July 18.—The Louvre, again. The pictures which occupied me were two: 1. Rubens’ Descent from the Cross, taken from the Cathedral at Antwerp—a beautiful and tragical scene. The tenderness and grief of the Virgin, who seems to fear the body should be injured by too rough a seizure—the variety of the figures, which, without affecting contrast, all differ in age, expression, attitude, and situation—the exquisite posture of the dead Christ, and the charms of execution and colouring, which rob a subject in itself horrible of all that can inspire horror, entitle this picture to the unbounded applause it has received. 2. A Holy Family, by Raphael. The colouring of this picture is very purple. Whether this is owing to the restauration and varnish of which the French are so liberal, I know not. It is a beautiful piece. As to restauration, it certainly requires great industry and knowledge; but it provokes me to see the French, when they have restored a picture, forget they have not painted it.
Saw Andromaque, that interesting piece which bears so imposing a character, that it deserves to occupy the evening of a day devoted to Grecian sculpture. We will not examine whether the characters possess real greatness; they wear that splendid counterfeit most fit for tragedy, and all possess it in different degrees. All are highly impassioned, all bear names we have lisped with respect from our infancy, and all are dignified by their misfortunes and those of their family. Orestes was performed by Talma, and with infinite skill. His face and figure are fine. He was incomparably dressed in a white robe, seemingly of the quality of a Turkish shawl, which fell in folds of very picturesque drapery: it was embroidered round the edge with a deep antique pattern in gold; and he perfectly realized the dress and attitudes of Grecian sculpture. His voice is deep and susceptible of variety. I cannot say he affected me, but the fault was probably my own. Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois, a débutante, played Hermione, and bids fair to be a favourite. Her ugliness resists all the art of dress and all the illusion of stage light. Her voice has no great power; her attitudes are forced and Etruscan; but she feels strongly, and has an abandon in the expression of her feelings, which, though it appeared to me to ‘overstep the modesty of Nature,’ gave great satisfaction to the audience. When I thought her disgustingly violent, those about me cried out, ‘Voilà ce que s’appelle sentir;’ and a gentleman told me, that were she a pretty woman, ‘elle embraserait la salle.’
July 19.—The Louvre. Guido’s sweet picture of the union of Design and Colouring pleased me much; but I know not why he makes both appear so melancholy. I must suppose they are going to paint the likeness of a lost friend. No picture I remarked to-day gave me more pleasure than a head by Raphael of a boy of fifteen. It is not ideal beauty, but it is the beauty of real life heightened with all the charms of sweet and sensible expression.
July 22.—Saw David’s beautiful picture of the Sabine women reconciling their husbands and fathers. It is seen in an apartment of the Louvre, at thirty-six sous a-head. He is the first French painter, I believe, who has taken this method of reimbursing himself. The picture is very large. Romulus, a fine spirited figure, is in the act of lifting his spear to strike Tatius, who actually projects from the canvas. Hersilia throws herself between. She is standing, her arm extended, in the attitude of one breathless with haste and apprehension. Romulus, on the right, has his back to the spectators, and his face is seen in profile. I am not quite satisfied with his figure. Those of Tatius and Hersilia are admirable. These three form the foreground, combined with a group of lovely children; a graceful female figure embraces Tatius’ knees; another, on the ground, points to an infant scarcely six months old. The Roman leader of cavalry is seen sheathing his sword; some of the enemies are already disarmed, and you see that the rest will soon be so. David has admirably united the most attractive brilliancy of colouring with the appearance of the dust raised by the contending armies. The background is formed by the troops, through which the women have forced their way. Some of the soldiers are indistinctly seen holding up their helmets in sign of peace; and there are several females in different postures, who all excite a sufficient degree of subordinate interest to give life to the whole picture.
July 25.—Again the Abbé Sicard.—‘Pour le pont qui conduit du monde visible au monde intellectuel, voici comme je le construis. J’ai un portrait de Mossieu, fort ressemblant, d’à peu près deux pieds de haut, que je fais descendre. Tous mes sourds-muets l’appellent Mossieu. Je l’appelle le faux Mossieu; ils font de même. Je l’appelle lui-même le vrai Mossieu; ils m’imitent. Je fais remonter le portrait, et je le dessine moi-même. Je leur dis, “Mais j’ai aussi un vrai Mossieu; où est-il, puisque je puis le copier?” Ils me répondent quelquefois, que je l’ai dans mes pieds, dans mes mains. Mais la plupart me répondent, que c’est dans ma tête; tant il est naturel à l’homme d’y placer le siège des opérations intellectuelles. Mais je leur demande, “Est-ce que je puis couper, plier ce vrai Mossieu qui est dans ma tête?” non; “Et puis qu’il a cinq pieds dix pouces de haut, comment puis je le placer dans ma tête?” Ils conviennent donc que j’ai dans la tête une espèce de toile, sur laquelle les objets se dessinent, absolument différente d’aucun être qu’ils connoissent déjà, puis qu’elle peut recevoir des objets beaucoup plus grands qu’elle-même, les retenir, et les reproduire à volonté. Ils avoient déjà soupçonné quelque chose de cette vérité. Ils désirent savoir la nature de cet être. Je souffle sur leur main, j’ouvre une porte, je leur fais sentir le vent; je leur explique que comme mon souffle, comme le vent, existent et produisent des effets, quoique nous ne pouvons les voir, les plier, ou les couper, de même manière existe cet être qui retient le portrait du vrai Mossieu—cet être auquel dès ce moment nous donnons le nom de souffle, de spiritus, d’esprit enfin.’
In the evening, went to the garden of the Tuileries, where the trees are old and varied enough to rescue it from the class of French gardens in general, which are sandy flats, where straight poles, with bushes on their tops, are planted in straight lines.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Paris, March 8, 1803.