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writer who knew what it was that a fashionable woman could not
afford to neglect. The ‘all Paris’ of the day was there; and at the end,
when the crowd was in the lobbies, and the aboyeur was calling the
carriages, and the flower-girl was a messenger of intrigue—that was
the moment that gave birth to plans for dainty suppers eaten away
from home, the time when ‘abbés without a family learned the secret
of how they might belong to all.’ What a bustle of flirtation! What a
passing about of love-letters! The elegance of the scene must make
amends, as best it can, for its light-hearted naughtiness.
‘C’est un fils, Monsieur!’ has no such forgiveness to ask of us. It
is the blithest picture that we need to be shown of the home joys of
the refined. A young husband, who is known already as ‘le
Président,’ and who is a student and a fortunate collector of Art as
well as a man of the world, rises from his study chair with
outstretched hands and radiant face, as the newly born baby is
carried in to him in triumph, followed by a procession of household
retainers, and preceded by the lively Miss Rozette, the President’s
foster-sister. Nothing is more expressive than the joyous pantomime
of this privileged young woman, and the answering gestures of the
newly made father; and delightful is the sentiment of the piece. In
England, popular Art has sometimes made the joys of domesticity a
little dull; but here the respectable is actually gay, and nothing but
sunshine lies upon the path of duty.
Of the many writers whom Moreau avowedly illustrated, as
distinguished from those who furnished a text for his designs,
Rousseau was the one in whom he most believed, and for Rousseau
much of his best work was executed. His designs for the Nouvelle
Héloïse were among the last of the important drawings wrought by
him before he made that journey into Italy which his daughter speaks
of as having ‘opened his eyes,’ but which, to whatever it may have
‘opened’ them, certainly closed them to the aspects of that France it
was his truest mission to portray. The types of Julie and Saint-Preux
are types which Moreau understood—he understood their impulse
and their sentiment; and how many faults he would have forgiven
them for their grace! To illustrate Rousseau was of course to have
the opportunity—and in Moreau’s case it was also to profit by it—of
representing both a deeper and a more immediate sensitiveness
than most of that which claimed interpretation in the sometimes
callous figures of the ‘Monument du Costume.’ Moreau was grateful
for so fortunate an occasion, and he thoroughly responded to it. His
Julie is ‘un type de Greuze honnête,’ with her ‘bouche entr’ouverte,’
her ‘regard profond,’ her ‘gorge couverte en fille modeste, et non pas
en dévote,’ her ‘petite figure de blonde, mouvante et sensible.’
Moreau read Rousseau again and again: he genuinely cared for him,
and when Rousseau died, the death-scene was not suffered to pass
unrecorded, and of the grave in the Ile des Peupliers, by Geneva, he
made a little etching.
Presently, however, Moreau was to be led away from the very
sentiment of the scenes he had understood the best. His individuality
was lessened, his flexibility arrested by the journey to Italy,
undertaken with Dumont, the architect, in 1786. And his association
with David—‘le peintre de Marat assassiné et le membre de la
Convention’—operated to make more certain his style’s divorce from
all the natural grace and flowing sentiment and homely unheroic
dignity with which it had lived so fruitfully for more than twenty years.
The illustrator of Rousseau was already less happy as the illustrator
of Voltaire; and in 1791 Moreau was received into the Academy; the
drawing which procured him the distinction being that of ‘Tullie
faisant passer son char sur le corps de son père.’ Wille, the
engraver, writes, in his published journal, how he went to the
Academical Assembly when Moreau was received. ‘There was an
Academician to receive: it was Monsieur Moreau, draughtsman and
engraver. He had begged me to be his sponsor, and I presented him
to the Assembly with a great deal of pleasure.’ But Moreau’s
entrance into the Academy was the signal for his exit from the
regions of his native art. The bibliophile may seek with avidity for the
editions of Renouard, which years afterwards Moreau illustrated. But
his verve had deserted him; his talent was gone; his originality had
yielded up the ghost. And somehow, too, in his last years, and in his
old age, poverty overtook him. In February 1814, he wrote to M.
Renouard that he was penniless—‘Je n’ai pas le sou.’ Friends he
had, though; and one of the first acts of Louis xviii. was to reappoint
him to the old office—‘draughtsman to the King.’ He held the place
for but a short time; for on the 30th November, in the same year,
Moreau died. With his later style both he and his daughter, and the
group, too, by whom they were surrounded, were content—no one
assailed it then or looked back regretfully to the earlier—but it is by
the work of the first half of his career as an artist that Moreau finally
takes rank as one of the most precise and flexible of draughtsmen,
and as the closest possible observer of the gay, great world that he
portrayed.
5
These letters, some of which belong to Mr.
Reeve, and others to the British Museum, have
been quoted from more amply in my Studies in
English Art.