Fragonard

by Haldane Macfall

There came to live with the newly married couple his wife’s younger sister Marguerite and her young brother Henri Gérard, who was learning engraving.

Fragonard’s marriage at once affected his habits and his art. The wild oats of his artistic career were near sown. The naughtinesses of girls of pleasure gave place to the grace and tenderness of the home-life—the cradle took the place of the bed of light adventures; and children blossomed on to his canvases. He set aside the make-believe shepherds and shepherdesses of the vogue; and henceforth painted the “real thing” in rural surroundings.

He brought to his homeliest pictures a beauty of arrangement, a sense of style, and a dignity worthy of the most majestic subjects. He came at this time under the influence of the Dutch landscapists, and stole from them the solidity of their massing in foliage, the truth of their character-drawing, the close observation of their cattle and animal-life, their cloudy skies, and the finish and force of their craftsmanship. Whether he went into Holland is disputed. He was too keen an artist, his was too original a genius, to imitate their style or take on their Dutch accent. He simply took from them such part of their craftsmanship as could enter into the facile gracious genius of France without clogging its grace. He is now content with his house and garden for scenery, with his family for models. He realises that an artist has no need to go abroad to find “paintable things.”

The “Heureuse Fécondité,” the “Visit to the Nurse” (the second one), the “Schoolmistress,” the “Good Mother,” the “Retour au logis,” the “L’Education fait tout,” the “Dites donc, si’l vous plaît,” are of this period.

In all he did he proves himself an artist, incapable of mediocrity, bringing distinction and style to all that he touches.

Fragonard also excelled in the painting of miniatures. And there are small portraits under fancy names to be seen at the Louvre, painted with a breadth and force that prove him to have known the work of Franz Hals. The figure of a man, known as “Figure de Fantaisie” or “Inspiration,” is stated with a directness and vividness worthy of the great Dutch master. Indeed, there is much in the direct handling of the paint and the life of the thing that recalls Franz Hals—the very arrangement of the dress and the treatment of the hand being a careless attempt to recall the habits and fashions of the Dutchman. “La Musique” repeats the impression. And even the more pronouncedly French style of the pretty woman in “La Chanteuse” does not disguise the inspiration of Franz Hals in the painting of the bodice, the cuffs, and the details—the high ruffle is “dragged in” from Hals’s day. The “Music Lesson” at the Louvre was painted about the same time.

Fragonard’s old master, Boucher, for some time had been “going about like a shadow of himself.” The year after Fragonard’s marriage the old painter was found dead, sitting at his easel before an unfinished picture of Venus, the brush fallen out of his fingers—the light of the “Glory of Paris” gone out.

Boucher died a few months before that Christmas Eve of 1770 that saw Choiseul driven from power by the trio of knaves who used the vulgar but kindly woman Du Barry as their tool—indeed she refused to pull the great minister down until she had made handsome terms on his behalf; Choiseul was too astute a man not to recognise what lay beyond the shadow of her pretty skirts—nay, does he not turn in the courtyard as he leaves the palace to go into banishment, his lettre de cachet in his pocket, and, seeing a woman looking out from a window at the end of an alley, bow and kiss his hand to the window where gazes out of tear-filled eyes this strange doomed beauty who has won to the sceptre of France? ’Twas four years before the small-pox took the king—four years during which this same Du Barry, with her precious trio, d’Aiguillon, Maupeou, and Terray, sent the members of Parliament into banishment—years that launched royal France on its downward rushing, with laughter and riot, to its doom, whilst the apathetic Louis shrugged his now gross royal shoulders at all warnings of catastrophe, which to give him due credit, he was scarce witless enough or blind enough not to foresee. Nay, did he not even admit it in his constantly affirmed, if cynical, creed that “things, as they were, would last as long as he; and he that came after him must shift for himself”? Ay; he came even nearer to the kernel of the significance of things, when, shrugging his no longer well-beloved shoulders, as the Pompadour had done, he repeated her cynical saying of “Après nous le déluge.” It was to be a deluge indeed—scarlet red.

Wit and ruthless fatuity were the order of the day; these folk were wondrous full of the neatly turned phrase and the polished epigram. Most fatuous of them all, and as ruthless as any, was Terray—he who tinkered with finance, with crown to his many infamies the scandalous Pacte de Famille, that mercantile company that was to produce an artificial rise in the price of corn by buying up the grain of France, exporting it, and bringing it back for sale at vast profit—with Louis of France as considerable shareholder. Had not the owners of the land the right to do what they would with their own? ’Twas small wonder that the well-beloved became the highly-detested of the groaning people—he and his precious privileged class.