Catherine Hewitt - Art is a Tyrant

T he temperature had dropped on 25 October 1899 as Parisians, their outer garments pulled tight, made their way up and down the tree-lined Boulevard de la Madeleine. Beyond the bustling flower market, in the shadow of the majestic glise, horse-drawn carriages rumbled past attendant omnibuses and the occasional cyclist. The roar of a motorcar was not an uncommon feature of boulevard life these days, and heads would turn as a member of the elite paraded their affluence. But pedestrians still outnumbered vehicles. Men accessorised with top hats and canes went about their business, while long skirts swished to and fro as women circulated between the boulevards grand apartment buildings and shops. The younger, more fashion-conscious fin-de-sicle ladies chose dresses to accentuate the waist. So far did contemporary fashion go, critics objected, that women had become veritable packets, no longer voluptuous beacons of fertility but prisoners in their own bodices. But whatever her stance on the trends of the day, every woman could be glad that, today at least, the autumnal drop in temperature had not also obliged her to carry an unwieldy umbrella as well as her usual bags or parcels.

Leaving the boulevards cacophony of voices, hooves and carriage wheels, the narrower, tangential Rue de Sze offered a reprieve for a person more accustomed to a quieter way of life.

Presently, a woman could be seen making her way along the macadam of this side street. Her curious appearance invited a second look. Though hardly more than 40, in her left hand she gripped a cane and the sharp-eyed observer would notice that she walked with a limp. x Notwithstanding, she carried herself well and her undulating mane of wiry, chestnut brown hair had been drawn back into a loose bun. The chignon rested behind an oval face with a high forehead, full lips and pale blue eyes which would become animated if she smiled. And despite a nose which was a little too prominent for her face, no one who passed her could doubt her femininity.

The outward signs of frailty were deceptive; she was a resilient American and she possessed titanic inner strength. She needed that quality now.

The American stopped before the door of the building at number 8. The meeting she was about to attend filled her with trepidation. There was certain to be conflict, dispute and heartrending emotion. But she had a delicate task to perform; she had made a promise. A force more powerful than she had brought her here.

The woman instigating this meeting was, quite simply, unique the very antithesis of 19th-century societys feminine ideal. She was educated, she shunned traditionally feminine pursuits, she rejected marriage and she wore trousers. Though her origins were modest, her aspirations were grand. Problematically for a 19th-century female, she was determined to paint. Dismissing societys prejudice, bearing the cruellest forms of ridicule, she had persevered in her craft and gone on to win medals, commendations and become the first woman ever to be made Officier de la Lgion dHonneur. Her company was sought by kings and courtiers, celebrities and statesmen. She dined and debated with John Ruskin, she talked thoroughbreds with Buffalo Bill, her work was summoned by Queen Victoria and she was decorated by the Empress Eugnie of France, Emperor Maximilian of Mexico and King Alphonso XII of Spain. She kept lions and monkeys in her home, she rode her horse resolutely astride and was often mistaken for a man. But exceptionally, the society whose gendered rules she spurned accepted her because by the mid-19th century, this woman was perhaps the greatest painter of animals France had ever seen.

And around her persona lingered tantalising questions: was she really descended from royalty? How many taboos would she violate xi for love? Most of all, why would a woman so devoted to family give her entire fortune to an outsider?

Of one thing at least the American was certain: such greatness must be protected. The promise had to be kept. Her story must be told.

The door of number 8, Rue de Sze swung open. Bracing herself, the American stepped inside. xii

W hen she arrived at the Mairie of Bordeaux on 21 May 1821, Sophie Marquis had cause for apprehension. She was about to do something radical.

Fine-boned with dark hair and eyes, a delicate nose and even features, at 24, Sophie was a pretty girl. She was bright and accomplished, and had received an education fitting for a lady of her station. She was well read, spoke competent Spanish, and could sing and dance beautifully. Her piano playing held audiences enraptured. Any lingering recollection of her first two years in her native Germany had now been subsumed by a library of memories of life in France with her adoptive father, M. Dublan de Lahet, and his family.

Jean-Baptiste Dublan de Lahet was well qualified to supervise a refined young ladys maturation. Dignified and decorous with a slim face and aquiline nose, M. Dublan was said to have served as page to Queen Marie Antoinette in his youth, before exercising the profession of merchant, and his father had been treasurer for King Louis XV. Like many aristocrats, M. Dublan had been forced to flee France during the Revolution. He returned chastened, but with sufficient fortune intact to enjoy a comfortable existence. His assets included a home in Bordeaux at number 15, Cours de lIntendance, while his family had property in the nearby commune of Quinsac, to the south-east of the city.

How M. Dublan had come to bring Sophie and her German nurse back with him to France remained a mystery, one Sophie herself had never satisfactorily resolved. The household servants were studiously cagey. But with M. Dublans exemplary treatment, persistent questioning might have seemed churlish or disrespectful. Sophie wanted for nothing and had been raised as one of her adoptive fathers own children. And when M. Dublans wife, Jeanne Clothilde Julie Ketty Guilhem, died while Sophie was still in her teens, the presence of his adoptive daughter rewarded the widowers benevolence. He now had even more time to invest in his ward, on whom he doted.

Sophie had the utmost respect and affection for her adoptive father. And that made what she was about to do even harder. She knew that M. Dublan vehemently disapproved.

Experience had sensitised M. Dublan to the significance of class with all its inconveniences and its obligations. He knew drawing to be a prized female accomplishment in elegant society, and accordingly, once Sophie was of age to profit from it, M. Dublan had procured his ward a teacher. He was determined that Sophie should learn from the best to be found and he soon met an instructor more than equal to the task.

In his early twenties with blue eyes, a round face and a crown of bouncing, golden blonde curls, Raimond Bonheur resembled a cherub from a Rococo painting. He had studied at the drawing school in Bordeaux, where one of his teachers was the esteemed painter and engraver Pierre Lacour. The bespectacled polymath Lacour was a well-regarded figurehead of Bordeauxs arts scene. On his fathers death in 1814, Lacour had taken over as curator of the Muse des Beaux-Arts de Bordeaux and teacher at the citys free drawing school in the Rue Saint-Dominique. A man of royalist sympathies who deferred to institutions, Lacour was a reverent disciple of the neoclassical tradition. His syllabus centred on the close study of nature, antiquity and the great masters, with keen emphasis being placed on drawing. Raimond Bonheur had been shaped by a formidable mentor.