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But it will be without lyricism. Lyricism never comes when the conquest is being prepared, but is born of the conquest itself, when energy attains its summit and catches its glimpse of the future. The Tiers-État, whose average virtues were expressed by Chardin, imagines itself called upon to strain after effect on the eve of triumph, and to demonstrate its virtue. Rousseau, having dreamed of the absolute man, the successful contestant for political power, ingenuously proposes himself as the realization of that man, and around that idea he organizes his morality, his religion, and—unhappily—his aesthetics also. It should be said that everything tended to give him this rôle. He reacts against the dissolution of the class which he claims to dispossess. Although calling himself a follower of Diderot and Voltaire, he reacts against the skepticism of Voltaire and the philosophy of immorality of Diderot. Imagining himself to deal a blow against Christianity, he reacts, in the name of Christianity, against the irreligion of the philosophes and the natural mythology which Buffon and his pupils are preparing to take its place. In reality, what he is claiming to follow is that Cartesian rationalism which, after having organized everything, and then destroyed everything, aspired, when once it was reinforced by Jansenism and by English culture, to reconstruct everything. Finally, the aesthetic and moral decomposition of the century causes him to believe that his victory can be obtained only by reversing its activity in every field. In monuments, furniture, statues, and pictures, a straight bare line will replace the sinuous and overladen line. And the incorruptible man will oppose his rigidity of principle to the amiable cynicism of the lordling of the antechamber and the dilettante of government.
But it will be without lyricism. Lyricism never comes when the conquest is being prepared, but is born of the conquest itself, when energy attains its summit and catches its glimpse of the future. The Tiers-État, whose average virtues were expressed by Chardin, imagines itself called upon to strain after effect on the eve of triumph, and to demonstrate its virtue. Rousseau, having dreamed of the absolute man, the successful contestant for political power, ingenuously proposes himself as the realization of that man, and around that idea he organizes his morality, his religion, and—unhappily—his aesthetics also. It should be said that everything tended to give him this rôle. He reacts against the dissolution of the class which he claims to dispossess. Although calling himself a follower of Diderot and Voltaire, he reacts against the skepticism of Voltaire and the philosophy of immorality of Diderot. Imagining himself to deal a blow against Christianity, he reacts, in the name of Christianity, against the irreligion of the philosophes and the natural mythology which Buffon and his pupils are preparing to take its place. In reality, what he is claiming to follow is that Cartesian rationalism which, after having organized everything, and then destroyed everything, aspired, when once it was reinforced by Jansenism and by English culture, to reconstruct everything. Finally, the aesthetic and moral decomposition of the century causes him to believe that his victory can be obtained only by reversing its activity in every field. In monuments, furniture, statues, and pictures, a straight bare line will replace the sinuous and overladen line. And the incorruptible man will oppose his rigidity of principle to the amiable cynicism of the lordling of the antechamber and the dilettante of government.
The new
order is offered the tool which it demands. For a quarter of a century,
Antiquity has been before the minds of men. That way lies Virtue, and there
also is Beauty. André Chénier dedicates hymns to David, in whose works
Robespierre recognizes the physical expression of that which he himself
represents in the moral world; and it is to David that the Convention intrusts
the work of organizing Republican aesthetics on the model of the austerity, the
pomp, and the stoicism of Rome. His education as a painter and as a man has
prepared him to become the Le Brun of the Revolution. As a winner of the Prix
de Rome, he finds Rome filled with the fever of archaeology. Less than twenty
years before, there had occurred the discovery of the mummified cities,
Herculaneum and Pompeii. Piranesi's engravings circulate everywhere and animate
the ruins of Rome with a somber and living spirit. Hubert Robert haunts the
crumbling walls there, the unequal colonnades, the broken vaults covered by ivy
and grass, and all the fields of dead stones where the ground, as its level
rises, still gives a glimpse, here and there, of half-buried gods. Joseph
Vernet descends from the two emigrants of the great century, Claude and
Poussin. Since the time when Vico created the philosophy of History, the very
soil of Italy seems to awaken. The tragedies of Alfieri exalt the republican
virtues, Beccaria wrests Crime and Punishment from the domination of mediaeval
theology. Canova will soon come, to resuscitate his stale heroes and to make a
drawing-room propaganda for Davidian doctrines adjusted to the understanding of
the ladies of easy virtue, of the diplomats, and the littérateurs. The Germans seek to found a science of aesthetics on
the basis of a Greco-Latin archaeology that is insufficiently understood.
Winckelmann has just written his History, Lessing publishes a whole volume on
the tiresome Laocoön. In France, besides, where Montesquieu, by his Grandeur et Décadence des Romains,
pointed the road long ago, where Soufflot is building the Panthéon, where the
Encyclopédie has had to search the ancient world through and through, and where
Caylus, a man of taste, to whom the artists lent a willing ear, is writing
innumerable memoirs on the sculptured stones and the medals, Barthélémy and
Volney are recovering from the earth the august cities and their customs; and
the reading of Plutarch carves the statues of antiquity in the soul of the
young men.
A
nephew of Boucher, and loving Fragonard, issuing from them and retaining their
imprint, Louis David sees clearly that if their century still kept some
reflection of living life, it is to them that it owes it, to them who, after
all, represent the direct descent from Watteau and from Rubens. It is in their
name that he so harshly combats the Academy, which the Convention suppresses as
soon as he demands it. But between them and him there is the distance between
the conversationalists and the journalists who prepare the revolution and those
who made it. They destroyed; he constructs. As he thinks to rediscover in the
Roman marbles the discipline he needs in order to look truth in the face, he
goes straight ahead to it, his head down, and his back turned on the men and
the things of his time. He does not see that he is falling into the same error
as the School which he execrates, and that, jealous of his authority, he is
substituting the dogma of the antique for the dogma of the Renaissance.
His
whole life, thenceforward, will be a stubborn and laborious collaboration
between his nature as an artist and his will as an aesthetician, between the
needs of his being and the beliefs of his time. He is a painter, as much as
anyone can be. In those of his scenes from history in which the external
movement is most closely copied from the ancient statues, in those of his
pictures of the ceremonies of his time which are most directly brought back, by
their cold, stiff arrangement, to the bas-reliefs of Roman arches, a purple
robe, a cushion of blue velvet, a golden embroidery, a plume, or a silk flag,
everything connected with his immediate time, such as an accessory impossible
to modify as to its material, is painted with the richest, densest, and most
opaque splendor. Whenever he is not treating the nude body, the rigidity of the
ensembles—always built up from without and by the processes of a technique
interpreted according to its appearances and never according to its spirit—is
sometimes forgotten before the intensity of the harmonies and the splendor of
matter, which by an act of his will he deprives of its fire. One thinks of some
Spanish painter of the seventeenth century, Zurbarán, for example, whose
monklike severity was no obstacle to his perceiving the thickness of fustian
robes, the dense pallor of bread, the sonorous and hard grain of earthen pots,
and even a certain silvery palpitation of the sky as it receded to the far
horizon. And often he makes us think of some story-teller of our France, robust
and truculent, by the way he paints a rosy-faced church singer, or a
fat-bellied canon, whom one must search out patiently in the least visible
corner of some solemn canvas, but whom La Fontaine would find, and whom Courbet
did not fail to see. Almost always his will outstrips his sensibility, but
sometimes it is the latter which forces the former to retreat. How many
portraits he has left unfinished, intentionally perhaps, the painter in him
having been warned by his emotion at the instant when they were attaining their
highest degree of power! Doubtless, he had, at such moments, the courage, so
rare, of being stronger than one's principles and of halting in time. With
their gray and troubled backgrounds and their hesitating pigment, with their
expressive vigor and their fidelity, they seem as if suspended between the
diffused life in which man's emotional existence begins, and consciousness in
which his intellectual empire begins. They live, and yet their life remains
between precise limits. They are built like monuments, and yet their surface moves.
They breathe force and liberty at one and the same time. It is before them that
one understands fully David's chagrin when, in 1816, he saw the marbles of the
Parthenon. He felt that his career was a long misunderstanding, a permanent
confusion between the truth which he encountered and the life which he had
believed himself to be seizing.
He is
deserving of respect. To be sure, he did not observe the terrible accent of the
scenes in which he was often one of the actors. He did not hear the rolling sound
of the wooden shoes as the women of the people marched along the pavement, nor
the cannon that were defending the different sections of the city. He did not
look at the livid heads on the points of the pikes, nor the red streams of
blood. He did not listen to the storm rumbling in the breast of Danton. A
member of the Convention, one would say that he did not live the tragedy of the
Assembly. He did not feel the grand horror of war, nor shudder to have the
archangel before his eyes. No matter. He is deserving of respect. He restored
to painted matter the substantiality which it had practically lost, and
rehabilitated the religious and passionate spirit with which an artist should
approach form and consider structure. He is, like the Revolution itself, practically
intolerable in the letter, admirable in its intentions and its spontaneous
movements. In his presence, one has the sensation of a people regaining control
of itself. Everything before him is talk, frivolity, and gossip. Introduced by
Rousseau into artistic activity as the Jacobin was introduced into political
activity, he comes, stirs minds, and tries to remake a world on the plane of
the will. Grace flees, alas, and the remainder of life which it was dragging
with it; but here is strength appearing, and here we catch a glimpse of truth.
An abstract truth, outside of space, outside of the movement and the exchanges
of life, to be sure, and corresponding to the abstract man. His aesthetics, it
is true, resemble those constitutions drawn from Montesquieu and from Rousseau,
borrowed from Geneva, London, or Rome, which jostled one another and tumbled
over upon one another for ten years, giving France a political support which
neither her aptitudes nor her temperament had prepared her to receive. No matter.
During those essays at theory, the spirit of the Revolution, the spirit of
life, was spreading over Europe with its armies, and mounting in the sentiment
of everyone who was noble and strong.
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