Spanish painters – Velasquez, Murillo and Ribera – but none includes a Spanish School. For details, see Ilse Hempel Lipschutz, Spanish Painting and the French Romantics (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972).
3 Maria de los Santos Garcia Felguera, La Fortuna de Murillo: 1682–1900 (Seville: Diputación Provincial de Sevilla, 1989), p. 48.
4 Le Moniteur Universel, 3 vendémiaire an III, 1842, reprint, vol. XXII, pp. 26–7.
5 Notice des principaux tableaux recueillis dans la Lombardie par les commissaires du gouvernement français dont l’Exposition provisoire aura lieu dans le grand salon du Muséum les Octidis, Nonidis et Décadis, à compter du 18 pluviôse jusqu’au 30 prairial an VI (Paris, Imprimerie des Sciences et des Arts, 1798), p. ii.
6 Berlinische Nachrichten, 26 October 1815, quoted by Benédicte Savoy, ‘Conquêtes et consécrations’, in Roberta Panzanelli and Monica Preti-Hamard, eds, La Circulation des œuvres d’art, 1789–1848 (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2007), p. 85.
7 Joshua Reynolds, Discourses on Art (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), p. 130.
8 ‘Rapport du Conservatoire du Muséum national des arts, fait par varon, un de ses membres, au Comité d’Instruction publique, le 26 mai 1794’, in Yveline Cantarel-Besson, ed., La Naissance du Musée du Louvre: la politique muséologique sous la Révolution d’après les archives des musées nationaux: [procès verbaux des séances du Conservatoire du Muséum national des arts] (Paris: Editions de la Réunion des Musées nationaux, 1981), vol. 2, p. 228. The allusion to Alexander’s tent refers to a painting by Lebrun long considered a masterpiece of historical painting.
9 Pierre Chaussard in La Décade Philosophique, year VIII, first trimester, p. 212, quoted by H. Van der Tuin, Les Vieux peintres des Pays-Bas et la critique artistique en France de la première moitié du XIXe siècle (Paris: J. Vrin, 1948), p. 58.
10 Rapport de Varon, quoted in Cantarel-Besson, Naissance du musée du Louvre, p. 228.
11 P. Chaussard, Sur le tableau des Sabines par David (Paris: C. Pougens, 1800), p. 17.
12 Cantarel-Besson, Naissance du musée du Louvre, p. 228.
13 Andrew McClellan, Inventing the Louvre: Art, Politics, and the Origins of the Modern Museum in Eighteenth Century Paris (Cambridge: CUP, 1994), pp. 110–11.
14 Charles Lenormant, Les Artistes contemporains. Salon de 1833, vol. II (Paris: A. Mesnier, 1833), pp. 116–17. In the margins of a commentary about a Decamps painting, Lenormant opposes the ‘passionate attention’ that genre paintings by a Metsu or a Mieris spark in the auctions to the icy reception reserved for historical paintings, which used to be considered timeless.
15 Théophile Thoré, ‘Rubens en Flandre’, L’Artiste, 4th series (1841–46), vol. V, p. 218ff., quoted in Van der Tuin, Les Vieux Peintres des Pays-Bas, p. 34.
16 Le Globe, 17 September 1824, quoted in ibid., p. 61.
17 Théophile Thoré, ‘Musée d’Anvers’ (Brussels: C. Murquardt, 1862), pp. 34–5.
18 The seven articles Gautier devoted to Chenavard’s project in La Presse from 5 to 11 September 1848 were reprinted in his collection, L’Art Moderne (Paris: M. Lévy Frères, 1856), pp. 1–94.
19 Hegel, Aesthetics, p. 162.
20 Ibid. p. 598.
On that day, when Mathilde and Fouqué tried to tell him of certain public rumours very suitable, in their opinion, to raise his hopes, Julien stopped them at the first word.
—Leave me my ideal life. Your little tricks and details from real life, all more or less irritating to me, would drag me out of heaven. One dies as one can; I want to think about death only in my own personal way. What do other people matter? My relations with other people are going to be severed abruptly. For heaven’s sake, don’t talk to me of those people any more: it’s quite enough if I have to play the swine before the judge and the lawyer.
As a matter of fact, he told me himself, it seems that my fate is to die in a dream. An obscure creature like myself, who is sure to be forgotten in two weeks’ time, would be a complete fool to play out the comedy …
Still, it is strange that I have learned the art of enjoying life only since I have seen the end of it so close to me.
He passed these last days walking about the narrow terrace atop his tower, smoking some excellent cigars Mathilde had had brought from Holland by a courier; he never suspected that his appearance was awaited each day by every telescope in town. His thoughts were at Vergy. He never talked about Mme de Rênal with Fouqué, but two or three times his friend told him that she was recovering rapidly, and the phrase reverberated in his heart.1
When Red and Black was published in 1830, critics did not fail to denounce the novel’s implausible characters and situations. How could this rather uncouth little peasant become an expert in high-society intrigues so suddenly? How could this child show so much maturity, and how could this cold calculator prove to be the most passionate of lovers?2 However, no critic noticed the strangest of these inconsistencies: at the end of his long endeavours to escape his condition and rise up in society, Julien Sorel has lost everything. He is waiting to be judged and condemned to death for the shot fired at the woman who denounced him. And it is at this moment, inside the prison walls, that he finally begins to enjoy life. He can only ask the man and woman conspiring to free him not to bother him with the details of real life. A little later, after his condemnation, he will say it to Madame de Rênal: he will never have been as happy as during the days spent beside her in prison.
The little plebeian’s paradoxical pleasure in his prison gives Stendhal’s novel a conclusion that seems to contradict both its structure and its tone. Indeed the book, in effect, is the work of a man who clearly displays his contempt for stories of sentimental dreamers and lovers of a heavenly ideal. He prefers the tales of Italian chroniclers of the past or picaresque stories like Tom Jones, whose situations and characters he imitates occasionally: ladders to boldly climb up to windows, closets to hide in, sudden departures, meeting pretty maids, young dim-witted noblemen, professional intriguers, romantic or pious young women sensitive to the charms of well-built young men. He thus conforms to an old model of novelistic fiction: the story of a character who is placed outside his normal position by some unforeseeable event, and forced to traverse the various circles of society, from princely palaces to port city dens, from farms or country parishes to aristocratic or bourgeois salons. This class disorder – symbolized in the eighteenth century by the bastard Tom Jones or by Marivaux’s ‘upstart peasant’ – took on a new meaning after the French Revolution. It was then identified with the plebeian’s hazardous climbing in a society that had not yet found its new shape, and where the nobility’s nostalgia and ecclesiastical intrigues were mixed with the reign of bourgeois interests. Stendhal experienced the fever of the Revolution as a child, the wars of Empire as a young man, and later the plots of the Restoration. The story of the ambitious young plebeian gave him the opportunity to exploit the experience he had thus acquired. To show his knowledge of the world and to describe the social intrigues
