The Jeanne d'Arc made a great impression. Instead of being talked of as a painter of great promise, Delaroche was looked upon as a master who had realised these hopes.
In 1826 he exhibited his Mort de Carrache, Le Prétendant sauvé par Miss MacDonald, the Nuit de la Saint Barthélemy, the Mort d'Élisabeth and the full-length portrait of the Dauphin.
The whole world stood to gaze at Elizabeth, pallid, dying, dead already from the waist down. I was riveted in front of the young Scotch girl, exquisitely sympathetic and admirably romantic in feeling. Cinq-Mars and Miss MacDonald were alone enough to make Delaroche a great painter. What delicious handling there is in the latter picture, sweet, tender, moving! What suppleness and morbidezza in those golden fifteen years, born on the wings of youth, scarcely touching the earth! O Delaroche! you are a great painter! But if you had only painted four pictures equal to your Miss MacDonald, how you would have been adored!
In 1827, he first produced a political picture, the Prise du Trocadéro; then the Mort du Président Duranti, a great and magnificent canvas, three figures of the first order: the president, his wife and his child; the figure of the child, in particular, who is holding up—or, rather, stretching up—its hands to heaven; and a ceiling for the Charles X. Museum, of which I will not speak, as I do not remember it. Finally, in 1831, the period we have reached, Delaroche exhibited Les Enfants d'Édouard, Cinq-Mars et de Thou, the Jeu de Mazarin, the portrait of Mlle. Sontag and a Lecture. The painter's reputation, as we have said, had then reached its height. You remember those two children sitting on a bed, one sickly, the other full of health; the little barking dog; the ray of light that comes into the prison through the chink beneath the door. You remember the Richelieu—ill, coughing, attenuated, with no more strength to cause the death of others; the beautiful figure of Cinq-Mars, calm, in his exquisite costume of white satin, pink and white under his pearl-grey hat; the grave de Thou, in his dark dress, looking at the scaffold in the distance, which was to assume for him so terrible an aspect on nearer view; those guards, those rowers, the soldier eating and the other who is spluttering in the water. The whole is exquisitely composed and executed, full of intellect and thought, and particularly full of skill—skill, yes! for Delaroche par excellence is the dexterous painter. He possesses the expertness of Casimir Delavigne, with whom he has all kinds of points of resemblance, although, in our opinion, he strikes us as being stronger, as a painter, than Casimir Delavigne as a dramatic author. Every artist has his double in some kindred contemporary. Hugo and Delacroix have many points of contact; I pride myself upon my resemblance to Vernet.
Delaroche's skill is, indeed, great; not that we think it the fruit of studied calculation, such cleverness is intuitive, and, perhaps, not so much an acquired quality as a natural gift, a gift that is doubtless rather a negative one, from the point of view of art. I prefer certain painters, poets and players who are inclined to err on the side of being awkward rather than too skilful. But, just as all the studying in the world will not change clumsiness into skilfulness, so you cannot cure a clever man of his defect. Therefore, although it is a singular statement to make, Delaroche has the defect of being too skilful. If a man is going to his execution, Delaroche will not choose the shuddering moment when the guards open the doors of the prison, nor the terror-stricken instant when the victim catches sight of the scaffold. No, the resigned victim will pass before the window of the Bishop of London; as he descends a staircase, will kneel with downcast eyes and receive the benediction bestowed on him by two white aristocratic trembling hands thrust through the bars of that window. If he paints the assassination of the Duc de Guise, he does not choose the moment of struggle, the supreme instant when the features contract in spasms of anger, in convulsions of agony; when the hands dig into the flesh and tear out hair; when hearts drink vengeance and daggers drink blood. No, it is the moment when all is over, when the Duc de Guise is laid dead at the foot of the bed, when daggers and swords are wiped clean and cloaks have hidden the rending of the doublet, when the murderers open the door to the assassin, and Henri III. enters, pale and trembling, and recoils as he comes in murmuring—
"Why, he must have been ten feet high?—he looks taller lying down than standing, dead than alive!"
Again, if he paints the children of Edward, he does not choose the moment when the executioners of Richard III. rush upon the poor innocent boys and stifle their cries and their lives with bedding and pillows. No, he chooses the time when the two lads, seated on the bed which is to become their grave, are terrified and trembling by reason of a presentiment of the footsteps of Death, as yet unrecognised by them, but noted by their dog. Death is approaching, as yet hidden behind the prison door, but his pale and cadaverous light is already creeping in through the chinks.
It is evident that this is one side of art, one aspect of genius, which can be energetically attacked and conscientiously defended. It does not satisfy the artist supremely, but it gives the middle classes considerable pleasure. That is why Delaroche had, for a time, the most universal reputation, and the one that was least disputed among all his colleagues. It also explains why, after having been too indulgent towards him, and from the very fact of being over-indulgent, criticism has become too severe. And this is why we are putting the artist and his works in their true place and light. We say, then: Delaroche must not be so much blamed for his skill as felicitated for it. It is an organic part not merely of his talent, but still more of his temperament and character. He does not look all round his subject to find out from which side he can see it the best. He sees his subject immediately in just that particular pose; and it would be impossible for the painter to realise it in any other way. Along with this, Delaroche puts all the consciousness of which he is capable into his work. Here is yet another point of resemblance between him and Casimir Delavigne; only, he does not pour his whole self out as does Delavigne; he does not need, as does Delavigne, friends to encourage him and give him strength;—he is more prolific: Casimir is cunning; Delaroche is merely freakish. Then, Casimir shortens, contracts and is niggardly. He treats the same subject as does Delaroche; but why does he treat it? Not by any means because the subject is a magnificent one; or because it moves the heart of the masses and stirs up the Past of a People; or because Shakespeare has created a sublime drama from it, but because Delaroche has made a fine picture out of it. Thus the fifteen more or less lengthy acts of Shakespeare become, under the pen of Casimir Delavigne, three short acts; there is no mention whatever of the king's procession, the scene between Richard III. and Queen Anne, the apparition of the victims between the two armies, the fight between Richard III. and Richmond. Delavigne's three acts have no other aim than to make a tableau-vivant framed in the harlequin hangings of the Théâtre-Français, representing with scrupulous exactitude, and in the manner of a deceptive painting of still-life, the canvas of Delaroche. It happens, therefore, that the drama finds itself great, even as is the Academy, not by any means because of what it possesses, but by what it lacks. Then, although, in the case of both, their convictions or, if you prefer it, their prejudices exceed the bounds of obstinacy and amount to infatuation, Delaroche, being the stronger of the two, rarely giving in, although he does occasionally! while Casimir never does so! To give one instance,—I have said that each great artist has his counterpart in a kindred contemporary art; and I have said that Delaroche resembled Casimir Delavigne. This I maintain. This is so true that Victor Hugo and Delacroix, the two least academic talents imaginable, both had the ambition to be of the Academy. Both competed for it: Hugo five times and Delacroix ten, twelve, fifteen.... I cannot count how many times. Very well, you remember what I said before; or rather, lest you should not remember it, I will repeat it. During one of the vacancies in the Academy I took it upon myself to call on some academicians, who were my friends, on Hugo's behalf. One of these calls was in the direction of Menus-Plasirs, where Casimir Delavigne had rooms. I have previously mentioned how fond I was of Casimir Delavigne, and that this feeling was reciprocated. Perhaps it will be a matter for surprise that, being so fond of him, and boasting of his affection for myself, I speak ill of him. In the first place, I do not speak ill of his talent, I merely state the truth about it. That does not prevent me from liking the man Casimir personally. I speak well of the talent of M. Delaroche, but does that prove that I like him? No, I do not like M. Delaroche; but my friendship for the one and my want of sympathy with the other does not influence my opinion of their talent. It is not for me either to blame or to praise their talent, and I may be permitted both to praise and to blame individuals. I put all these trifles on one side, and I judge their works. With this explanation I return to Casimir Delavigne, who liked me somewhat, and whom I liked much. I had decided to make use of this friendship on behalf of Hugo, whom I loved, and whom I still love with quite a different affection, because admiration makes up at least two kinds of my friendship for Hugo, whilst I have no admiration for Casimir Delavigne at all. So I went to find Casimir Delavigne. I employed all the coaxing which friendship could inspire, all the arguments reason could prompt to persuade him to give his vote to Hugo. He refused obstinately, cruelly and, worse still, tactlessly. It would have been a stroke of genius for Casimir Delavigne to have voted for Hugo. But he would not vote for him. Cleverness, in the case of Casimir Delavigne, was an acquired quality, not a natural gift. Casimir gave his vote to I know not whom—to M. Dupaty, or M. Flourens, or M. Vatout. Well, listen to this. The same situation occurred when Delacroix paid his visits as when Hugo was trying to get himself placed among applicants for the Academy. Once, twice, Delaroche refused his vote to Delacroix. Robert Fleury,—you know that excellent painter of sorrowful situations and supreme anguish, an apparently ideal person to be an impartial appreciator of Delacroix and of Delaroche! Well, Robert Fleury sought out Delaroche and did what I had done in the case of Casimir Delavigne, he begged, implored Delaroche to give his vote to Delacroix. Delaroche at first refused with shudders of horror and cries of indignation; and he showed Robert Fleury to the door. But when he was by himself his conscience began to speak to him; softly at first, then louder and still louder; he tried to struggle against it, but it grew bigger and bigger, like the shadow of Messina's fiancée! He sent for Fleury.
"You can tell Delacroix he has my vote!" he burst out;—"all things considered, he is a great painter."