision with which I was tormented the night after a day in which I'd spent the morning looking at paintings and the evening reading some Dialogues of Plato.

Plato's lair.

It seemed to me that I was enclosed in the place called the lair of this philosopher⁴. It was a long, dark cavern. There I sat among [254] a multitude of men, women and children. We all had our hands and feet chained and our heads so tightly gripped between wooden splints⁵ that it was impossible for us to turn them. But what astonished me was that most of them drank, laughed, sang, without seeming to be embarrassed by their chains, and that you would have said, to see them, that this was their natural state; it even seemed to me that those who made any effort to recover the freedom of their feet, hands and heads were looked upon with an evil eye ; that they were called odious names, that they were shunned as if infected with a contagious disease, and that when disaster struck the cave, they were always blamed for it. Equipped as I've just told you, we all had our backs turned to the entrance to this dwelling, and could only look at the back, which was lined with an immense canvas⁶.

Behind us were kings, ministers⁷, priests, doctors⁸, apostles, prophets, theologians, politicians, rascals, charlatans, makers of illusions⁹ and the whole troop of merchants of hopes and fears¹⁰. Each of them had a supply of small transparent and colored figures peculiar to his condition, and all these figures were so well made, so well painted, in such great numbers and so varied, that there were enough to supply the representation of all the comic, tragic and burlesque scenes of life.

These charlatans, as I next saw, placed between us and the entrance to the cavern, had behind them a large lamp suspended, in the light of which they exposed their little figures whose shadows carried over our heads and growing larger as they went would come to rest on the canvas stretched at the back of the cavern and form scenes there, but scenes so natural, so real, that we took them for real, and [255] sometimes laughed out loud at them, sometimes cried our eyes out at them, which will seem all the less strange to you, as there were other subordinate rascals behind the canvas, in the pay of the former, who lent these shadows the accents, the speeches, the real voices of their roles.

Despite the prestige¹¹ of this primer, there were a few of us in the crowd who suspected¹², who occasionally shook their chains and had the best urge to get rid of their splints and turn their heads ; but instantly one or other of the charlatans we had at our backs would start shouting in a loud, terrible voice: Don't turn your head! Woe betide anyone who shakes his chain! I'll tell you another time what happened to those who disregarded the advice of the voice, the perils they ran into, the persecutions they had to suffer; that's for when we do philosophy. Now that we're talking about paintings, I'd rather describe some of the ones I saw on the big canvas; I swear they were as good as the best in the Salon. On this canvas, everything seemed disjointed at first¹³; we wept, we laughed, we played, we drank, we sang, we bit our fists, we tore our hair, we caressed each other, we whipped each other ; Just as one was drowning, another was being hanged, a third lifted up on a pedestal; but in the long run, everything came together, became clearer and more understandable. Here's what I saw happen there at different intervals, which I'll bring together for the sake of brevity.

First¹⁴ it was a young man, his long priestly garments¹⁵ in disarray, his hand armed with a thyrse¹⁶, his brow crowned with ivy, pouring streams of wine from a great antique vase into wide, deep goblets which he carried to the mouths of some haggard-eyed [256] and dishevelled-headed women. He would get drunk with them, they would get drunk with him, and when they were drunk, they would get up and run through the streets uttering mixed cries of fury and joy. The people, struck by these cries, would shut themselves away in their houses, fearing to stand in their way; they could tear to pieces any daredevil they met, and I saw that they sometimes did. Well, my friend, what do you say?

Grimm. I say here are two rather nice paintings, roughly of the same kind¹⁷.

Diderot. Here's a third of a different kind. The young priest who led these furies was of the handsomest figure ; I noticed him, and it seemed to me, in the course of my dream, that plunged into a drunkenness more dangerous than that of wine, he addressed himself with the most passionate and tender face, gesture and speeches to a young girl whose knees he vainly kissed and who refused to hear him¹⁸.

Grimm. This one¹⁹, for having only two figures, wouldn't be any easier to make.

Diderot. Especially if they had to be given the strong expression and unusual character they had on the cave canvas.

Diderot.

While this priest was uselessly soliciting the inflexible youth, all of a sudden I heard shouts, laughter, howls from the depths of the dwellings, and saw fathers, mothers, wives, daughters, children coming out. Fathers rushed at their daughters, who had lost all sense of modesty, mothers at their sons, who ignored them²⁰, children of different sexes mixed together, confused, rolling on the ground ; it was a spectacle of extravagant joy, of unbridled license, of inconceivable [257] drunkenness and fury. Ah, if I were a painter! I still have all those faces in my mind.

Grimm. I know a little about our artists, and I swear there isn't one in a state to sketch²¹ this painting.

Diderot. In the midst of this tumult, some old men whom the epidemic had spared, their eyes bathed in tears, prostrate in a temple struck the earth with their foreheads, kissed the god's altars in the most suppliant manner, and I hear very distinctly the god or perhaps the subaltern rascal who was behind the canvas, saying: Let her die, or let another die for her.

Grimm. But, my friend, of the train you dream of, do you know that one of your dreams would be enough for an entire gallery?

Diderot. Wait, wait, you're not there. I was in a state of extreme impatience to find out what would be the outcome of this fateful oracle, when the temple opened up to my eyes again²². The pavement was covered with a large red carpet edged with a wide gold fringe; this rich carpet and the fringe fell below a long step that reigned all along the façade. To the right, near this step, was one of those great vessels²³ of sacrifice destined to receive the blood of victims. On either side of the part of the temple I was discovering, two large columns of transparent white marble seemed to be reaching for the vault. To the right, at the foot of the foremost column, a black marble urn had been placed, partly covered with the cloths appropriate to bloody ceremonies. On the other side of the same column was a candelabra²⁴ of the noblest form; it was so high, that it hardly reached the [258] capital of the column. In the gap between the two columns on the other side was a large triangular altar or tripod, on which the sacred fire was lit. I could see the reddish glow of the blazing braziers, and the smoke of the incense hid part of the inner column from my view. Here was the scene of one of the most terrible and touching representations that had been performed on the canvas of the cavern during my vision.

Grimm. But, tell me, my friend, have you entrusted your dream to no one?

Diderot. No. Why are you asking me this question?

Grimm. It's because the temple you've just described is exactly the scene in Fragonard's painting.

Diderot.

Diderot. It could be. I'd heard so much about this painting in previous days, that having to make a temple in my dream, I would have made his²⁵. Be that as it may, as my eyes wandered over this temple and the preparations²⁶ that foreshadowed I know not what my heart was oppressed by, I saw a young acolyte²⁷ dressed in white arrive alone; he looked sad. He went to crouch at the foot of the candelabra and rested his arms on the protruding base of the inner column. A priest followed. This priest had his arms crossed over his chest, his head quite bowed, he seemed absorbed²⁸ in pain and deepest reflection; he advanced with slow steps. I waited for him to raise his head; he did so, turning his eyes skyward and uttering the most painful exclamation, which I myself accompanied by a cry when I recognized this priest. It was the same one I'd seen a few moments earlier pressing the inflexible young woman with such urgency and so little success; he was also dressed in white; still handsome, but grief had made a deep impression on his face. His forehead was crowned with ivy, and in his right hand he held the sacred knife. He went to stand [259]at some distance from the young acolyte who had preceded him. There came a second acolyte, dressed in white, who stopped behind him.

I next saw a young girl enter; she was similarly dressed in white, a crown of roses girdling her head. The pallor of death covered her face, her trembling knees buckled beneath her; scarcely did she have the strength to reach the feet of the one she was adored by, for it was she who had so proudly disdained his tenderness and wishes. Though all was silent²⁹, one had only to look at each other and recall the words of the oracle, to understand that this was the victim and he was to be the sacrificer. When she was close to the high priest, her unhappy lover - ah! a hundred times more unhappy than she - her strength left her altogether, and she fell backwards onto the bed, or the very place where she was to receive the mortal blow. Her face was turned towards heaven, her eyes were closed, her two arms, which life seemed to have already left, hung at her sides, the back of her head almost touched the clothes of the high priest her sacrificer and lover; the rest of her body was stretched out, only the acolyte, who had stopped behind the high priest, held it up a little.

While the unfortunate destiny of men and the cruelty of the gods or their ministers, for the gods are nothing, occupied me and I wiped a few tears that had escaped from my eyes, a third acolyte had entered, dressed in white like the others and his forehead crowned with roses. How handsome this young acolyte was! I don't know if it was his modesty, his youth, his gentleness, his nobility that interested me, but he seemed to outshine the high priest himself. He had crouched down some distance from the fainting victim, and his tender eyes were fixed on her. A fourth acolyte³⁰, also in white garb, came to stand beside the one supporting the victim, put one knee on the ground, and on his other knee placed a large basin which he took by the edges, as if to present it to the blood that was about to flow. This basin, the place of this acolyte and his [260] action all pointed too much to the cruel function. However, many other people³¹ had rushed into the temple. Men, born compassionate, seek in cruel spectacles the exercise of this quality³².

I distinguished towards the back, close to the inner column on the left side, two elderly priests, standing and remarkable for the irregular garment with which their heads were wrapped, as for the severity of their character and the gravity of their bearing.

Almost to the outside, against the front column on the same side, was a lone woman; a little further on and further out, another woman, her back leaning against a bollard, with a young naked child on her lap. The beauty of this child, and perhaps even more so the singular effect of the light that illuminated him and his mother, fixed them in my memory. Beyond these women, but inside the temple, two other spectators. In front of these spectators, precisely between the two columns, opposite the altar and its blazing brazier, an old man whose character and grey hair struck me. I have no doubt that the more remote space was full of people, but from the place I occupied in my dream and in the cavern, I could see nothing more.

.

Grimm. It's that there was nothing more to see, that these are all the characters in Fragonard's painting; and that they found themselves in your dream placed just as they were on his canvas.

Diderot. If that is, oh the beautiful painting Fragonard has done! But listen to the rest. The sky was shining with the purest clarity; the sun seemed to be rushing all the mass of its light into the temple and delighting in gathering it over the victim, when the vaults darkened with thick darkness which spreading over our heads and mingling with the air, with the light, produced a sudden [261]horror. Through this darkness I saw an infernal genius hovering, I saw him: haggard eyes protruded from his head; he held a dagger in one hand, with the other he shook a burning torch; he screamed. He was Despair, and Love, the dreaded Love, was carried on his back. Instantly the high priest draws the sacred knife, he raises his arm; I think he's going to strike the victim with it, that he's going to thrust it into the bosom of the one who has scorned him and whom Heaven has delivered to him; not at all, he strikes himself with it³³. A general scream pierces and tears the air. I see death and its symptoms wandering over the cheeks, over the forehead of the tender and generous unfortunate; his knees fail, his head falls back, one of his arms is hanging down, the hand whose knife he seized still holds it pressed into his heart. All eyes focus on him, or fear to do so; everything is a sign of sorrow and fear. The acolyte at the foot of the candelabra has his mouth half-open, and looks on in terror; the one supporting the victim turns his head and looks on in terror; the one holding the fatal basin raises his frightened eyes; the face and outstretched arms of the one who seemed so beautiful to me show all his pain and terror; these two elderly priests, whose cruel gazes must so often have feasted on the vapor of the blood they have sprinkled on the altars, cannot help but feel pain, commiseration and dread; they pity the unfortunate man, they suffer, they are frightened; this lone woman leaning against one of the columns, seized with horror and dread, suddenly turns around; and this other woman, who had her back against a bollard, has fallen backwards, one of her hands has gone to her eyes, and her other arm seems to be pushing this frightening spectacle away from her; surprise and fright are painted on the faces of the spectators far away from her; but nothing matches the dismay and pain of the grey-haired old man, his hair raised on his forehead, I think I can still see him, the light of the blazing brazier illuminating him, and his arms stretched out over the altar: I see his eyes, I see his mouth, I see him lunge, I hear his cries, they wake me, the canvas folds and the cavern disappears. [262]

Grimm. Here is Fragonard's painting, here it is with full effect.

Diderot. In truth?

Grimm. It's the same temple, the same order, the same characters, the same action, the same characters, the same general interest, the same qualities, the same flaws. In the cave, you saw only the simulacra of beings, and Fragonard on his canvas would have shown you only the simulacra. It's a beautiful dream you've had, it's a beautiful dream he's painted. When you lose sight of your painting for a moment, you always fear that his canvas will fold up like yours, and that those interesting and sublime³⁴ ghosts will have vanished like those of the night. If you had seen his painting, you would have been struck by the same magic of light and the way in which darkness merged with it, by the gloom that this mixture carried in every point of his composition; you would have felt the same commiseration, the same dread ; you would have seen the mass of this light, strong at first, degrade with surprising speed and art; you would have noticed the echoes³⁵ playing superiorly between the figures. That old man whose piercing cries awakened you, he was there in the same place and as you saw him, and the two women and the young child, all dressed, lit, frightened as you said. It's the same elderly priests with their broad, tall, picturesque head drapery, the same acolytes with their white, priestly vestments, spread precisely over his canvas as they are over yours. The one you found so handsome, he was handsome in the painting as in your dream, receiving the light through his back, consequently having all his anterior parts in half-tone or shadow, a painting effect easier to dream than to produce, and which had robbed him of neither his nobility nor his expression.

Diderot. What you're telling me would almost make me believe that I, who [263] don't believe in it during the day³⁶, am in commerce with it at night. But the gruesome moment of my dream, the one where the sacrificer thrusts the dagger into his breast, is therefore the one that Fragonard has chosen³⁷ ?

Grimm. Certainly. We only observed in the painting that the high priest's clothes were a little too much like a woman's.

Grimm.

Diderot. Wait... But it's just like in my dream.

Grimm. That these young acolytes, as noble, as charming as they were, were of an indecisive sex, species of hermaphrodites.

Diderot. It's still just like in my dream.

Grimm. That the victim, well reclined, well fallen, was perhaps a little too tightly squeezed from below by his clothes.

Diderot.

Diderot. I noticed it in my dream too; but I gave her credit for being decent, even in that moment.

Grimm. That her head weak of color, unexpressive, without hues, without passages³⁸, was rather that of a slumbering woman than a fainting one.

Diderot. I dreamt her with these flaws.

Grimm. For the woman holding the child in her lap, we found her superiorly painted and fitted, and the escaped ray of light illuminating her, to make illusion; the reflection of the light on the anterior column, of the last truth; the candelabra, of the most beautiful form and doing gold well. It took figures as vigorously colored as Fragonard's to support themselves above this red carpet edged with gold fringe. The heads of the old men seemed to us to be made of mood and well marking surprise and fright; the geniuses well furious, well aerial, and the [264] black vapor they brought with them well scattered and adding a terrible astonishment to the scene; the masses of shadow raising in the strongest and most piquant way the dazzling splendor of the clear ones. And then a unique interest. No matter which side of the stage you looked, you'd find fear in every character: it sprang from the high priest, it spread and grew through the two geniuses, through the obscure vapor that accompanied them, through the dark glow of the braziers. It was impossible to deny one's soul to such a repeated impression. It was as in popular riots, where the passion of the many seizes us even before the motive is known. But in addition to the fear that at the first sign of the cross all these beautiful simulacra would disappear, there are judges of severe taste who thought they sensed something theatrical in the whole composition that displeased them. Whatever they say, believe you've had a beautiful dream and Fragonard a beautiful painting. It has all the magic, all the intelligence and all the machine³⁹ picturesque⁴⁰. The ideal part is sublime in this artist, who lacks only a truer color and a technical perfection, which time and experience can give him.

So far, my dear Philosopher, I've let you say and spoken as you pleased. You have done well to stop at this painting by Fragonard, which has principally fixed the public's attention, less still by its own merit than perhaps by the need we have to find a successor to Carle Vanloo and Deshays⁴¹. When one thinks of this crowd of young people returning from Rome⁴² and approved by the Academy⁴³, without giving the slightest hope, we can't augur well for the glory of the French School, which is already quite disparaged. We only have one promising Fragonard against this crowd of Briard, Brenet, Lépicié, Armand, Taraval, who will certainly never do anything. I don't think Fragonard's painting is without merit, far from it; but we'll have to wait for the next Salon to see what this artist will become. It wouldn't be the first time we've seen a painter, newly arrived from Rome⁴⁴ and with his head full of the riches of Italy, start out brilliantly enough, and then fade and fade from Salon to Salon. What gives me some doubt about Fragonard's genius is that, when I compare the effect of his painting with the pathos of his subject, I don't think he achieves it. If the victim seems to you to be asleep rather than unconscious, the priest seems to me to be cold and characterless: his sex is as indecisive as that of his acolytes; we don't know whether he's male or female, and the fault lies not only with his clothes, but with his head and his whole body. You've done a very ingenious job of pointing out what gives all these figures the air of ghosts and spectres rather than real characters: after all, all that beautiful dream you've just told me about, you had at the Salon, contemplating Fragonard's painting, and most of the time, if I remember correctly, I had the pleasure of sitting next to you and hearing you dream aloud. But count on your dream being more beautiful than his painting, and on us risking nothing by waiting until the next Salon to take our side on this artist.

By the way, an echo⁴⁵ is a reflected sound: an echo of light is reflected light. So light that falls strongly on one body, from which it is reflected on another, which is brightly enough illuminated to reflect it on a third, and from this third on a fourth, etc., forms echoes on these different objects, like a sound that repeats itself from mountain to mountain. The term is technical, and it's in this sense that artists use it.

Notes