Historical painting, unfortunately, can never be adequately represented at exhibitions. Designed for the civil and religious monuments of France, whence, from the nature of the case, they cannot be removed, its most important illustrations are to be found at the Opéra, at the Palace of Justice and of the Legion of Honor, at the museums of Marseilles and of Amiens, the Hôtel de Ville of Poitiers, and in the numerous churches of Paris and throughout the country. The immense work which Baudry has executed for the foyer of the Opéra is absent from the Exhibition, and this great painter, whom some consider the first of his time, is not represented at the Champ de Mars by even a sketch. Fortunately, the Palace of Justice has parted with two principal works of Léon Bonnat, his Christ and Justice between Guilt and Innocence. The Panthéon has permitted the exhibition of the large decorative paintings in which Cabanel has represented the principal episodes of the history of St. Louis. But the largest historical canvases on the walls of the gallery are those by J.P. Laurens, belonging to the museums of Florence, of Havre, of Nantes and of Toulouse. Laurens delights in the Middle Ages, gloomy and stately periods of ecclesiastical domination and feudal violence. He is the painter of tortures and of tombs (the Exhumation of Pope Formosus, The Interdict, Francis Borgia before the Coffin of Isabella of Portugal), but his vigorous and severe genius never suffers him to fall into overstrained action and theatrical artifice. He does not move us by declamatory gestures and forced attitudes. Nothing can be more simple, yet nothing more affecting, than the Execution of the Duc d'Enghien and the Death of Marceau. Many young artists are following this new path, which has opened such success to M. Laurens. MM. Cormon, Dupain (in his Good Samaritan), Benjamin Constant (Entry of Mohammed II. into Constantinople), and Sylvestre (Locusta and Nero trying a Poison) have sent to the Champ de Mars the fine historical compositions that gained for them the first medals and the prize of honor at the last Salons. M. Tony Robert-Fleury has two vast canvases, the Sack of Corinth and the Reform of the Mad-house in 1795—large and admirable compositions, which engraving has already made popular. Of course we find M. Landelle's inevitable Eastern Dancing-Girl, and an Italian Woman by M. Hébert. There could be no exhibition without these. These two painters have talent, individuality, delicacy of feeling, but they are absolutely without imagination. M. Hébert, in particular, has learned nothing since his Malaria, which has been for a long time at the Museum of the Luxembourg. He has not discovered, nor even sought for, anything beyond this; and this eternal repetition of the same subject is a malady which afflicts too many of the artists of our day. One no longer distinguishes between the pictures of certain of our popular painters. Even M. Luminais never travels beyond his specialty, which is the barbarian Gaul, though he does vary somewhat the attitudes and physiognomy of his characters. Henner and Ribot, two great artists, who are better appreciated by their professional brethren than by the public, will undoubtedly gain much by this year's exhibition. The eulogy of competent criticism will be accepted as authoritative, and will compel the admiration of the crowd, which is not very apt to comprehend new and original forms in painting. Schopenhauer has classified the professions according to the degree of difficulty which they find in making their merits understood by the world at large; and he puts in the front rank, as the most quickly and easily comprehended and applauded, acrobats, dancers and players; philosophers come last of all; and immediately before them the painters.
Portraiture would seem to be more in esteem than ever. Everywhere along the walls are to be seen nothing but statesmen, poets and women of the world, whose identity is indicated in the official catalogue by initials only, but whom everybody recognizes at a glance. Many of these portraits are life-like and admirable in expression, and one can say of them what Victor Cherbuliez said of Mademoiselle Nelly Jacquemart's picture of Thiers: "The house is inhabited: some one is looking out of the window." This time Mademoiselle Jacquemart exhibits portraits of M. Duruy, M. Dufaure and a young lady. Singularly enough, she paints men better than she does women. Her portrait of Mademoiselle G—— B—— is very inferior to the others. Virility, in short, is the distinguishing characteristic of the talent of this woman.
M. Cabanel's portraits of women of the great world are conventionally painted, and with the coldness of manner which distinguishes him. One feels that if these fine creatures should speak they would utter nothing but the commonplaces which pass for conversation in the salons. The duchess of Vallambrosa—"the queen of the strand," as they call her at Cannes—Madame de Lavalette, the countess of Mercy-Argenteau, are all there, as if against their will and disdainful of the vulgar herd which is staring at them. To make amends, however, the duchess of Luynes is charming, surrounded and, as it were, adorned by her beautiful children. M. Cabanel is the recognized head of what may be called the official school. To get medals and crosses or the prize of Rome, to obtain commissions from government, it is now-a-days almost necessary to have been his pupil. Never had painter a more lofty position. Perhaps it is the opinion at the ministry of Fine Arts that Bonnat and Laurens will be so well paid by posthumous fame and the admiration of future generations that it is but fair to keep the balance between the masters even by rewarding M. Cabanel in his lifetime.
I have said that there are many portraits at the Exhibition, but I do not mean to complain of this. Indeed, we cannot too highly applaud the revival of this noble branch of art, to which we owe the Joconde of the Louvre and the Violin-player of the Sciarra Palace. Many a fair young girl unknown to fame, many a matron whose quiet life will pass unheeded by the world, will by her portrait enter into immortality. Torn, sooner or later, from the family roof and carried to a museum, there to be gazed upon by thousands of eyes, her smile or her reverie will recall for generations to come that sigh of Sénancour's: "O woman that I might have loved!"
It is doubtful if this regretful tribute to genius—which may perhaps some day be heard before the portraits of Henner, of Bonnat or of Madrazzo—will ever be inspired by those of M. Carolus Duran. This artist is the painter of elegant trifles and worldly vanities, of grand and striking toilettes, of blondes in violet and yellow and brunettes in gray and rose, for, like M. Worth the man-milliner, it pleases his fancy to attempt the reconciliation of the most inimical colors. For the rest, the future will no doubt owe him a debt of gratitude for the precious evidence which his pictures will furnish of the dress of the period. Indeed, without the help of certain of our portrait-painters future investigators would find themselves sadly at a loss in reconstructing the Paris of Napoleon III. and of the Third Republic. We are so much under the influence of the past that our artists scarcely have the sentiment of the civilization which surrounds them. Our colleges send us into the world, not Frenchmen, but Greeks and Romans, knowing nothing of modern life, and inspired by our classical studies with a profound contempt for the manners and usages of the present day. Our statues, bas-reliefs, medals and pictures represent the events of all ages except our own. The attempts in the direction of realism of these latest days, the paintings of Courbet and Manet, seem, by a sort of instinctive preference, to seek out the ugly, rather than to give us an exact reproduction of contemporaneous Nature. Some of our genre painters—Millet, for example, and Jules Breton—have, it is true, studied the actual and the modern, but their types are all taken from the rustic class, and it is safe to say that outside of portraiture neither the men nor the women of the world will leave a trace upon the art of the period.
Let us note, however, one exception to this statement. I refer to certain painters of military scenes who have chosen to call up the spectre of the Franco-German war—Édouard Detaille, Neuville, Boulanger. These have ventured to depict one side of modern life—and an important one, alas!—modern warfare, not by showing us those episodes of classical combat where half a dozen cavaliers, mounted upon their heavy historical horses, fight hand to hand for the possession of a flag, and trample under foot a wounded wretch whose very pose is traditional, but by giving us actual scenes witnessed during the autumn of 1870 and the winter of 1871—scenes often frightful, but always grandly effective and worthy of art. A sentiment of diplomatic propriety, with which the Germans were but little troubled at Philadelphia, has naturally kept these paintings out of the Champ de Mars, and banished them to Goupil's in the Rue Chaptal. We certainly do not complain of this, but we cannot help regretting that modern life should be so slightly represented in the art of an epoch indued with a life so intense. There are laurels yet to be won in the field of serious painting—triumphs such as Balzac, Thackeray and Tourgueneff have achieved in literature, and Gavarni in caricature, by the faithful representation of phases of modern life.
Since so many Frenchmen are converted by their early classical training not only into citizens of Rome or of Athens, but into veritable pagans, we naturally find the Exhibition full of gods and goddesses, of demigods and nymphs—the Truth of M. Jules Lefebvre, for instance, and his Vision, losing itself in the mists of morning; the Sarpedon of M. Lévy; M. Bouguereau's Flora and Zephyr and Meeting of Nymphs; the Naiads of Henner, etc. Amongst all these mythological tableaux one's attention is arrested by the striking productions of M. Gustave Moreau, a remarkable union of technical ability and poetical fancy—hallucinations of an opium-smoker who should be able to paint his visions with all the confidence and knowledge of a master. Paul de Saint-Victor, the eminent critic, has called these canvases "painted dreams;" and they cannot be better described. Hercules fighting the Hydra of Lerna, Salome, Jacob and the Angel, Moses exposed upon the Nile, are dazzling phantoms, which, eluding the literal text of history, recede to the depths of an unknown past. We do not think of discussing their accuracy: we are absorbed in admiration of this wondrous art, at once subtle and splendid, which makes us dream of lost civilizations and buried empires. Gustave Moreau is more than a painter: he is a magician and his pencil is an enchanter's wand.
For the rest, we have plenty of archæological painters, who painfully restore antiquity for us, following accurate authorities and examples. The curiosity to know the past, which has created a literature of its own, the researches of travellers and of learned men, the excavations made in Greece, in Asia Minor, in Africa, at Pompeii, have led many artists to search for new effects in this direction. Every one will recall the circuses and the Roman scenes of Gérôme. This year he exhibits hardly anything but modern Oriental subjects—Turkish baths, Bashi-Bazouks and lions—but his pupils have now taken the place which their master held in 1867. Hector Leroux, one of the thousand and one painters of this Neo-Grecian school, shows us a Toilette of Minerva Polias and A Miracle in the Temple of Vesta, his most celebrated work. Gustave Boulanger exhibits his Roman Baths, his Roman Comedians rehearsing their Rôles, and his Roman Promenades, which the wealthiest amateurs, MM. Aguado, André, Stebbins, contended for at the late Salons; M. Lecomte du Nouy his Pharoah slaying the Bearers of Evil Tidings and his Homer Begging; while M. Alma-Tadema completes the group with his best-known pictures, including The Studio of an Antique Painter, An Audience at the House of Agrippa, and The Vintage at Rome, which was also at Philadelphia. Americans will remember the young reddish-haired priestess of Ceres, so elegantly attired and coiffée, advancing with torch in hand and followed by flute-players. The details, which are multiplied almost to profusion, are all calculated to enhance the effect, and are distributed with exquisite art. The amount of research which this work suggests is almost incredible, and it was perhaps a more laborious undertaking to paint the Vintage at Rome than to write the Carthaginian romance of Gustave Flaubert. Alma-Tadema exhibits in the English gallery, and his contribution has raised the average of that section by a good third. If I have spoken of this painter in connection with the pupils of Gérôme, it is that, considering his place of birth (Dromvyp, Netherlands), I think that I have an equal right with the English to classify him according to my fancy.
But let us leave the remote antiquity in which the poet-painters of the Neo-Greek school delight to dwell, and come back to modern times. Passing through one of the central rooms, one is struck by the appearance of a great space of gilded wall hung with pictures considerable in number, but mostly quite diminutive in size. It needs no reference to the catalogue nor to the signature of these works to tell us the name of their author. If the singular talent which they display were not enough, the mise en scène would leave no doubt that this extraordinary piece of wall has the honor of supporting the exhibit of M. Meissonier. M. Meissonier holds a great position in contemporary art—a fact which is known to everybody, and to no one better than to M. Meissonier. But it was in 1867 rather than in 1878 that he ought to have gilded his wall. It was in the former year that he exhibited his 1814, his Reading at Diderot's and other incomparable works, which placed him beyond all dispute at the head of the French school. To-day he shows us but one considerable work, the Cuirassiers of 1805, and fifteen small pieces—very pretty things, but then he has taught his pupils to imitate him too well! They have so often and so skilfully counterfeited the art of their master that the dignity of his work seems lessened and its value diluted, as it were, until for the substance we are given the shadow, and the tableau is replaced by the tableautin. The same tendency to contraction is apparent in every country. Paintings are growing smaller, as if to keep in proportion with the small modern salons. That this is due to the great influence of M. Meissonier there is no doubt, but no diminution of his own fame accompanies the dwindling of his pictures.
And yet there are half a dozen painters at the Champ de Mars who lack nothing but the golden wall to make them the equals of the master. M. Detaille is absent, but we have M. Worms, with seven little chefs d'œuvre; M. Vibert, with his Departure of the Spanish Bride and Bridegroom, the Serenade, and the Toilette of the Madonna; M. Firmin Girard, with his Flower-Girl; M. Berne-Bellecour, in his famous Coup de Canon; MM. Fichel, Lesrel, Louis Leloir and others whom I have not space to mention, as exact and as minute in detail as their chef, and, moreover, almost as well paid by amateurs, especially Americans.