The Fountain of Latona: Louis XIV, Charles Le Brun, and the Gardens of Versailles 9780812298376

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The Fountain of Latona

Pe n n St u di e s i n L a n dsc a pe A rch i t ec t u r e John Dixon Hunt, Series Editor This series is dedicated to the study and promotion of a wide variety of approaches to landscape architecture, with special emphasis on connections between theory and practice. It includes monographs on key topics in history and theory, descriptions of proj­ects by both established and rising designers, translations of major foreign-­language texts, anthologies of theoretical and historical writings on classic issues, and critical writing by members of the profession of landscape architecture. The series was the recipient of the Award of Honor in Communications from the American Society of Landscape Architects, 2006.

The Fountain of Latona Louis XIV, Charles Le Brun, and the Gardens of Versailles

Thomas F. Hedin

University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia

 Copyright © 2022 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www​.­upenn​.­edu​/­pennpress Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-8122-5375-7 eBook ISBN: 978-0-8122-9837-6 Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Hedin, Thomas F., author. Title: The Fountain of Latona : Louis XIV, Charles Le Brun, and the gardens of Versailles / Thomas F. Hedin. Other titles: Penn studies in landscape architecture. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania Press, [2022] | Series: Penn studies in landscape architecture | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021039347 | ISBN 978-0-8122-5375-7 (hardcover) Subjects: LCSH: Louis XIV, King of France, 1638–1715. | Le Brun, Charles, 1619–1690. | Fountains—France—Versailles. | Sculpture, French—France—Versailles. | Parc de Versailles (Versailles, France)—History—17th century. Classification: LCC NA9415.V4 H43 2022 | DDC 720.9409/032—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039347

 To Jack, Edward, Frank, and Hugh

Contents

Acknowl­edgments 

ix

Note on Mea­sure­ments  xiii List of Illustrations  xv Prologue xix Chapter 1. Foundations  1 Chapter 2. Fountains in Context  12 Chapter 3. Original State  22 Chapter 4. Visual Narrative  34 Chapter 5. Latona Group  46 Chapter 6. Lycean Peasants  73 Chapter 7. Panegyric and Manifesto  87 Epilogue 100 Appendix A. Execution of the Fountain  103 Appendix B. Mansart’s Marble Cone  108 Appendix C. Marsy’s Lecture of 7 December 1669  110

viii

Contents

Appendix D. Nathan Whitman’s “Fronde Thesis”  116 Appendix E. Translations of Ovid  121 Appendix F. Elaborations of the Western Axis, Briefly  128 List of Abbreviations  135 Notes 137 Bibliography 173 Index 183 Illustrations follow page  90

Acknowl­edgments

I was introduced to the gardens of Louis XIV’s Versailles in a slide lecture by the late Francis Dowley at the University of Chicago, nearly a half ­century ago. Frank’s subject on that lovely fall morning was the so-­called Grande Commande, a suite of twenty-­ four allegorical statues from the 1670s. Even now, I cannot say exactly what struck me so deeply. I had scarcely heard of Charles Le Brun, the designer of the statues, but his ideals of beauty have remained at the top of my list ever since. L ­ ater, I learned from Frank that ­there was plenty of room for research in the field of French Baroque art, sculpture included. Could a young historian ask for a more winning combination? On reaching Versailles for the first time, I raced across the terrace to view the statues. For his example, guidance, and friendship, my debt of gratitude to Frank Dowley is deeper than all o­ thers. It was in the file room of the Minutier central of the Archives nationales that I met my dear friend Françoise de La Moureyre, who (along with Henriette Dumuis) was in an early phase of collaboration with François Souchal on French Sculptors of the Seventeenth and Eigh­teenth Centuries: The Reign of Louis XIV, their four-­volume illustrated cata­log. I have written l­ittle over the years without Françoise’s generous and learned counsel. Our travels together, to the archives and libraries and to the sculptures in situ, are among my fondest memories. Alice de La Moureyre transcribed a set of hydraulic documents on my behalf; the results of her diligent and much appreciated ­labors have been at the heart of my latest research on the early period of Versailles. Joining the late Thierry Prat on his photographic expeditions for French Sculptors was pure joy. His fearless and good-­humored ascent by ladder to rec­ord the Lycean peasants on an elevated tier of the Latona fountain was a feat to behold. Thierry’s images testify to his greatness as a photographer of sculpture. A pair of fellowships in the Garden and Landscape Studies program at Dumbarton Oaks, the first ­under the direction of Michel Conan in 2006–7, the second ­under that of John Beardsley in 2009, arrived at just the right times. Thanks to the luxury of the finest library in the field of garden history at arm’s reach, I made significant head-

x

Acknowl­edgments

way on three articles on the north-­south axis of the gardens of Versailles, and several ­others on allied topics. The book in hand, substantial parts of which w ­ ere written at Dumbarton Oaks, is a complement to ­those studies. Linda Lott made my hours in the Rare Book Collection both enjoyable and enlightening. Two friends, authorities on the history of Versailles, read my manuscript and offered insightful suggestions on ways to strengthen it. One was the late Robert Berger, with whom I had the privilege to coauthor a book in this series: Diplomatic Tours in the Gardens of Versailles ­Under Louis XIV (2008). Bob’s standards of scholarship ­were of the highest order, a reminder that a close reading of the primary sources ­will always be rewarding. The other was Guy Walton, who or­ga­nized the Colloque Versailles in 1985 and the Tessin Symposium in 2002. Taking part in Guy’s two conferences turned my research in exciting new directions. Alexandre Maral not only shared the results of his research and answered my questions, he also has been a friendly cicerone through the storage facilities at Versailles on many occasions. His new monograph, Girardon, is an indispensable resource for researchers of the gardens. I have been the grateful recipient of the correspondence of Jean-­Claude Le Guillou, whose knowledge of the earliest history of Versailles is unmatched. The morning that I spent with Lionel Arsac in the Pe­tite Ecurie, the current residence of the marble group of Latona, was a delight. It was on this occasion that Christophe Fouin took his remarkable photo­graphs of the group. To Cyril Pasquier, who replied swiftly and helpfully to my queries, my gratitude. Françoise Joulie tracked down a fan painting of relevance to this study. Camille Lefauconnier Ripoli traveled on missions to the Archives nationales to transcribe a group of obscure documents. To both, my many thanks. It is plea­sure acknowledging the kindness of Olivia Voisin, directrice of the Musée des Beaux-­Arts d’Orléans, who made special arrangements for me to view the remains of an ancient statue that inspired the sculptor of the marble figure of Latona. I owe two sizable debts to John Dixon Hunt, one for his editorship of my articles in Studies in the History of Gardens and Designed Landscapes, the other for his editorship of Penn Studies in Landscape Architecture, the series in which this book is a new member. To the anonymous readers of the manuscript, thank you sincerely for your criticisms. The editorial staff of the University of Pennsylvania Press, in par­tic­u­lar Zoe Kovacs, has been exceptionally attentive and efficient. Following the lead of Jacqueline Lichtenstein’s and Christian Michel’s recent Conférences de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture, the orthography and grammar of the seventeenth-­and eighteenth-­century French quotations have been modernized (except the poetic verses), and it was my good fortune that Sarah Beytelmann agreed to undertake the task. Knotty prob­lems in translation ­were ironed out by the late Mi-

Acknowl­edgments

lan Kovacovic and Jane Fleeson. Bill Spofford, a friend from our undergraduate days, read an early draft with an ea­gle eye and improved it significantly. Support for my research, in the form of travel grants and leaves of absence from the classroom, was provided by the University of Minnesota at all levels of administration, from the Office of International Programs in Minneapolis to the Vice-­Chancellor of Academic Affairs, the School of Fine Arts, and the Department of Art and Design in Duluth. Funding from the Professional Development Grant Program for Retirees was put to excellent use during the final stages of production. It is due more to my wife Joan than to anyone ­else that my efforts now appear between two covers; her avid and patient encouragement is boundless. To my ­children, who have followed the pro­gress of my research with unwavering interest, and who share my love of the (original) Latona fountain, I dedicate this book.

xi

Note on Mea­sure­ments

1 pouce = ca. 2.7 cm 1 pied = 32.4 cm = 12 pouces 1 toise = 1.949 m = 6 pieds Oval basin: 45 m wide × 30 m deep Latona group: 5 pieds 6 pouces in height, excluding the rocky island

Illustrations

Figure 1. Latona fountain (current state) from the east. Figure 2. Latona fountain (original state) from the east. Engraving by Pierre Le Pautre, 1678. Figure 3. Axial view of Versailles from the west. Engraving by Israël Silvestre, 1674. Figure 4. Apollo fountain (Soleil levant). Figure 5. Grotto of Tethys, Facade. Engraving by Jean Le Pautre, 1672. Figure 6. Grotto of Tethys, Interior. Engraving by Jean Le Pautre, 1676. Figure 7. Apollo Bathed by the Nymphs of Tethys (Soleil couchant). Figure 8. Plan of Versailles (“Du Bus plan”), ca. 1662. Figure 9. Plan of Versailles (“Institut plan”), 1663. Figure 10. Plan of Versailles, 1666. Figure 11. Plan of Versailles, 1668. Figure 12. Bird’s-­eye view of Versailles from the east. Painting by Pierre Patel, 1668. Figure 13. Detail of Figure 12. Figure 14. Angular view of Versailles from the north. Engraving by Israël Silvestre, 1674. Figure 15. Axial view of Versailles from the north. Engraving by Israël Silvestre, 1676. Figure 16. Folio from Denis Jolly’s inventory for June–­December 1666, with addendum by Charles Perrault. Figure 17. Axial view of Versailles from the west. Engraving by Jean Le Pautre, 1679.

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Illustrations

Figure 18. Latona group. Engraving by Jean Edelinck, 1679. Figure 19. Bird’s-­eye view of Versailles from the east. Engraving by Adam Pérelle, ca. 1680. Figure 20. Latona group (frontal view). Figure 21. Latona group (angular view). Figure 22. Latona (head and upper torso). Figure 23. Latona (torso). Figure 24. Latona (rear view). Figure 25. Apollo (frontal view). Figure 26. Apollo (rear view). Figure 27. Diana (profile view). Figure 28. First Lycean husband. Figure 29. First Lycean wife. Figure 30. Second Lycean wife. Figure 31. Second Lycean husband. Figure 32. Third Lycean husband. Figure 33. Third Lycean wife. Figure 34. First Lycean husband (rear view). Figure 35. Second Lycean husband (rear view). Figure 36. Lizard fountain (south). Figure 37. Lizard fountain (south) (detail). Figure 38. Lizard fountain (north). Figure 39. Lizard fountain (north) (opposite side). Figure 40. Latona and the Lycean peasants. Engraving by Jean Matheus, 1619. Figure 41. Latona and the Lycean peasants. Tracing by Charles Percier of Ambroise Dubois’s fresco at Fontainebleau. Figure 42. Israelites Gathering the Manna. Painting by Nicolas Poussin, 1637. Figure 43. Christ Healing the Blindmen. Painting by Nicolas Poussin, 1649. Figure 44. Latona and the Lycean Peasants. Painting by Francesco Albani, ca. 1604. Figure 45. Niobides. Drawing by Stefano della Bella. Figure 46. Niobides. Engraving by François Perrier, 1638.

Illustrations

Figure 47. Alexander at the Tent of Darius. Painting by Charles Le Brun, 1660–61. Figure 48. Latona and her ­Children. Sculpture by Domenico Pieratti, 1629–35. Figure 49. La Belle Jardinière (La Vierge à l’Enfant et Saint Jean). Painting by Raphael, 1507. Figure 50. Madonna of François I (La Grande Sainte Famille). Painting by Raphael, 1518. Figure 51. Medici Venus. Figure 52. Richelieu Torso (­whole figure known as the Richelieu Venus). Figure 53. Venus Emerging from the W ­ ater. Sculpture by Pierre Le Gros. Figure 54. Belvedere Torso. Figure 55. Farnese Hercules. Figure 56. Laocoön. Figure 57. Belvedere Antinous. Figure 58. Niobe. Figure 59. Borghese Seneca (­Dying Seneca). Figure 60. Versailles Diana (Diana Chasseresse). Figure 61. Belvedere Apollo. Figure 62. Wrestlers. Figure 63. Exemple touchant les proportions et les contours. Engraving by Henri Testelin, 1680. Figure 64. Dancing Faun. Engraving by Claude Mellan, 1671. Figure 65. Hercules-­Commodus. Figure 66. Borghese Gladiator. Figure 67. Borghese Gladiator (images reversed). Engravings by François Perrier, 1638. Figure 68. Massacre of the Innocents. Painting by Nicolas Poussin, ca. 1625. Figure 69. Saint Michael and the Dev­il. Painting by Raphael, 1518. Figure 70. Astonishment. Diagram by Charles Le Brun. Figure 71. Despair. Diagram by Charles Le Brun. Figure 72. Anger. Diagram by Charles Le Brun. Figure 73. Terror. Diagram by Charles Le Brun.

xvii

xviii

Illustrations

Figure 74. Siren fountain. Engraving by Pierre Le Pautre, 1679. Figure 75. “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo.” Manuscript by Charles Perrault. Figure 76. Fontaine des Muses. Engraving by Louis de Chastillon, ca. 1683–84. Figure 77. Fontaine des Arts. Engraving by Louis de Chastillon, ca. 1683–84. Figure 78. Deluge fountain. Engraving by Louis de Chastillon, ca. 1683–84. Figure 79. Python fountain. Drawing by the atelier of Charles Le Brun. Figure 80. Parnassus. Drawing by Charles Le Brun, ca. 1674–75.

Prologue

The ideal point from which to behold the pa­norama of Versailles is at the end of the terrace in front of the main garden facade. The point lies along the axis and is perfectly aligned with the Allée Royale, the ­Grand Canal, and the western horizon. The visitor is drawn to it almost instinctively. It is one of the most stood upon pinpoint destinations in the world. In the w ­ hole of Versailles, no point offers a more magnificent overview. At that point, the visitor is standing at the top of the so-­called Fer-­à-­Cheval, the im­mense U-­shaped slope that bridges the upper and lower levels of the gardens. Inside the embracing arms of the Fer-­à-­Cheval stands a tall conical fountain in colored marbles (fig. 1): An ensemble of three marble figures presides at the top; six lead figures resembling frogs squat on a low tier; and menageries of small lead amphibians circle the cone on multiple levels. The cone was constructed in 1687, five years ­after Louis XIV, the reigning monarch, decreed that Versailles would henceforth serve as the official seat of his government and court. The conical fountain is surely the most viewed and discussed work of art in the gardens of Versailles. Visitors from around the globe stare in won­der or befuddlement or amusement at the antics of the strange, part-­human, part-­batrachian creatures. Not many realize that this imposing cone was preceded by a deceptively s­ imple fountain, without architecture, in the same basin. The figures ­were arranged on or slightly above the surface of the w ­ ater (fig. 2). This e­ arlier incarnation goes back to the second half of the 1660s, when Versailles was still only a modest retreat in the country outside Paris. The book in hand is an investigation of that g­ reat original. The original was a “scenic fountain,” a visual rendering of the legendary origin of frogs, as recounted by Ovid in the Metamorphoses (VI: 313–81). The story is quickly told. Latona, the d­ aughter of Titans, following an affair with Jupiter, conceived twins. Fearing Juno’s ire, no land on earth would admit Latona as her delivery drew near. Her desperate travels took her to Delos in the Aegean, and t­ here, while standing between palm and olive trees, she gave birth to Apollo and Diana. Juno continued her spiteful chase to Lycea in Asia Minor. Arriving faint and parched, Latona knelt to drink from

xx

Prologue

a pond, but the local peasants denied her efforts, muddying the w ­ ater in pure malice and cursing her all the while. She appealed to their humanity but was rebuffed; the ­children’s plea, on behalf of their m ­ other, came to nothing more. Never during her ordeal did Latona invoke the divine pedigree of her twins or threaten the locals with reprisals. Her wrath soon overran her other passions and she beseeched Jupiter to punish her tormentors. The king of the gods answered her prayer by turning the ­Lyceans instantly to frogs (App. E, for En­g lish and French prose translations of the Latin verse). It is often said that the mark of a person’s understanding of a subject is the capacity to relate it clearly and eco­nom­ically, in a few words or sentences. The more intricate the subject, so it goes, then all the more admirable is the skill in presenting it in plain terms. The artists of Latona spoke to the wisdom of the old adage. They composed their fountain to be seen from a fixed spot on the lower of two landings along the axis, below the popu­lar viewpoint of ­today and just above the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval (fig. 3, an early engraving showing the Fer-­à-­Cheval, the landing, and the fountain). From no other spot was their visual language so s­ imple or unassuming (fig. 2). Th ­ ere ­were Latona and her ­children and ­there ­were the offensive peasants, just as Ovid said. What could be more open, more straightforward? But the easy accessibility of Latona was merely the artists’ way of expressing their mastery of the subject, for u­ nder the surface t­ here lay a deep, many-­sided world of artistic and cultural interest. We w ­ ill spend much of our time traveling in that underworld. Latona continues to invite a long and far-­ranging list of challenging questions. What role did the raw natu­ral setting of Versailles play in shaping or defining the fountain? Where did all the ­water come from? How was it activated to such abundant effect, and to what purpose? Was t­ here an allegorical message hiding in it? To whom was credit due for the achievement? Utmost, how was Latona understood by contemporaries? The fountain by itself held an inherent interest—­the batrachian imagery was enough to ensure that much—­ but at the same time it was one of three scenic panels along the spinal axis. It reigned in the approximate ­middle of what has recently been called a “sculptural triptych.” In the panel on the western side, Apollo emerged at dawn from the Bassin des Cygnes to commence his journey across the sky (fig. 4, the Soleil levant). The eastern panel was the Grotto of Tethys (fig. 5), the “underwater” haven into which the same Apollo descended at dusk to rest and renew his powers (fig. 6, the Soleil couchant), before rising the following day to repeat his ritual. It was proposed a half c­ entury ago that Latona was a reminder of the uprisings that roiled Paris during Louis XIV’s childhood, a veiled warning to the instigators of old that their fate would resemble that of the Lycean peasants if history repeated itself. One of several prob­lems with this so-­called Fronde thesis is that it isolates Latona from the outer panels in both content and purpose, effectively splintering the axis into disjointed

Prologue

units. Such a sociopo­liti­cal reading ­will find no ­favor in this book. A study of the fountain is lacking without an assessment of all three scenic panels in tight partnership. This book opens in Chapter 1 with the essentials: the landscape, the whereabouts and prospects of w ­ ater, and the strug­gle to access and l­ ater to energize the ele­ment in the form of a scenic fountain. Chapter 2 includes a review of the king’s growing attachment to the gardens of Versailles during the first de­cade of his engagement, as well as a glimpse at the small committee of savants that polished and spread his public image. The artists and planners, along with the leading visual and literary testimonies of the day, are introduced in Chapter 3. It is followed by Chapters 4–6, three consecutive forays into “the artistic and aesthetic provenance” of the fountain, including the many intersections of art and academic theory. In Chapter 7, Latona’s pivotal role in the triptych is investigated, and a new argument for an axis-­long allegory is put forward. Six appendixes bring the book to a close.

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CH A PT ER 1

Foundations

During the second half of 1666, workers in the gardens of Versailles inserted wire grates in the discharge pipes of twelve basins “to prevent dirt and toads from entering.” Identical mea­sures, “to prevent frogs from entering,” w ­ ere taken in 1667 and again in 1668. The l­ ittle meddlers seem to have been plotting to avenge their Lycean forebears by sabotaging the hydraulic system of Louis XIV! Their assaults ended once and for all in 1669.1 The system had prevailed over nature’s repeated and determined efforts to obstruct it. Of the twelve pipes, three originated in the Parterre de Latone, the wide-­open space inside the arms of the Fer-­à-­Cheval. Three basins resided ­there at the time of the batrachian invasions, each equipped with a pipe for the release of surplus ­water into the nearby woods. They ­were arranged in a triangular pattern and are not difficult to locate in the center of garden-­wide plans from 1666 (fig. 10) and 1668 (fig. 11). The basin along the axis is oval in shape, the two companions round. The trio appears in the sunlit background of a bird’s-­eye view of 1668 from the brush of Pierre Patel (figs. 12, 13).2 The scenic fountains of the Parterre de Latone w ­ ere carried out between 1666 and 1670. All three ­were designed by Charles Le Brun, the premier peintre du roi, far and away the most power­ful artist at the court of Louis XIV. To convert his designs into three dimensions, Le Brun called on the Marsy ­brothers, Gaspard and Balthazar, two of the most trusted members of his team of sculptors. In the center of the oval basin, Le Brun placed the heroine who lent her name to the vicinity (fig. 2). She and her twins w ­ ere marooned on an island rising just above w ­ ater level; they faced the château, to the east. Except for a narrow shoreline, the island was no larger than the ensemble. Th ­ ere was no escaping the menace of the six adult peasants, each of whom was transformed into a frog to some degree; full frogs, former peasants that they once w ­ ere, sat in regular intervals along the grassy border. In the round basins ­were the so-­called Lizard fountains, a pair of young peasants in each, a clump of marsh reeds, or aigrettes, separating them; their grassy borders w ­ ere inhabited by turtles, crocodiles, and lizards, not to mention still more frogs.3 The entire Lycean community was cast in lead, then gilded, in stunning contrast to the

2

Chapter 1

white Carrara marble of the Latona group.4 When we discuss Latona in general terms, let it be agreed that both Lizards are included in the conversation.

To Begin, the Landscape . . . The gardens of Versailles ­were some forty years old when the Ovidian episode of Latona and the Lycean peasants was programmed for the spinal axis in the ­middle of the 1660s. Indeed, ­there had already been several ­earlier phases of elaboration, each a pointed response to its pre­de­ces­sor. The forests to the southwest of Paris ­were rich in game, and the allure of the rustic surroundings inspired Henri de Bourbon, ­later Henri IV, to hunt ­there over the course of several de­cades.5 Louis XIII, who succeeded his ­father on the throne in 1610, continued the royal practice, traveling periodically from Paris or Saint-­Germain-­en-­Laye with friends to hunt in the woods near Versailles, sometimes even spending the night in a shack or barn. In 1623, he abandoned his carefree ways and ordered the construction of a ­house of cheap, impermanent materials “for his use, on the rising ground of the windmill near [the village of] Versailles”—so reads a ­legal agreement of that year.6 The ­humble style of the h ­ ouse befit the rustic setting. ­There is reason to attribute the design to the king, or to associate it closely with him. In form it was fortlike, a square courtyard framed on the sides by stables and kitchens and at the back by living quarters, the w ­ hole surrounded by a moat and, farther out, by a wall. The h ­ ouse opened onto a pair of four-­part parterres, one of which displaced the windmill. The estate was laid out along an east-­west axis, the same spinal axis that divides the gardens in half ­today. An expanse of fields, lying just beyond the twin parterres and on lower ground, was then acquired. No plan or view of this initial phase is known to exist, but a recent reconstruction by Jean-­Claude Le Guillou is a superb substitute.7 ­Toward the end of the 1620s, about two-­thirds of the acquired fields ­were subdivided by allées into ten quadrangles, a gigantic Saint Andrew’s Cross cutting through the heart of the grid.8 In 1631, Louis XIII responded to the new acquisition of land by replacing the h ­ ouse with a larger, more commodious stone-­and-­brick château on the designs of Philibert Le Roy. To the ten quadrangles already in place, a supplemental four w ­ ere purchased at the close of the 1630s, opening up enough land for the spinal axis to reach as far as the Bassin des Cygnes, yet another new feature.9 The “Du Bus plan,” though it was executed at the outset of the 1660s and distorts the relative proportions of the quadrangles, is a witness to this phase of evolution (fig. 8).10 Out front, the twin parterres gave way to a single square parterre with an inner square of allées and a central basin. A basin was inserted at the intersection of the Cross. Our visual guide to the next, penultimate phase is the “Institut plan” of 1663 (fig. 9).11 Ephemeral though it was, the plan is a rec­ord of the earliest contributions of

Foundations

the g­ reat landscape architect André Le Nôtre.12 His plan featured three in­de­pen­dent gardens, one for each facade; each garden was equal in width to the facade overlooking it, and a central axis ran through each.13 The Orangerie of Louis Le Vau had been constructed to the south in the previous year, in coordination with Le Nôtre’s new gardens on that side, one for flowers, o­ thers for vegetables and fruit, another for an orchard. He covered the northern axis with lawns, basins of assorted shapes, and a cascade that narrowed as it fell away, lending an illusory depth to the view; some but prob­ably not many of the aquatic features shown ­here w ­ ere realized.14 On the ­Grand Parterre in front of the western facade he planted two rectangular lawns, separating them by a walk that led to a round basin and a pair of small, segmental lawns; ­there, the ground began sloping down.15 The outer ramps arched inward on their descent, meeting at the bottom and traveling together to a second round basin, then to a square intersection, and fi­nally to the Bassin des Cygnes.16 He eliminated the Saint Andrew’s Cross in f­ avor of twin quinconces, the so-­called Deux-­Bosquets, one on each side of the spine.17 No sooner had Le Nôtre transformed the gardens than he did so again, this time thoroughly and, for the most part, lastingly. To this day, the gardens of Versailles have never under­gone a more profound change. With this phase, which opened in 1664–65, we enter the world of our Latona. Three (nameless) plans from 1666 alert us to the magnitude of his alterations (e.g., fig. 10),18 as do three from 1668 (e.g., fig. 11).19 The south, already the site of the Orangerie and the gardens of natu­ral produce, remained essentially the same. By contrast, Le Nôtre radically revised the north, doubling it in size by shifting the axis to the west and by formalizing the blocks of land on that side; the upper half of the new territory, at first called the Parterre de Gazon and l­ater the Parterre du Nord, was split into two equal parts, a round basin in each; a long pathway, the Allée d’Eau, led to a large round basin, the Rondeau (Chapter 2). The western axis, our primary attention, was reformed no less radically than its northern cousin. The approach from upper to lower level, which on the Institut plan had taken the form of arching ramps that converged at the bottom, now consist of ramps that diverge at the top, widening as they drop down and embracing a vast open space below, the “nouvelle parterre,” as it was known in the m ­ iddle of 1665.20 The nouvelle parterre was ­later identified as the Parterre de l’Ovale for the shape of the axial basin, and still ­later as the Parterre de Latone for the Titaness who ruled over it. At first, the reconstructed area as a w ­ hole was called the “demi-­lune” or “amphithéâtre,” but “Fer-­à-­ Cheval” was soon preferred. Pedestrians descend the Fer-­à-­Cheval in stages, by taking a flight of eleven steps to a first landing, then a flight of fourteen steps to a wider second landing; at each end of this lower landing, a narrow flight of steps leads to the floor of the gardens. The outer ramps ­were graded to accommodate wheeled vehicles. On top, the two rectangular lawns on the G ­ rand Parterre gave way to the more spacious Parterre de Broderie, and the round basin at the end was superseded by a larger

3

4

Chapter 1

one—­a basin, though it lay above, that played a surprising role in the origins of Latona (Chapter 7). It took much more than a year of herculean effort by the landscapers to level the end of the G ­ rand Parterre and to contour the Fer-­à-­Cheval. The bound­aries of the gardens had been defined in the 1630s by the formation of the fourteen-­unit grid. This “Petit Parc,” as it was called early on, was bordered on the south by the Orangerie and on the north by the Rondeau; the château framed it on the east, the Bassin des Cygnes on the west. Ranging beyond the edges of the “Petit Parc” was the “­Grand Parc,” a wild preserve for hunting, shooting, and riding. The Ménagerie of Le Vau, from 1662, lay to the southwest (fig. 10, upper left corner).

. . . ​And, Together with the Landscape, the W ­ ater . . . André Félibien, the author of the first official guidebook of Versailles and the historiographe of the Bâtiments du Roi, was attentive to the same topographical features that stand out in Louis XIII’s l­egal agreement of 1623. The château, he wrote in 1674, rests on “a ­little eminence rising at the m ­ iddle of a wide valley surrounded by hills.”21 Just that casually he pointed to two blessings of the site: that the château lay atop an elevation, above a habitat for game and a source of w ­ ater, was one; that the ground ran gradually downhill from the château, a precondition for a system of gravity-­fed basins, was the other. It is a high form of irony that in Ovid’s story the Lycean peasants deny the ele­ment of ­water to Latona and her ­children, but in the scenic equivalent of the same story in the gardens of Versailles they threw it in profusion in their direction (fig. 2). From legend to fountain, the life-­threatening denial of ­water was transformed into the life-­ sparing acquisition of it. Studies of most fountains do not require a review of the system that provided the ­water, but, in our case, where the aquatic real­ity of Versailles in the 1660s was identical to the aquatic iconography of Latona, it is fundamental. An overview of the early stages of the pro­cess w ­ ill take us within sight of the conceit. ­There are no fountains without w ­ ater, and no w ­ ater without the genius of experts who manage to access and deliver it to the basins. At Versailles, their challenges ­were daunting. Could they gather enough ­water in one place to maximize volume? Could they devise a method by which to raise the w ­ ater to reservoirs on the upper level, for use in the basins on top and l­ ater in the basins below? Could they recycle the spent w ­ ater to prevent depletion? Beginning in 1664, the king took steps to answer ­those questions. Satisfying his wishes took several years of intense ­labor by his ingénieurs and fontainiers ­because the state of the system was so rudimentary when they received their o­ rders. The gardens of Louis XIII’s Versailles featured a pump at “un des ­angles du parc, vers l’étang.”22 In 1642, the year before the king’s death, a new pump was introduced, the invention of Claude I Denis, identified in his contract as an “ingénieur fontainier

Foundations

du roi.”23 Denis’s invention appears in the form of a small square in the lower right corner of the Du Bus plan, and the word “pompe” is inscribed ­under it (fig. 8). Appearing next to it but outside the wall of the Petit Parc is a shapeless body of ­water, the “Etang de Clagny.” A causeway, a confining barrier, skirted the Etang de Clagny (fig. 14, showing the pond and the causeway). That same corner of the Petit Parc was the source of the astonishing hydraulic advances of the 1660s, once Louis XIV had committed to the ­future of Versailles. First in production, and easily outperforming Denis’s invention, was a piston pump of unpre­ce­dented ­capacity. It was installed above a well or pit, or puits, and connected by pipes to the Etang de Clagny. On top of it stood the Tour d’Eau, also identified in the sources as the Grande Pompe or the Pyramide, designed by Le Vau and built of brick and stone to match the château (fig. 14). The tower was flanked by two octagonal pavilions, a horse-­or mule-­ driven machine in each, which together activated the pump, forcing the ­water in the puits to rise to a lead-­lined reservoir on top.24 H ­ ere, for the first of many occasions, we meet ­Denis Jolly, the ingénieur ordinaire du roi who not only supplied the materials for the pump but installed it; he signed his contract in March 1664.25 Jolly was responsible for e­ very feature in lead, including the sheets that sealed the holding tank.26 Work on the Tour d’Eau was completed at the end of 1665, and the king climbed to the top to inspect it.27 Jolly earned his reputation as the maître de la pompe du Pont-­Neuf, which supplied the Louvre with w ­ ater; his expertise in the domain of “les eaux et les forces mouvantes” was esteemed at high levels.28 In December 1664, in a follow-up to his contract of March, he agreed to oversee the production and installation of “the pipes that ­will put the fountains and cascades in play [at Versailles], as much as His Majesty ­will desire.”29 The inventories that he kept from 1665 to 1669 are packed with information found nowhere ­else, some detailing the king’s personal activities and decisions in the Petit Parc. He updated his inventories at intervals ranging from two or three months to a year, depending on his productivity.30 Not only the pipes, he itemized the nozzles, valves, and taps, even the washers, according to their numbers, dimensions, and costs to the sou. Due to the magnitude and expense of his ­labors, Jolly answered directly to Jean-­Baptiste Colbert, the watchful, ever frugal surintendant des Bâtiments du Roi. A second lead-­lined reservoir was erected on the terrace just outside the northern facade of the château (fig. 12, showing ­water on top); in elevation, it equaled the Tour d’Eau. Construction of this ­little pavilion, soon destined to become the Grotto of Tethys (fig. 5), began in 1664 and ended in the early part of 1666.31 Its w ­ ater supply was replenished at night by the pump of the Tour d’Eau. The fountains of the Parterre de Latone owed their aquatic glory to this upper reservoir, thanks to a dazzling per­for­ mance by Jolly (Appendix A). Once engaged, the king was relentless in overseeing the pro­cess. One minute, he was exhorting his fontainiers to quicken their efforts or grumbling over their delays; the next, he was lauding their advances. He paid repeated visits from Paris to rule on

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priorities or to tour the latest hydraulic installations. At one point, he made a surprise visit to survey the waterworks. To appease his impatience, the fontainiers sometimes resorted to portable pumps to fill an empty basin.32 Jolly was usually, but by no means always, in the royal good graces. No one knew at the start how much ­water the king “­will desire,” only that he was demanding more and more of it. In 1667, three auxiliary reservoirs lined in clay ­were erected in a row to the north of the Grotto of Tethys (fig. 12).33 They ­were filled by the pump of the Tour d’Eau and by siphons originating in the puits u­ nder three windmills on the northern side of the Etang de Clagny.34 Since their elevation was only half that of the lead-­lined reservoirs, the auxiliaries w ­ ere capable of feeding the lower basins only. The greater volume of w ­ ater permitted more fountains to play at once, and it allowed for the delivery of the ele­ment to more distant sites, even to the Bassin des Cygnes in the extreme west.35 Included in the system was the “moulin de retour,” a small installation lying outside the northern wall of the Petit Parc, about halfway between the Bassin des Cygnes and the Etang de Clagny. By means of a windmill and an elevated reservoir, it returned surplus ­water from the former to the latter, to commence yet another round trip.36 The team of hydraulic experts at Versailles included not only Denis Jolly and Claude I Denis but François Francine, an ingénieur ordinaire du roi of equal rank to theirs.37 According to a memo from the late 1660s, the Grotto and the auxiliaries ­were supplied with ­water by six pumps and three windmills; Denis and Francine ­were credited with the invention of two pumps apiece.38 The Denis dynasty passed from Claude I to his son Claude II, succeeding Jolly at Versailles in 1669.39 A refrain often appearing in the early lit­er­a­ture is that Versailles was a naturally arid site, all the more reason to celebrate the plentitude of w ­ ater on exhibit t­ here. It caught on early, not long ­after Jolly laid the first of his pipes in the trenches, and it spread rapidly to official and unofficial reports alike. For Félibien, writing in 1668, “One of the most beautiful ornaments of this h ­ ouse is the quantity of w ­ ater, which Art has guided ­there even though Nature had withheld it.”40 In 1670, the year of Latona’s completion, a visiting diplomat sent his superlatives to Colbert by letter: “I know very well that in the past t­ here was not a drop of w ­ ater, and I assumed that at pre­sent they ­were making a river descend from some higher place, but I found that they take the ­water from an abyss [fig. 14, the Etang de Clagny], and make it ascend to a prodigious height [the Tour d’Eau, the Grotto of Tethys], without which ­there would be no descent, overcoming its own nature, through Art, which makes it go even higher than the towers.”41 It was reported in the court journal in 1670 that “the ­great number of fountains and other ­waters that Art, in spite of Nature’s obstacles, has found a way to make so familiar ­there, such as they are, at pre­sent, the principal charm of this abode.”42 The landscape was not parched, though the supply of ­water was indeed short, unwieldy, and impure in part. Patches of casual ­water ­were scattered about, mostly in the

Foundations

south. A pond was dug just outside the wall on the southern side (figs. 8, 12), to control the irregular streams, but the contents of this “étang puant,” as it was dubbed, ­were unsuitable for the fountains.43 The run-­off flowed in a winding diagonal to the Bassin des Cygnes (figs. 10, 11).44 One purpose of the G ­ rand Canal was to corral the errant ­waters in the lowlands. Even the irreplaceable Etang de Clagny had one serious defect. A writer, reminiscing at the end of the c­ entury, said that it supplied all the basins, but “comme cette eau était croupie, elle était trou­ble et de mauvaise odeur,” and that this fault inspired Colbert to attempt to divert the Eure to Versailles.45 The duc de Saint-­Simon’s classic indictment, though he issued it a half ­century ­later, was rooted in the harsh truths of the 1660s.46 The conditions ­were rugged and resistant to change, ­there was no con­temporary dispute over it. The basins and, l­ ater, the fountains depended almost entirely on the bounty of the Etang de Clagny. Félibien, the guidebook author, advised the ambulatory visitor: “From the Grotto you pass by the [auxiliary] reservoirs of ­water. ­There are three of them in succession. The Tour d’Eau, or the Grande Pompe, which is at the bottom, near the Etang [de Clagny], supplies all the reservoirs with ­water.”47 With few, minor exceptions, Jolly’s inventories of 1665–69 involve w ­ ater extracted from that pond. No author of the day paid finer tribute to the genius of the ingénieurs and fontainiers than Madeleine de Scudéry, the novelist, literary hostess, and phi­los­o­pher, and she did so by simply describing the pro­cess. It appears in her Promenade de Versailles of 1669, a fictional recreation of a visit with friends to the retreat. The tourists entered the Petit Parc through a gate near the Tour d’Eau and the Etang de Clagny. Th ­ ere, they paused: But, Madame [La Belle Etrangère, one of Scudéry’s companions], . . . ​please look carefully at this peaceful pond that you are seeing, which, not being very large, would perhaps not merit much consideration if I did not tell you that it is the source of a thousand beautiful ­things that you ­will soon see. It is true, replied the amiable Etrangère, that I would not have s­ topped h ­ ere for long, and I would have only viewed it as a ­simple ornament that Nature would have given to this beautiful countryside, so that it might not be reproached for not having any w ­ ater, and I would have instead paid attention to t­ hese g­ rand and beautiful ave­nues. Scudéry, once she had escorted her friends to the new attractions in the northern half of the gardens, flashed back to their e­ arlier entry: La Belle Etrangère was so charmed by so many surprising t­ hings that she could not admire them enough. . . . ​This beautiful person asking with eagerness where such an abundance of ­water could come from. “Do you remember, Madame,” I said to her, “that I urged you on arriving to look at that peaceful pond that is

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seen on the right of this hill where one discovers Versailles? It is from ­there that come ­these torrents that Art has undertaken to raise up for the entertainment of a ­great King. . . .” Indeed, they showed her pipes of prodigious size by which the w ­ ater rises in a manner that appears super­natural to t­hose who do not know how far the force extends from t­ hese machines, which w ­ ere in­ven­ted for the elevation of the w ­ ater, and to which it seems we should be grateful for leaving rivers in their beds, even though it is true that Art now knows how to surpass Nature. Télemon [another promeneur] was thrilled to see all the vari­ous [auxiliary] reservoirs, adorned with balustrades, containing entire rivers, if it must be said in that way, and which go from one to another, all the way to the glacières [the under­ground reservoirs] and to a small château [the Tour d’Eau, the pump] where t­here is the wondrous machine that is useful for so many beautiful ­things. Télemon admired the manner with which this ­water, ­after having been lifted by large pipes, diffuses in the grotto [of Tethys] through many small ones, and certainly the g­ reat economy of all t­ hese w ­ aters, which seem to lose not even a drop, and having performed so many miracles, return calmly to where they have come from [the Etang de Clagny], and appear as modest and as tranquil as before.48 ­ ater from the Etang de Clagny was advanced to the Tour d’Eau, the Grotto of W Tethys, and the three auxiliary reservoirs, sent from ­there by gravity to one basin ­after another on the sloping landscape, and recycled.

. . . ​And, Only Then, the Scenic Fountains To return, momentarily, to the Du Bus plan of about 1662 (fig. 8). Of note now are the intervals of space separating the spinal, east-­west axis from the allées that parallel it on ­either side. ­Those intervals, identical on both sides of the spine, defined the widths of the blocks of trees ­behind them. We already know that, upon his arrival, Le Nôtre eliminated the Saint Andrew’s Cross and installed a pair of quinconces in the same place (fig. 9). An allée travels in an east-­west direction through the center of each quinconce and emerges onto a transverse, north-­south allée. ­Those two intersections, where the allées meet at right ­angles, ­were the key to the ­future ­because Le Nôtre ­shaped the curving outer ramps of the Fer-­à-­Cheval to feed directly into the east-­west allées of the quinconces (figs. 10, 11). The width of the Fer-­à-­Cheval, indeed the dimensions of the enclosure as a w ­ hole, had been fixed in advance by t­ hose two innocuous meeting points. Le Nôtre then arranged our three basins in a s­ imple, beautifully spaced triangle in the enclosure, placing the oval basin on a slightly higher plane than the round

Foundations

basins b­ ecause, looking forward, he knew that the discharge from one would gravitate to the o­ thers (fig. 3, showing the two planes). He s­ haped and scaled the oval basin to suit the curvature of the Fer-­à-­Cheval; the ­others are round, so as to appear correspondingly oval when viewed from above and at longer distance (fig. 13). Not ­until the Fer-­à-­Cheval was contoured, the first reservoirs erected, and the pipes buried in the ground, did the planners contemplate the issue of subject ­matter. Initially, indecision was the order of the day. At one point, prob­ably early in 1666, Charles Perrault, deputy of Colbert, submitted a series of proposals for the subjects of the figurative fountains for the oval basin of the Fer-­à-­Cheval and the round one on the G ­ rand Parterre above it (Chapter 7, for his “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo”); his ideas ­were rejected. Now for a telling moment: Jolly, during the period of indecision, was preparing to install four satellite jets around the central jet in the oval basin, but in September 1666 he was ordered to raise the number to six. Why? B ­ ecause, so it states in one of our most precious documents, the “forme” and “grandeur” of the oval basin required the higher number (Appendix A).49 Le Brun not only was the beneficiary of the increase but was, from my point of view, at the forefront of the decision to order it. By my assessment of the chronology, this is the moment, or nearly the moment, when Ovid’s legend of Latona and the Lyceans was appointed. Le Brun was guided by the formal properties of Le Nôtre’s preexisting basin. It is only fair to include Le Nôtre as one of the designers of the Latona fountain, avant la lettre. Le Nôtre anticipated the inevitable arrival of figurative fountains when he designed the three basins part and parcel of his Fer-­à-­Cheval.50 Occupants of the basins, no ­matter their iconography, would be seen at descending a­ ngles from the axial points above, their forms profiled against the w ­ ater, the gravel surrounding the w ­ ater, and the backdrop. ­Here was another property of Le Nôtre’s landscape with rich pictorial potential, and Le Brun orchestrated his cast of deities and peasants with the angularity of the view from the lower landing in his mind’s eye (fig. 2) (Chapter 4). If he designed ideal viewing stations, Le Nôtre also liberated the spaces around the basins in view. Le Brun responded to this gift by endowing the subsidiary views of his fountains with a wealth of narrative data for ­those who circled the basins following their initiation from above. In essentials, Latona was the result of a mute dialogue over time between Le Nôtre in the past and Le Brun in the pre­sent, to the advantage of both. One appeal of Latona is that t­ here ­were no lines of separation among the landscape, the w ­ ater, and the work of art. The three w ­ ere of equal value and in perfect balance. To Le Nôtre, the designer of the Fer-­à-­Cheval, we owe the ramps, the landings, the enclosure, and the shapes and sizes of the three basins; the gradients, and, thus, to a degree, the solutions to the hydraulics, w ­ ere de­cided by him.51 The ingénieurs and fontainiers, proceeding at each step in harmony with Le Nôtre, equipped the basins with ample supplies of w ­ ater. Then Le Brun, adapting to the preexisting conditions of both the landscape and the w ­ ater, designed the scenic fountains. Their combined

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victory over the recalcitrant forces of nature was twice told, once in legendary terms and a second time in three-­dimensional materials. In Ovid’s narrative, the precipitating event was the stubborn denial of w ­ ater by the local peasants who in the end ­were forced to surrender not only their hoard but their humanity. At Versailles, coarse nature tried valiantly to do the same, but it was likewise defeated; it too relinquished an obstinate claim to ­water and was transformed forever in the pro­cess. ­Water, the implacability and relative scarcity of the ele­ment, followed by the acquisition and play of it, was the raison d’être of our fountain. It is an injustice to Latona to discuss it only as an accomplished work without first considering the e­ arlier and compulsory actions that allowed the w ­ ater to flow at all. Underscoring the point is that the repre­sen­ta­tion of this aquatic episode from the Metamorphoses seems to have been without pre­ce­dent in the tradition of fountains, in France or any nation. If, in Ovid, a divine power interceded to solve a crisis, so, too, at Versailles, an absolute monarch, a divinely designated agent, solved an unacceptable one of his own. At the mythic level, Louis XIV was the reincarnation of both Apollo and the Sun, since ­those two powers w ­ ere conflated during his early reign. Apollo is the Sun, and Louis XIV, the Roi-­Soleil, is both. For his official impresa, the king a­ dopted a radiant face of the Sun illuminating the world from high above. At Versailles, the analogy was explained by several authors in the know: As Apollo rises each morning, enlightens the world during the day, and sets each eve­ning in order to recoup, so Louis XIV recovers at his retreat following his own ­labors (Chapter 7). Indeed, Apollo performed double duty: Th ­ ere was Apollo, the god of cosmic order, who ascends and descends in precise regularity; and ­there was the complementary Apollo, the god of inspiration and creativity, who brings the world of art and culture to life by soaring high above the solar triptych. In an early writing, Perrault i­ magined a scene in which Amour meets Apollo in the gardens of Versailles: “I see that every­thing is done h ­ ere in your name,” remarks Amour, “and, if I am not mistaken, u­ nder your guidance. . . . ​[The sculptures] bring more honor to you than all t­ hose that Antiquity ever dedicated to you.” To which Apollo responds: “You are very courteous to give me all the gloire for ­these chef-­ d’œuvres.” It is agreed, then, replies Amour: “I leave all the gloire to you.”52 Our ­counter to the so-­called Fronde thesis is that the Latona fountain was, on one level, a proud allegory of art and culture triumphant, a panegyric to the inspirational Roi-­Soleil (Chapter 7, for the argument in detail).

Aspirations of Artists The outpouring of cultural energy in the 1660s was unequaled in any other de­cade in Louis XIV’s long reign. A godsend for the beaux-­arts was his appointment of Colbert to the surintendance of the Bâtiments du Roi in 1664. The date is misleading b­ ecause

Foundations

Colbert had been exercising his powers, without title, a year or two ­earlier. By custom, the office holder was responsible for the royal ­houses, and Colbert abided by that duty, but he broke with tradition by reaching into new territory, becoming a kind of “minister of culture.”53 More than the king, Colbert understood that the arts could be useful in refining and disseminating the royal image.54 In executing his mission, he wisely sided with Le Brun, the premier peintre. In 1663, Colbert founded the Pe­tite Académie, a small committee of savants to advise him on ­matters of allegory and erudition in the royal arts. Their provinces ranged from inscriptions and emblems to medals, to official books, to programs of tapestry, painting, sculpture, and architecture. For a slightly ­later author, all the decorations of Versailles, inside and outside, ­were de­cided by the learned men of the Pe­tite Académie (Chapters 2, 3, for his global claim). In a parallel initiative, Colbert reformed and revitalized the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture in 1663. The Académie had a long but largely undistinguished history by then, having been established by Le Brun and eleven ­others in 1648 in an effort to separate the arts of painting and sculpture from the manual practices of the Maîtrise, the guild of artisans and craftsmen in Paris. It was only through the sacrifices of the members and the financial aid of power­ful individuals that it managed to survive t­ hose first fifteen years.55 When Colbert placed it u­ nder the protection of the Bâtiments du Roi in 1663, a stable f­ uture was assured. New statutes w ­ ere drawn up, one of which required artists to belong to the Académie in order to qualify for royal patronage; since the forecast called for a steady rise in commissions from the crown, this statute met no resistence. A new generation of artists was trained according to the methods of the Académie, that is, the methods of Le Brun. Students w ­ ere taught to draw from the model and to copy the works of the legendary masters of Antiquity and the paint­ers of the Italian Re­nais­sance, especially Raphael. A branch, the Académie de France à Rome, was established in 1666 for promising talents to form their art through direct contact with the masterpieces and to make copies for the edification of students at home. The end result was a high degree of stylistic uniformity, along with a surprising number of works of superior merit. In their campaign to elevate the arts of painting and sculpture to the level of Liberal Arts, the leaders of the Académie provided a forum for artists to air their theoretical views in lectures, or conférences, to their colleagues.56 Le Brun, a prolific speaker, delivered five or six of his most consequential lectures in 1667, 1668, and 1669, the years of Latona; his widespread topics included the passions, the value of ancient prototypes, and the strategies of artists who visualize a literary history (Chapters. 4–6). The issues taken up by Gaspard Marsy in a conférence from December 1669 ­were identical to t­ hose he was just then facing with his marble figure of Latona (Chapter 5). What Le Brun and Marsy w ­ ere professing in the lecture hall was what they w ­ ere visualizing in the gardens. Their words w ­ ere a reliable index of their aspirations. As such, Latona was both a panegyric and an insider’s guide to the leading artistic ideas of the moment, an art for artists, a manifesto by artists.57

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CH A PT ER 2

Fountains in Context

Louis XIV was a boy of three when he first set foot in his f­ ather’s brick-­and-­stone château at Versailles in 1641, not to return for another ten years.1 He went hunting on two of his three trips in 1651 and on one of his two trips the following year, seldom spending the night.2 Three of his six visits in 1653 ­were inspired by the hunt. From 1654 to 1659, he traveled to Versailles only eight times, invariably to hunt. A caption to an engraved view of the château in the mid-1650s says only that Versailles is “où le Roy se va souvent divertir à la chasse.”3 The château itself was neglected for nearly twenty years ­after Louis XIII’s death. Every­thing changed, as if on cue, at the turn of the de­cade. Versailles in the 1660s, the first de­cade of Louis XIV’s active interest in the renewal of his ­father’s retreat, is sometimes called the “Premier Versailles,” our term of choice.4 For André Félibien, an insider at the Bâtiments du Roi, 1661 was the inaugural year of the sovereign’s involvement.5 Recently, Jean-­Claude Le Guillou proposed that the king first opened his eyes to the long-­term prospects of the retreat in 1660, 25 October to be precise, the day of his magical sojourn with Marie-­Thérèse the queen and Anne d’Autriche the queen ­mother to hunt and stroll.6 Before the year was out, royal agents began annexing lands to the north, west, and south of the Petit Parc—an early omen.7 Charles Perrault, reflecting on the nascent days, summed up simply: “Louis XIV ayant fait quelques promenades agréables à Versailles vint à l’aimer.”8 Which is not to reduce 1661 to a year of lesser consequence. Quite the contrary, it is difficult to identify a year in Louis XIV’s reign more filled with memorable events than 1661, the year of his majority. When Cardinal Mazarin, who had ruled with Anne d’Autriche during her regency, died in 1661, the twenty-­three-­year-­old king, bucking tradition, took personal control of the government. A dauphin was born in 1661, a year ­after the sovereign’s marriage to Marie-­Thérèse. Nicolas Fouquet, the ministre des finances, was imprisoned in 1661 for siphoning funds from the trea­sury, ending his lavish patronage of authors and artists, including André Le Nôtre, Charles Le Brun, and Louis Le Vau, all three of whom redirected their efforts from Vaux-­le-­Vicomte to the

Fountains in Context

ser­vice of the crown. Jean-­Baptiste Colbert, whose genius for finance and commerce would lift France to supremacy in Eu­ro­pean affairs, became intendant des finances ­under Fouquet in 1661 and, following his mentor’s downfall, took his place as ministre d’état. It was also in 1661 that the king fell in love with Louise de La Vallière, the dawn of a romance that left a lasting mark on Versailles.

“La Grande Beauté des Palais de la Campagne” The allegory of Latona was not spelled out in any text or document of the day, and commentators w ­ ere e­ ither s­ ilent or laconic on the m ­ atter. Our argument, that the fountain was a declaration of the triumph of Ludovican art and culture, is at odds with the Fronde thesis, which points instead to the revolts in Paris from 1648 to 1653 (Appendix D, for a critique).9 Key questions bear heavi­ly on the issue regardless: What was the prevailing ethos of Versailles before the conception of Latona in the mid-1660s and during the execution of it from 1666 to 1670? How did the fountain fit, contextually, in the evolving life of the gardens? What did the king and his ­family and court do in the gardens during the formative years? What inspired Madeleine de Scudéry to compose her one-­line cele­ bration of the infancy of Versailles: “Tout y rit, tout y plaît, tout y porte à la joie et marque la grandeur du Maître”?10 Her felicitous line appears in the place in her Promenade de Versailles where she and her friends w ­ ere standing at the far end of the G ­ rand Parterre, overlooking the three basins of the Parterre de Latone and the unending perspective to the west (fig. 13, Patel’s luminous view of 1668). Scudéry put her fin­ger on what awakened the king’s affection for Versailles in his youth: It was the one place, she wrote, where he delighted himself and his court at the same time. “Surely it is beautiful and pleasant to see the King in this lovely wilderness, whenever he puts on ­little fêtes galantes or such that astonish by their magnificence, by their novelty, by their spectacle, by the multitude of the sparkling entertainments, by the diverse ­music, by the ­waters, by the fireworks, by the abundance of all ­things, and above all by the palaces of greenery, where never before have nature and art been so joined together.”11 Scudéry was looking back from 1669 to the joys of the king’s outdoor festivals, three or four of which hardly qualify as “­little fêtes galantes.” The “­waters” played an ever-­expanding role. To our list of notable events in 1661 it is rewarding to add another: the commission to the painter Charles Errard to restore and enrich the interior of the old, neglected château. Allied to his commission was one to decorators to furnish the rooms in the latest fashion.12 They concluded their renovations in the fall of 1662, and the king, to the delight of his court, hosted a ball and a “magnifique collation.” It was one of his twelve appearances at Versailles in that year. The king visited Versailles twenty times in 1663, more often to stroll and ­ride than to hunt. In February, he and his guests toured “les beaux appartements de ce château,

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très magnifiquement meublés,” and, in July, their promenade took them to “tous les beaux endroits de cette maison délicieuse.” Jean Loret, a gazetteer, reported in the fall that the king, the dauphin, and the two queens left Vincennes For Versaille [sic], another charming place, (Which r­ eally pleases me, my goodness gracious) Where hunts and exercises, Which for many are delights, Concerts and dainty banquets, Games and pleasant per­for­mances, As necessary amusements, Replace the cares of the world; All ­these ­things, in turn, Occupy the court t­ oday.13 One rage during the Premier Versailles was the ramasse, a toboggan-­like contraption that raced on tracks down Satory Hill, to the southwest of the château. The youthful fun appealed to Loret: They do not, it is said, go hunting t­ here, But the plea­sure of the ramasse, More rapid than hazardous, Entertain them for an hour, or two.14 In September 1663, the frugal Colbert, uneasy over the king’s deepening love of Versailles, cautioned him against the enticements of two men in par­tic­u­lar, Le Vau and Le Nôtre.15 If anything, Colbert’s warning only tended to harden the royal resolve. For a ­whole week in May 1664, the king treated his court to a splendid festival, the Plaisirs de l’ île enchantée. The unannounced guest of honor was his favorite, La Vallière. The high point was a three-­day reenactment of Ariosto’s Orlando furioso, featuring Ruggiero (played by the king) and his knights (played by courtiers), prisoners on the enchanted island of the sorceress Alcine. Before their miraculous delivery, the prisoners ­were treated to tilting matches, collations, comic ballets by Molière, and fireworks. For the remainder of the week, the guests enjoyed a nonstop program of races, jousts, lotteries, a tour of the Ménagerie, and the premiers of three Molière plays. In the official chronicle of the event, the refrain of art in league with nature appears for one of the first times: “It is a château that can be called an enchanted palace, so much has Art supported well the care that Nature has taken to make it perfect. It charms in ­every way. Tout y rit outside and inside, the gold and the marble rivaling one another in beauty and in brilliance. . . . ​Its symmetry, the richness of its furnishings, the beauty

Fountains in Context

of its promenades, and the infinite number of flowers as well as its orange trees, render the environs of this place deserving of its remarkable rarity.”16 ­Water was as scarce in the lit­er­a­ture of the festival of May 1664 as it was in the gardens—no surprise given that Denis Jolly had signed his contract for the pump of the Tour d’Eau only two months ­earlier (Chapter 1). Perhaps not by chance, it was t­ oward the end of 1664 that Laurent Magnier, a royal sculptor, volunteered to carve a marble relief representing “the combat of art and nature” for the collection of the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture.17 Guillet de Saint-­Georges, the historiographe of the Académie and biographer of Magnier, said that each of the combatants in the relief has an edge, but “the reciprocal assistance that each lends to the other is enough to bring them into accord.”18 Magnier’s iconography could not have been more timely or telling for a fledgling Versailles, where the natu­ral state held adequate potential but resisted the efforts of the hydraulic specialists to control it. With the king’s order in 1664 to construct the two lead-­lined reservoirs, art was well on its way t­ oward gaining the upper hand over nature in the contest for w ­ ater rights in the gardens. The first two programs of sculpture, both earmarked for the southern gardens (fig. 12, left), ­were begun not long before the festivities of the Plaisirs de l’ île enchantée in May 1664. One consisted of a row of structural terms to support a rail. The other, a suite of paired, freestanding terms of Olympian lovers, cast an engaging light on the king’s favorite, La Vallière.19 Soon a­ fter the festival, the Bâtiments du Roi ordered a complementary suite of paired statues of rustic lovers, the so-­called Pe­tite Commande, for the bottom of the northern axis (fig. 15). Irreverent, comical, lascivious, ­these woodland deities masqueraded as illustrious figures in ancient and Italian art history. It was all a charade, a rustic vaudev­ille, performed in the spirit of burlesque, a fash­ion­able literary genre in mid-­seventeenth-­century France.20 Just how earnestly the king viewed his outdoor entertainments at Versailles is borne out by the following case study from 1665. In January and February, the pipes r­ unning from the upper reservoir to the basins on the level of the château ­were laid in the ground by Jolly. On 13 March, the king traveled to Versailles to hunt, his first visit in half a year. Returning on 8 June, he instructed Louis Petit, his contrôleur des Bâtiments, to ensure that the basin of the flower garden, to the south of the château (fig. 12, left), was equipped with sufficient w ­ ater for him “to be entertained by it when he comes h ­ ere.” The fittings to the jet w ­ ere misbehaving, and the king ordered Petit to replace them “promptly.”21 Two days ­later, Colbert appealed to the parish priest of the village of Versailles to allow the local landscapers to work on 11 June (Fête-­Dieu, feast day of Saint Barnabas). Initially, the king vetoed Colbert’s plan, but on learning that the priest had lifted the ban, he willingly went along.22 Why the royal impatience with Petit? Why the ministerial appeal? The answer to both questions is that a festival was scheduled for 13 June and the gardens called for a last-­minute touch-up. The entertainments, all

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outdoors, included a theatrical event, promenades, a ball, and a collation in a bosquet on the southern side.23 We have already isolated 1664–65 as the turning point for two axes in the gardens (Chapter 1). It was then that the king approved Le Nôtre’s visionary plans to recast the northern axis by doubling it in size and to revamp the western axis by constructing the Fer-­à-­Cheval. At another unknown point, at e­ ither the end of 1665 or the beginning of 1666, the king approved a plan to turn the upper reservoir (fig. 5) into a nocturnal retreat for Apollo and his h ­ orses, the Soleil couchant (figs. 6, 7) (Chapter 7). The inaugural per­for­mance of the “grandes eaux” was held on 27 April 1666. The king, ex­pec­tant as ever, was mildly annoyed by Jolly’s slow pro­gress.24 What he observed in the basins on that sojourn ­were figureless jeux d’eau. But his frustrating wait was soon over: That same April, work on a figurative fountain was reported for the first time.25 I trace the origin of Latona to the m ­ iddle months of 1666, and the same for the Soleil levant (fig. 4) (Chapter 7). By year’s end, both the Dragon (fig. 15) and the Siren (fig. 74) w ­ ere in production; the former, in step with the Pe­tite Commande before it, was a burlesque in three dimensions.26 Balls and collations brought the royal ­family to Versailles on two occasions in January 1667. During a visit on 13 February, the king issued ­orders for the preparation of a carousel, an equestrian event that was scheduled for the following week; he personally selected “ce lieu [Versailles], comme le plus agréable, pour les divertissements” at the end of the Carnival season; on his ­orders, a pyramidal effet was hastily contrived by the fontainiers.27 In May, he paid a surprise visit and was pleased with Jolly’s ongoing efforts. A collation on 11 May was followed five days l­ ater by the sovereign’s departure for the northern frontier on the eve of the War of Devolution. He would not return to Versailles for five months. The king had reason to compliment Jolly in 1667. The southern axis received a number of new fountains in that year, as Jolly extended the reach of his pipes on that side.28 The three clay-­lined auxiliary reservoirs ­were rising in 1667 (fig. 12). The royal f­ amily spent ten consecutive days at Versailles in April 1668 for “les divertissements que peut leur fournir un lieu si délicieux, notamment en cette agréable saison.” The crowning event of the year was the festival on the eve­ning of 18 July to celebrate the Treaty of Aix-­la-­Chapelle, ending the War of Devolution. ­Water, the leading player in three of the eve­ning’s five entertainments, was repeatedly cited by André Félibien in his official livret: He [Louis XIV] himself pointed out to them [the officials of the Bâtiments du Roi who designed and staged the festival] the places where the disposition of the site was able to contribute further, through its natu­ral beauty, to its adornment.

Fountains in Context

And b­ ecause one of the most beautiful ornaments of this ­house is the quantity of ­water, which Art has guided t­ here even though Nature had withheld it, His Majesty ordered them to make use of it as much as they could to embellish ­these premises, and even opened up for them the means to employ it, and to draw from it the effets that it is able to create.29 The refrain of art in competition with nature is familiar to us, but the indictment against the latter is now framed in more damning terms than in 1664. Nature is blamed for denying w ­ ater to the king and his courtiers for their pleasures, and art is credited with providing it. The shift in tone, decidedly in f­ avor of art, was attributable to the notable advances in the hydraulic system at Versailles during the intervening four years. The Pe­tite Commande and the Dragon fountain ­were in place when the rest of the figurative fountains for the northern axis went into production, most in 1668.30 ­ ere erected at this time at the top The two Sphinx aux Enfants, companion pieces, w of the Fer-­à-­Cheval (fig. 19) (Appendix F). The slight beginnings of the ­Grand Canal appear at the top of Patel’s painting of 1668 (fig. 12). ­A fter a promising start in 1668, the plan to construct the so-­called Enveloppe came to a sudden halt. The idea was to preserve the stone-­and-­brick château but expand it by grafting new architecture onto the three garden facades. The king, in devotion to his f­ ather’s memory, had rejected the advice of his architects to tear down the old structure and start anew. Construction of the Enveloppe resumed at the end of 1669 or the beginning of 1670 and ended in time for Félibien to sing the praises of it in his guidebook of 1674.31 The result was a more comfortable retreat for the royal ­family and a more fitting destination for visiting dignitaries. The new social function brought the rustic Versailles of the early period to a gradual close. The king’s pride of place was on open display during the visits to Versailles by three foreign diplomats in the 1660s. His first guest, on 10 July 1664, was Cardinal Flavio Chigi, the papal legate, who had traveled from Rome on a mission to repair the strained relations between Alexander VII (his ­uncle) and the French crown. Chigi’s tour, of ­limited range, took him to the château, the Ménagerie, and prob­ably the Orangerie.32 On 11 August 1669, during one of his dozen visits to Versailles that year, the king welcomed Cosimo de’ Medici, the prince of Tuscany. Cosimo sat alongside while the sovereign drove his carriage to the Ménagerie and the Canal, a high privilege. Following a concert in the Grotto, the king treated Cosimo to a repast of fruits and sweets, a comedy in the Orangerie, a ball in a “vestibule de verdure,” and, it still daylight, a “superbe collation.” The darkness of night brought a show of fireworks and a concert of trumpets and drums.33 The king hosted a third diplomat, the Duke of Buckingham, on 23 August and also on 6–7 September 1670. A single day’s itinerary included a carriage ­ride, concerts on the Canal and in the Grotto, a collation on an artificial island, a comedy in a “salon de plein air,” fireworks, and a dinner!34 In situ the ­whole time was

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Latona, at long last a fait accompli, the life-­size figures having arrived from Paris ­earlier in the year. The Petit Parc matured at a rapid pace, with or without a visiting king. Seldom during ­these early years was it clear of excavators, landscapers, trench diggers, hydraulic experts, wagoners, or day laborers. “Ground ­under repair” was a fitting term for the mazes of deep trenches, the piles of dirt and gravel, the downed trees—­a far cry from the groomed lawns, the raked terraces and walkways, and the tree-­walled ave­nues that lie deceivingly on the plans. Large tracts of land w ­ ere off limits to the everyday visitor and even to the honored guests of the king who attended the festivals.35 Disarray was the rule, tidiness the rare exception. To my knowledge, ­there are no official images of the Petit Parc in a torn-up state, such was the mandate to royal artists to purify the new landscape.36

“Félibien’s Law” Is ­there room in this playground for the Fronde thesis, a stark sociopo­liti­cal allegory of Latona? W ­ ere the gardens of the Premier Versailles a suitable venue for such a dire admonition to the court, such a grim reminder of fifteen-­to twenty-­year-­old events? No ­matter that the climate in Paris was calm and no one fretted over a recurrence. The advocates of the thesis find the allegory not only at the Dragon and Latona fountains, but in projets by Le Brun to fill the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval with sculptures (e.g., figs. 3, 78, 79) (Appendix F). In all three cases, the thesis flies in the face of the art already in situ or the art on the planning boards, and as such it violates the hallowed princi­ple of decorum, or costume (Chapter 4). For the sanctity of this princi­ple at Versailles we have an authority in Félibien, who declared in his guidebook that nothing was introduced to the fabric of Versailles without due consideration for where it was heading and what was already in place t­ here: It is good to note first that as the Sun is the devise of the King, and as the poets confuse the Sun and Apollo, so ­there is nothing in this superb ­house that does not relate to this divinity; also, since all the figures and ornaments that one sees ­there are not placed haphazardly, they have a relation to the Sun or to the par­tic­u­lar locations in which they are set up.37 I have elsewhere referred to this seminal text as “Félibien’s law.”38 It applied to e­ very square inch of the Premier Versailles, inside the château and outside, and it lies at the core of our study. The provisions of the law ­were dutifully enacted along the southern, northern, and western axes of the gardens. Each of the five plots along the southern axis received the Sun’s nourishing rays during the midday hours (fig. 12, left). The uppermost plot, the flower garden, or Jardin-­à-­

Fountains in Context

Fleurs, was also called the Jardin du Roi and the Parterre de l’Amour; that last name applied to the lead figure of Amour who, joined by doves, shot an aquatic arrow of love into the air from his basin.39 Next along the axis came the Orangerie, and, a­ fter that, on sloping land for maximum exposure, a fruit garden. Alongside the axis on the west was an orchard, and on the east a vegetable garden. Each plot was laid out according to its “relation to the Sun.” For good reason, the Orangerie and the Jardin-­à-­Fleurs appear in the sunny background of a royal tapestry of spring, designed by Le Brun, in consultation with the Pe­tite Académie, in 1667.40 The aquatic subjects of the fountains along the northern axis ­were likewise preordained by their “par­tic­u­lar location,” their proximity to the Etang de Clagny and the reservoirs. Pierre Patel pictures, in full or in part, the first five of the seven features ­there (fig. 12, right). In order, heading north from the château, they are: the Siren (on the terrace), the Couronnes (one in each half of the Parterre du Nord), the Pyramid (on the landing at the end of the Parterre du Nord), the Bain de Diane (in the retaining wall beneath the Pyramid), and the Enfants (in parallel rows along the Allée d’Eau). The last two features, the Dragon (in the Rondeau) and the Pe­tite Commande (on the outskirts of the Rondeau), lie outside Patel’s view, but both appear in a print by Israël Silvestre from 1676 (fig. 15). The Pe­tite Commande was the earliest feature in date and the only nonaquatic one. The Pyramid, the Bain de Diane, and the Enfants are united in allegory: the fecundity of June, personified by the putti who gleefully lift bowls and baskets of natu­ral bounty above their heads.41 The western axis is the recipient of Apollo’s earliest and latest rays of the day (fig. 12, ­middle). At one extreme, he ascends from the Sea at dawn (fig. 4) and, at the other, he enters the Grotto of Tethys at dusk (fig. 5) to recuperate overnight (figs. 6, 7). Between the two, Latona, Apollo, and Diana confront the peasants of Lycea (fig. 2).42 Early writers equated the outer panels with the habits of Apollo’s living incarnation, who traveled periodically from Paris or Saint-­Germain-­en-­Laye to Versailles to rest from his “­great and illustrious toils” (Chapter 7). What “toils”? Putting his subjects on edge whenever they enter the gardens? Or ­were his toils uplifting, exalting, at one with the holy princi­ple of costume, at one with the ethos of the Premier Versailles, and at one with the noble enterprise of promoting the gloire of the sovereign?

Gloire and the Pe­tite Académie The five wise men of the Pe­tite Académie met twice weekly in Colbert’s library in Paris to consider a wide agenda of initiatives in the royal arts.43 Charles Perrault was a founding member and the first secretary. Their mandate, he recalled in his Mémoires, was to counsel Colbert on “an infinite number of t­ hings having to do with buildings, where it is necessary to have esprit, and which for the most part cannot be done well without

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a knowledge of how they ­were done by the ancients, and also to make descriptions of the monuments and other remarkable ­things that would be done, which would merit being sent to foreign lands and being left for posterity.”44 A l­ater promoter of the Pe­ tite Académie claimed that “all the designs for the paintings that adorn the apartments of Versailles ­were made by this com­pany. The designs for the fountains and statues ­were considered and agreed upon t­ here, and nothing was done in the Bâtiments [du Roi] that was not discussed in the Pe­tite Académie.”45 One expects the savants to assert the authority that Colbert bestowed on them in 1663, but where, and to what extent, did they assert it? As fate would have it, the minutes of their meetings, our most impartial means of gauging the lavish claims of the promoters, have vanished.46 The king himself defined their mission when he met the founding members in person. Perrault had the foresight to preserve the sovereign’s gracious words of introduction: You may judge, Messieurs, of my re­spect for you, since I am entrusting you with the one ­thing in the world that is most precious to me, my gloire. I am sure that you ­will work won­ders; for my part, I ­will attempt to furnish you with material worthy of use by men as able as you.47 Gloire, for Descartes, was a form of joy, the dignified view that an estimable person has of himself, the desire by him to be admired by his subjects, as well as by foreigners and by posterity.48 It was defined in the Dictionnaire of the Académie française as such “honor, praise, esteem, [and] reputation that proceeds from a person’s merit, [and] from the excellence of his actions or his works.”49 When Jean Chapelain, soon to become the leader of the Pe­tite Académie, was asked by Colbert in 1662 for his advice on the proposal to strike a series of medals in commemoration of the king’s actions, he answered that “the plan that you have paid me the honor of imparting to me is g­ reat, noble, and entirely worthy of the grandeur of the king, and of the grandeur of your zeal for His Majesty’s ser­vice and his gloire.”50 Colbert was considering the issue of gloire in September 1663 when he appealed to the king to redirect his passion from Versailles to the Louvre, the historical seat of the monarchy and, for Colbert, a far more fitting emblem of it: Your Majesty knows that in lieu of magnificent acts of warfare, nothing betokens more the grandeur and the spirit of princes than buildings; and all of posterity mea­sures them by the standard of t­ hese superb buildings that they have erected during their lives. O what a pity if the greatest king and the most virtuous—of the true virtue that creates the greatest princes—­were mea­sured by the standard of Versailles! And yet ­there is reason to fear this misfortune. . . . ​ Your Majesty w ­ ill also observe, if it pleases him, that he is in the hands of two men [Le Vau, Le Nôtre] who hardly know him except at Versailles, that is to

Fountains in Context

say, in plea­sure and in entertainment, and who are not at all acquainted with his love for gloire, from wherever it might come.51 The king’s vision, we already know, was the polar opposite. The supreme irony is that, next to the sovereign, no one contributed more to the prodigious growth of Versailles over the next twenty years than Colbert.

1660s, Fresh and Unique The Petit Parc easily surpassed the château in magnificence during the Premier Versailles (fig. 12). It was only with the completion of the Enveloppe in 1673–74 that an equilibrium was achieved, but not for long. The gardens continued to mature, and the château, again diminished in relative status, did not stage a second comeback u­ ntil the late 1670s, when Jules Hardouin-­Mansart enhanced the Enveloppe with wings to the north and south and with luxury rooms, including the Grande Galerie (Galerie des Glaces), on the west. Not to be upstaged, the gardens kept pace with novelties of their own, in par­tic­u­lar the much enlarged Orangerie and the Pièce d’Eau des Suisses to the south, and the Bassin de Neptune to the north.52 ­There was no single Versailles. ­There w ­ ere as many Versailles(s) as ­there w ­ ere decisions by Louis XIV to redefine his image through innovations in his art and architecture. It is an injustice to the Premier Versailles to subject it to the fashions or preoccupations of a l­ ater time. The notion that Versailles was then an emblem of absolutist values, or that a fountain had a “specifically didactic purpose,” is misguided.53 Such values do creep into the iconography in the following de­cade, largely in response to the Dutch War of 1672–78, but ­there is no equivalent in the early period. Not all commentators, not even ­those who appeared soon afterward, fairly reflect the intentions of the planners. In 1681, Sieur Combes, a guidebook author, introduced Versailles as “l’ancienne et la nouvelle Rome,” but his lofty double analogy was impossible without the King’s victories on the fields of b­ attle during the Dutch War or his artistic and scientific achievements inside and outside the château at the end of the 1670s.54 In 1682, Versailles became the official seat of Louis XIV’s government and court. Five years ­later, Mansart ran roughshod over Latona, replacing it with a distant cousin (fig. 1) (App. B). The short life span of Le Brun’s scenic fountain is one mea­sure of the speed with which the King recast himself through the arts. It is also a reminder of how fresh and unique was the Premier Versailles.

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CH A PT ER 3

Original State

Researchers of the Petit Parc of Versailles in the 1660s are inevitably forced to fall back on qualifying terms such as “almost certainly” or “highly probable” when trying to establish a point, and to move confidently from that point to the next. Their writings are likely to include an admission that “the question mark has to remain” or that a prob­ lem “cannot be resolved without the discovery of new data.” By no means is our study an exception. The l­ egal contract for Latona has vanished, with no realistic hope of discovery.1 Who conceived the fountain, and when? On whose designs was it carried out in solid materials? Claude Nivelon, the biographer and former student of Le Brun, came tantalizingly close to awarding the designs to him, then fell s­ ilent.2 Le Brun’s other con­ temporary biographer, Guillet de Saint-­Georges, the historiographe of the Académie, was equally reticent. ­Today, the designs are usually assigned to Le Brun, if to anyone by name. I support that attribution for dozens of reasons, all of which ­will come to light in the succeeding pages. When did the Marsy ­brothers go to work on their commission? Historians have long been fortunate to have Jules Guiffrey’s five-­volume publication of the Comptes des Bâtiments du Roi sous le règne de Louis XIV (1881–1901), the rec­ords of payments to artists and other personnel of the agency. Not infrequently, however, the publication varies from the original ledgers ­because Guiffrey, rather than reprint each entry individually, economized by combining two or more payments for the same work, or even by combining the payments for two or more unrelated works. Visits to the Bibliothèque nationale de France and the Archives nationales to check the original ledgers are only occasionally the remedy ­because what a researcher finds is that the royal accountants w ­ ere often cavalier in their own bookkeeping methods, in the 1660s in par­tic­u­lar.3 It was not unusual for a sculptor to be paid for an unspecified “ouvrage” for an unspecified location “à Versailles.” So it is with our fountain. In the original ledgers for 24 September 1666, it is recorded that the sum of 600 livres was sent to the Marsy b­ rothers “on account, for the works of lead sculpture they are making [for Versailles]” (“à compte des ouvrages de sculpture de plomb qu’ils font”).4 ­Were the small creatures for the borders among the

Original State

said “works of lead sculpture”? I w ­ ill proceed with full confidence that they w ­ ere included, though t­ here is no airtight proof in the published rec­ord to clinch it. It is said in his inventory for the second half of 1666 that Denis Jolly embedded twenty nozzles on the border of the oval basin and twelve on each of the borders of the round basins (Appendix A). The small creatures that would soon go to ­those borders, in t­ hose exact numbers, are not mentioned by Jolly’s scribe. But in an addendum, written in another hand, t­ here is this nugget: “Twenty [nozzles, or ajutages] to the frogs of the oval [basin] and twenty-­four to the two basins below it” (fig. 16).5 So that then resolves the ­matter? The Marsy brothers went to work on their small frogs and other small creatures in the second half of 1666 assuming that they ­were destined for Jolly’s new nozzles?6 I would bet heavi­ly on the likelihood, even though the addendum was penned by Charles Perrault in the ­middle of 1667, a year ­later.7 In September 1666, the month in which the Marsy b­ rothers received their vague payment of 600 livres, Jolly was ordered to raise from four to six the number of satellite jets on the surface of the oval basin. So the decision had been reached by then to populate the basin with exactly that many adult Lyceans? I have no reservations in drawing that conclusion, and indeed I believe that Le Brun was instrumental in the order to adjust the number, but the sources flatly refuse to certify it in writing. In ­these tightly interlocking events I find a “preponderance of evidence” that the Marsy b­ rothers turned to their fountains in the second half of 1666.8 ­There ­were simply too many mutual developments, in the same place, at the same time, to attribute it to coincidence or chance (App. A, for ­these events in broader context).

Le Brun Charles Le Brun, the son of a sculptor, was born in Paris in 1619.9 He spent his teenage years in the Pa­ri­sian studios of François Perrier and Simon Vouet before striking out on his own. During the late 1630s and early 1640s, thanks mainly to his ­family’s connections to Pierre Séguier, the chancelier of France, he secured a series of notable commissions, including one for Richelieu’s Palais Cardinal that won the plaudits of Nicolas Poussin. Le Brun accompanied Poussin when the latter returned to Rome in 1642 following his two-­year stay in Paris. For the next three years, he lived at Séguier’s expense in the Eternal City. He copied the antique remains and the modern masters, Raphael mostly, and fell ­under the spell of Poussin’s classicism. In Rome, he renewed his friendship with Perrier, who lived ­there from 1635 to 1645. In 1648, three years ­after their return to Paris, Le Brun and Perrier joined ten o­ thers in founding the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture. Le Brun’s talents as a decorator ­were in high demand by private patrons following his return home. The 1650s was, for Le Brun, a de­cade of glittering success. It culminated in

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his commissions from Nicolas Fouquet for Vaux-­le-­Vicomte, beginning in 1658, and ending with the ministre’s disgrace ­toward the end of 1661. While still employed at Vaux, Le Brun took up temporary residence at Fontainebleau to paint, ­under Louis XIV’s oversight, his five im­mense canvases of the ­Battles of Alexander (e.g., fig. 47). The versatile Le Brun became directeur of the Gobelins factory in Paris in l663, and, four years ­later the finest embroiderers, weavers, cabinet makers, goldsmiths, and wood carvers w ­ ere assembled ­under one roof. Le Brun, who lived on-­site, supplied the two hundred or more specialists with working designs. The tapestries of the Ele­ments and the Seasons ­were woven from his cartoons in the second half of the 1660s. Though he had been discreetly brandishing the title as early as 1658, Le Brun was officially named premier peintre du roi in 1664. Demand for royal sculpture ­rose sharply in the 1660s, and Le Brun answered the call by assembling a team of carvers and stucco workers led by François Girardon, the Marsy ­brothers, and Thomas Regnaudin. Their first joint production, in 1663–64, was the Apollonian cycle of stucchi above the cornice of the Galerie d’Apollon in the Louvre.10 In 1664–65, the new partners, together with Jean-­Baptiste Tuby, carved eight of the statues of the Months for the gardens of Fontainebleau11—­a prelude to their greatest triumph, the solar triptych along the western axis of Versailles.

Marsy ­Brothers That the Marsy ­brothers ­were the sculptors of the Latona and Lizard fountains is incontestable. The testimony of the Comptes des Bâtiments is sufficient proof, to say nothing of the legions of period authors who reiterate the fact. Gaspard was born in 1624 and Balthazar in 1628 in Cambrai, the sons of Jaspard Marsy, a prominent sculptor, restorer, architect, and commercial dealer of materials. The ­brothers received their earliest training from their ­father. In 1648, they moved to Paris in search of greater opportunities. For a year or two, they lived with a woodcarver, a­ fter which they dedicated another year to private study. From 1651 to 1656, they worked in the studios of Gérard Van Opstal, François Anguier, and Jacques Sarazin, sculptors of the older generation.12 ­There they learned the fash­ion­able art of stucco relief, a talent that led to a string of commissions from the o­ wners of hôtels in the Marais, and to another from Anne d’Autriche for her Appartement d’été in the Louvre. With their earnings, the ­brothers invested in real estate, stock markets, and works of art. Their commercial success was undoubtedly a ­factor in their decision to forego a study trip to Italy.13 The Marsy ­brothers reached their artistic maturity just when Le Brun was beginning to assem­ble his team of decorators in the early 1660s. Over the next de­cade, they carried out their major works for the gardens of Versailles, including the fountains of Latona, the Dragon, the Siren, and Bacchus, as well as one of the equestrian groups for

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the Grotto of Tethys. In the early 1670s, they led the way in embroidering the western facade of Versailles with statues and reliefs and the cornices of the Appartements du roi with stucchi. Balthazar died in 1674 while working alongside Gaspard on the tomb of Jean Casimir for the church of St. Germain-­des-­Prés in Paris. If in one place in this book it is stated that Le Brun was the artist of the Latona fountain and in another place that the Marsy b­ rothers ­were the artists of it, that is not so much a contradiction as an affirmation of the affable, productive teamwork of all three. The details of their alliance, however, are obscure. In their contract for the stucchi of the Galerie d’Apollon of the Louvre, it is specified that the Marsy ­brothers, Girardon, and Regnaudin would proceed “according to the design and model and ­under the direction of M. Le Brun, to commence work on said pieces the day ­after tomorrow, and to continue, without interruption, with a sufficient number of workers, in order to pre­sent said works finished and perfect within the next coming year.”14 Le ­ ere on this approximate scale, Brun’s controls over his sculptors for Latona, I suspect, w even as he urged them to propose new formal solutions of their own.15 One significant difference was that they faced no deadlines. Their ­labor stretched over four years, 1666– 70, during which time they took on other assignments.16 Altogether, the Latona fountain consisted of a f­ amily of three marble deities, a community of ten lead peasants, and menageries of forty-­four small lead creatures. Who, Gaspard or Balthazar, contributed what? Is it pos­si­ble to separate their hands? Their teamwork of twenty-­five years has left no trace of discord in the documentary rec­ord.17 Most of their commissions called for two or more figures and w ­ ere assigned to the part18 nership, not to one ­brother or the other. They then divided their assignments in half. Each figure in a joint enterprise was carried to completion by one ­brother alone. Contemporaries ­were struck by the uniformity of their styles, as indeed we are t­ oday. The sources that assign the fountain to the Marsy b­ rothers are often e­ ither indifferent to the division of ­labor or at odds in their claims. Guillet, the historiographe, wrote a short, trustworthy biography in 1689, but on their workshop practices he is unhelpful: Among the superb works of Versailles, they have made from metal, that is to say from a blend of lead and tin, all the figures of the Dragon fountain [fig. 15], all t­ hose of the Bacchus fountain, all ­those of the Latona fountain, where only the figure of Latona is marble, and all ­those of the ­little fountain that is close to the Latona fountain [sic: the two Lizard fountains]; at the Bains d’Apollon [formerly inside the Grotto of Tethys], two tritons and two h ­ orses of white marble, where one sees one of t­ hese tritons who throws the blanket over one of the h ­ orses [fig. 6, right].19 The original ledgers of the Comptes des Bâtiments assign the authorship to one b­ rother ­here, the other t­ here, or to both together (App. A). Attributions at the bottom of some con­temporary engravings are simply wrong.20

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The l­ ater literary sources call for more serious consideration. Sieur Combes, the guidebook author, wrote in 1680 that the marble group was by “le sieur de Mercy”—­a likely allusion to Gaspard, who was still living.21 A certain “Dame Jourdain,” writing in 1695, assigned it, along with informed praise, to Gaspard.22 Another intriguing source is Jean-­Baptiste Poultier, a sculptor from Huppy, near Cambrai, who may have entered Gaspard’s atelier ­after settling in Paris in 1678. In a famous letter from 1718, Poultier assigned the marble, unconditionally, to Gaspard. Note, too, that Poultier was familiar with unique details in Gaspard’s biography. ­ ere is what one could call an admirable figure. But, what would be the chef-­ H d’œuvre of another, is not at all the most beautiful piece by Gaspard Marsy. He was from Cambrai, and without having left France, he surpassed all t­ hose who did their studies in Rome; the graceful and moving air, the fineness of workmanship, the delicacy of design, the boldness of execution; all of this can be found in the group. Latona justifies the taste of the master of the gods [Jupiter]; Apollon a l’air digne du Dieu de la Lumière et des beaux Arts; Diana is the equal of Latona, but Latona is so beautiful that she can be equaled only by Diana.23 Following the insinuations of ­these authors, I assign the figure of Latona to Gaspard. Indeed, I assign the entire marble group to him, and w ­ ill adopt that attribution from 24 ­here on out. In December 1669, in the first of his lectures to the Académie, Gaspard addressed the same artistic issues that faced the sculptor of the group (Appendix C); the lecture and the final phase of work on the group coincided. Adding to that, it is indisputable that Gaspard was a more conscientious student of the ancient traditions than Balthazar—­the traditions to which the group is properly and solidly a member.25 I make no effort to attribute the ten Lyceans to one ­brother or the other. However, if I am right that Gaspard alone carved the marble, then it is likely that Balthazar modeled a sizable majority (if not all) of the peasants, more or less equalizing their contributions to the w ­ hole. Templates of the frogs, lizards, turtles, and crocodiles ­were modeled by Gaspard or Balthazar, or by both, and handed over to the casters for duplication. The Marsy ­brothers approached the four units of their commission sequentially, though ­there are signs of overlapping, especially ­toward the end (Appendix A). First came the small creatures, undertaken in the third quarter of 1666 and completed about a year ­later; they w ­ ere hauled from the foundry in Paris without delay and installed. ­These modest supporting players w ­ ere alone for three years. Thanks to Jolly, we know their identities and numbers: the oval border was inhabited exclusively by frogs, twenty altogether; each round border featured twelve lizards, crocodiles, frogs, and turtles—­surely three of each. Next, at the end of 1667 or the beginning of 1668, the ­brothers turned to the adult rustics. Their third phase, ­running from the spring of 1668 to the spring of 1670, involved

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the marble group. During their fourth phase, which largely coincided with their third, they tended to the younger peasants. The deities and all the Lyceans, grown-­ups and youngsters alike, w ­ ere transported from Paris to Versailles and installed in 1670.

Perrault ­Brothers Charles Perrault had served on the Pe­tite Académie for a year when Jean-­Baptiste Colbert took over the surintendance of the Bâtiments du Roi in January 1664 and appointed him as his deputy, or commis. No one thereafter was in a stronger position to communicate with the king’s agents at Versailles.26 Charles was more than a mere notetaker at the meetings of the Pe­tite Académie. Like his colleagues, he was designated on occasion to draft a proposal for a royal program, including more than one for the gardens of Versailles. At one point, he was preparing to profess his love of the fountains in verse.27 The lofty claims of the promoters of the Pe­tite Académie are acceptable for much of the 1660s if we think of Claude Perrault, older ­brother of Charles, as an adjunct member of distinction. Claude was often recruited by Charles to serve the interests of his committee.28 In a line from his Mémoires that has long teased the researcher, Charles recalled their collaboration: “At that time [the early days of Versailles], the King left the commissioning of every­thing to M. Colbert, and M. Colbert relied on us for the invention of most of the plans [desseins] that had to be made.”29 This was the second time that Charles put his recollections on paper. In 1693, some seven years before he wrote his Mémoires, he put together a manuscript to accompany two volumes of drawings by Claude. All three w ­ ere destroyed during the Commune of 1871, but thanks to the architect Jacques-­François Blondel, who studied them in the mid-1700s, we have access to bits and pieces of the material. In a book of his own, Blondel remarked that “Claude Perrault, according to his b­ rother, appears to have had a share in the decoration of several of the fountains and bosquets of Versailles.”30 Not even the one-­liner by Charles is more confounding, though it comes close. Credit to the learned men of the Pe­tite Académie for conceiving or refining a program is normally due, even if it is not always pos­si­ble to delineate or quantify it. The cooperative tendency of the Bâtiments du Roi is a cornerstone of the royal arts in our years of concern. Even Le Brun, the premier peintre, was advised by the savants while designing his tapestries of the Ele­ments and the Seasons in the 1660s.31 Though ­there was no sacred routine for the production of royal sculpture, most programs had at least some procedural features in common. Valuable for our inquiry of the Latona fountain is the con­temporary case of a suite of eigh­teen statues of royal virtues for the dome of the Tuileries in Paris. Charles Perrault was tapped by his peers on the Pe­tite Académie to formulate a program. His resulting memo, from 1666, is thick in iconographic details but ends with t­ hese two ­simple paragraphs:

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It is easy to see that all of t­hese figures can have beautiful attributes, all of which can be varied differently; this ­will be done in the models that the sculptors w ­ ill make. If it is thought that t­ here may be too many w ­ omen, t­ here are many Virtues that can be represented as figures of men. We w ­ ill also be able to give the sculptors a number of opportunities to satisfy their fancy and genius [leur fantaisie et leur génie], for which it is necessary to have very g­ reat re­spect.32 Charles knew that his memo was a mere draft. He anticipates, indeed he seems to welcome, a conference with his colleagues to discuss the allegorical cast. Philippe de Buyster and Thibaut Poissant, the leading sculptors of the program, enjoyed a surprising license, and it begs a question: ­Were they beholden to a master designer, such as Le Brun or Claude Perrault, or only to the savants? Nowhere in his memo does Charles hint at the intervention of a higher authority. It is certain from other documents that Le Brun designed the stucchi for the ceilings of the Tuileries in the spring and summer of 1666; he and Colbert, it appears, planned the ceilings while conferring privately.33 That Le Brun designed the statues for the dome is  pos­si­ble, even likely, but the proposal rests on deficient evidence. The sources go only so far before abandoning the researcher to his informed, but still unverifiable views. We w ­ ill likely never know who conceived the Latona fountain. Identifying that individual is less rewarding than affirming the cooperative pro­cess of the Bâtiments du Roi at each stage. In our case, I estimate, the pro­cess progressed as follows: The founding concept is presented to the members of the Pe­tite Académie in the form of a memo or drawing, or both. The proposal is debated, refined, and fi­nally approved. Le Brun is appointed to design the fountain and to name the sculptors. Colbert, a­ fter reviewing the plan, brings it to the king for his approbation. The Marsy ­brothers, who w ­ ere recruited by Le Brun for their fitness for this assignment, prepare a set of terracotta models, which they then discuss with Le Brun before advancing to their permanent materials. To the extent that their models diverge from Le Brun’s drawings, the ­brothers deserve to be included among the fountain’s designers. Regrettably, no drawings or models are known to survive.34

Pictorial Rec­ords The dozen or more con­temporary views of Latona vary widely in their value to the researcher. Most are e­ ither fanciful or imprecise, the work of commercial engravers, both French and foreign, more e­ ager to sell their wares than to picture the fountain reliably.35 The most instructive views are t­ hose by paint­ers and engravers on the royal

Original State

payroll, duty bound to rec­ord with precision the artistic triumphs of the reign. Of this group, five or six stand out. First in time comes the famous bird’s-­eye view from 1668 by Pierre Patel (fig. 12).36 Not only are the small creatures in attendance along the borders of the oval and round basins, their numbers are confirmed by Jolly. None of the life-­size peasants, adult or adolescent, appear in the painting, another truth in 1668. I know of no other artist who documented the three fountains in a state of partial completion. We must not be duped by an engraving by Jean Le Pautre that pretends to show the gardens during the festival of 18 July l668 (fig. 17). The small creatures are ­there, a fact in 1668, but so are Latona and the adult Lyceans, a fiction u­ ntil 1670. Le Pautre issued his print in 1679, a full de­cade a­ fter the event, a gap in time that explains the anachronism. In the m ­ iddle ground of his view of the just-­completed Enveloppe, from 1674, Israël Silvestre shows Latona and her adult persecutors in their proper places (fig. 3); the young peasants in the round basins are blocked from view by the trees. Twenty-­ two frogs, two too many, sit along the oval border.37 It is to Pierre Le Pautre, son of Jean, that we owe our most precious visual document. No price can do justice to the value of his engraving from 1678 (fig. 2). It is on his exclusive authority that we know the exact positions of the adult Lyceans. Of all the pictorial artists, he alone stood at the ideal spot on the lower landing of the Fer-­à-­ Cheval. The requisite twenty frogs are pre­sent and accounted for. In a curious aside, a pair of courtiers engage in excited conversation over a scroll, one squatting on the grass in the zigzagging fashion of the frogs to ­either side. In the ­middle ground are the Lizard basins with their adolescent peasants, small creatures, and tall plumes of w ­ ater. Noteworthy also is Jean Edelinck’s engraving from 1679 of the marble centerpiece in isolation (fig. 18). His French and Latin inscriptions are nearly identical to Le Pautre’s, pointing again to the activity of the Pe­tite Académie. Both prints ­were included in the Cabinet du Roi, a series of folio volumes with illustrations of the artistic and scientific glories of the reign; they w ­ ere intended for the edification of foreigners and ­future generations, thus the resort to a universal Latin. A panoramic view by Adam Pérelle was issued about 1680 by the commercial firm of Nicolas Langlois and is often reproduced in studies of the gardens (fig. 19).38 Pérelle’s vantage point is both higher and more distant than Le Pautre’s (fig. 2), and it came at a high cost in accuracy: the six peasants in the oval basin cannot be distinguished one from another, and the number of frogs on the border is well off the mark.

Literary Accounts Only one literary document rivals Le Pautre’s engraving in value to our inquiry: Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon by Jean de La Fontaine. The privilège du roi was granted

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on 2 May 1668, which represents the terminus ad quem, or finishing point for his writing of the book.39 By then, the Marsy b­ rothers had devoted almost two years to their fountains, and the small turtles, lizards, crocodiles, and frogs w ­ ere approaching the end of their first year of residence on the borders. La Fontaine’s insights into the actions and interactions of the adult inhabitants of Lycea are both incisive and unique. At the bottom of this step, Latona and her twins Hard-­hearted and uncouth p­ eople turn into lowly animals, Transforming as the ­water spills over them: Already the fin­gers of one spread out into webbed toes; The other while watching him is metamorphosed; Another is composed of part insect and part man; His wife pities him with the voice of a frog; Her body is still a w ­ oman. That one gets himself wet, Washes himself, and the more he believes he is washing off all t­ hese traits, The more the w ­ ater contributes to perfecting them. The scene is set in a basin of im­mense size; At the edges, this mob, having become insects, Endeavors to throw ­water at the deities. Surrounding this place, to even further enhance the beauty, A troupe, immobile and without feet, reposes. Nymphs, heroes, and gods of the metamorphosis, Statues whose fate would seem boring ­Were they not enchanted by the delights of this place. Two parterres capture the eye next: Both of them have their flowerets of tender young grass Both of them have a basin that sends up their trea­sures, From the center in a plume, from the sides in arches: The w ­ ater gushes out from the gullets of vari­ous reptiles; ­There hiss the lizards, first cousins to crocodiles; And t­ here many a tortoise, carry­ing its ­house, Stretches out its neck in vain to escape its prison.40 It is this verse, penned by La Fontaine before May 1668, that permits us to put the Marsys’ preliminary studies of the adult peasants in the l­ ater part of 1667 or the early part of 1668 at the outside; five, at least, had reached an advanced state of development for the poet to portray them so precisely. Without doubt, La Fontaine visited the sculptors in their studio or discussed the details with Le Brun, a friend from their time together at Vaux-­le-­Vicomte. In his preface, he cautions the reader that his book does not always conform to the current state of Versailles, that is, Versailles in the period be-

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fore May 1668; instead, he confidently predicts, it looks ahead to what one should expect to find t­ here in two year’s time, 1670.41 His verse is astonishingly prophetic. It corresponds to Le Pautre’s print in all the essentials, one document validating the other. He introduces a ­couple of Lycean peasants at the beginning (figs. 28, 29): “Already the fin­gers of one spread out into webbed toes / The other while watching him is metamorphosed.” ­There they are, man and ­woman, facing one another in the first plane of Le Pautre’s view. La Fontaine turns next to the peasants flanking Latona in the second plane (figs. 30, 31): “Another is composed of part insect and part man; / His wife pities him with the voice of a frog; / Her body is still a w ­ oman.” Th ­ ese two are not only coupled, man and ­woman, they are married—­a nuance of capital importance in our ­later chapters. The actions of the man in the third plane are precisely defined by the poet (fig. 32): “That one gets himself wet, / Washes himself, and the more he believes he is washing off all t­ hese traits, / The more the ­water contributes to perfecting them.” His partner, as­suredly his wife (fig. 33), is missing from the verse; we can only speculate why. The cast of adult Lyceans had been fixed when La Fontaine sat down to write, and it underwent no revision thereafter. La Fontaine speaks of Latona and her twins as a finished sculpture even though the work of carving it was just then getting underway. He has learned enough from his sources to confirm that the group was designed to be viewed “at the bottom of this step”—­a reference to the axial spot on the lower landing (figs. 2, 3). He already knows that the visitor who stands t­ here w ­ ill see the Lycean c­ ouples in receding planes, and in his verse he considers them in that order. He knows that their jets d’eau ­will be launched “contre les déités.” Of the younger peasants he says nothing, but certainly he was familiar with the plan to introduce them; the aigrettes, along with the small creatures that circled the basins, figure prominently in his verse. ­Toward the m ­ iddle of his verse, La Fontaine takes a five-­line detour to visit a suite of terms that, he claims, is standing near our three fountains—or, to be more precise, a suite that he has learned ­will stand ­there in two year’s time. It is another instance of the poet predicting a subsequent phase of development. Much like the Marsy b­ rothers, Jacques Houzeau, the sculptor, seems to have opened the door of his studio to La Fontaine (Appendix F, for his elusive terms). If La Fontaine anticipated a time-­lag of two years, Madeleine de Scudéry looked only a half-­year into the ­future. Her Promenade de Versailles bears a privilège du roi of 16 March 1669, an early date in the year, hinting at authorship of sections of it in 1668. “I do not know, I added smiling, if I ­ought to tell Telamon [a walking companion who plans to write a book] that six months from now, the description that he w ­ ill write on Versailles from the notes he took t­ oday, ­will no longer be accurate, at least as far as the Palais and the Ménagerie are concerned. For the King has already ordered new plans incomparably more beautiful. ­There ­will be admirable statues in all the basins and all

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the fountains, and a thousand new ornaments that I am not even aware of.”42 Scudéry underestimated the time it would take the sculptors to fill the basins of the Parterre de Latone with figurative fountains; a year and a half would have been a more accurate forecast. Standing above the Fer-­à-­Cheval, facing the endless line of sight to the west, she wrote: “The terrace that dominates it offers a perfect view, not too far, not too near. It is surrounded by a row of wild evergreen shrubs. And this vast garden in amphitheater [Fer-­à-­Cheval], with three magnificent terraces and three basins disposed in a triangle, has something enchanting that overwhelms you and cannot be described. Tout y rit, tout y plaît, tout y porte à la joie et marque la grandeur du Maître.”43 Scudéry ignored the small creatures, the only current occupants of the basins “disposed in a triangle” on the lower level. The pa­norama looked to her as to Patel in 1668 (figs. 12, 13). André Félibien ended his chronicle of the festival on 18 July 1668 with a thrilling memory of the illuminations and pyrotechnics (fig. 17, the anachronistic view of 1679): This ­grand allée had scarcely ended its display when, from the three basins in the parterre de gazon [the Parterre de Latone] beneath the Fer-­à-­Cheval, surged three sources of light. A thousand fireworks exploded in the m ­ iddle of the w ­ ater, furiously gushing from a spot where it seems unlikely they should have arisen, and exploded from all sides on the borders of the parterre. No end of other fireworks gushed from the mouths of lizards, crocodiles, frogs, and other bronze [sic] creatures on the borders of the fountains. It was as if they ­were coming to the rescue of the first ones [fireworks]; and shooting ­toward the ­water in the form of some serpents, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all together in big clusters, making for violent warfare.44 Nothing in his report should surprise us. The fringes ­were teeming with the small creatures and the surfaces of the w ­ ater ­were still figureless. Our fountains ­were a fait accompli when the same Félibien published his official guidebook, the Description sommaire du chasteau de Versailles, in 1674: Above ­these bosquets [the f­ uture Bosquet de la Girandole and Bosquet du Dauphin], in climbing t­ oward the château, t­ here are two large pièces de gazon that are framed by two ramps that form the Fer-­à-­Cheval or Demi-­lune facing the château. It is in this big space, inside the Fer-­à-­Cheval, that the basin of Latona is located. She is made of white marble, with her two c­ hildren by her side. Around them you see some peasants, men and w ­ omen, changing into frogs in dif­fer­ent ways. ­These figures are made of bronze [sic], and so are the twenty-­ four frogs [sic] around the basin that all throw ­water in ­great abundance. In the m ­ iddle of each of the grassy patches t­ here are two other basins where young

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peasants, also half-­frogs, throw ­water, and around ­these basins ­there are lizards and turtles, all of them made of bronze [sic].45 Félibien noticed that both sexes are represented in the Lycean community, a distinction that had intrigued La Fontaine. He is the first to remark that the cast included youngsters in addition to adults. His report is not faultless. Miscounting the frogs was a minor slip. Of more consequence, he erred in saying that the younger Lyceans throw ­water into the air; in fact, three of the four turn their heads sharply aside, effectively prohibiting the act (figs. 36, 38). The inscription at the foot of Pérelle’s print (fig. 19) is part quotation, part paraphrase of Félibien’s report of 1674. A lesser voice is that of Claude I Denis, a retired fontainier who composed a poetic “explication” of the gardens of Versailles in 1674 or 1675. He awarded some thirty-­four lines to Latona. His verse, some of it wildly unreliable, w ­ ill be of occasional interest.46 Sieur Combes’s guidebook of 1681 is even less reliable than Denis’s verse, if that is pos­si­ble. Combes played a game with Latona, pretending to find t­ here an “enigma” begging to be unraveled; his “answer” is fantastic, arbitrary, and meaningless.47

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CH A PT ER 4

Visual Narrative

Of the seventeenth-­century editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, two stand out for their impact on Charles Le Brun and his artists. The first, a translation by Nicolas Renouard, was published in 1619 and features a set of large engraved illustrations by Jean Matheus. At the back, he appended his “moral explanations of the fables,” some of which run more than a page.1 Renouard’s book ruled the scene u­ ntil Pierre Du Ryer published a rival edition in 1660. Du Ryer recycled some of Renouard’s prose and even some of Matheus’s imagery, but his “historical, moral, and po­liti­cal explanations” differ markedly from t­ hose by the e­ arlier author. His translation was reissued in a portable, one-­ volume edition in 1666. In 1668, the young Roger de Piles promoted the book as a helpful instruction for the serious artist.2 For all their overlapping language, Du Ryer’s rendering of the Ovidian fable is the more literal, more subdued of the two, Renouard’s the more spirited, more inventive. Nowhere is Renouard more intemperate than in his railing at the Lyceans for their churlish conduct; in his slander of the rustics, he outdoes the Latin poet himself (Appendix E, for both translations). Matheus visualized the travels and travails of Latona and her c­ hildren by means of “continuous narration,” warping Ovid’s time and space by combining the natal event on Delos and the aquatic event in Lycea (fig. 40). With the rippling w ­ ater and steadily rising contours of land, he insinuates that Delos, an itinerant island, is drifting left to right. In the foreground, on a tiny island of her own, Latona is pictured in Lycea in what is now the pre­sent. Ovid and his French translators report that Latona knelt to drink, but they place her action at an indefinite ­water’s edge, not on an island; the isolated island is Matheus’s creation. He i­magined a sequence of five ever-­worsening states for the aggressors, a kind of “evolutionary ladder” in reverse, beginning with the still-­human figure who muddies the ­water with his hands and descending in stages to the half-­submerged, fully formed frog. ­Here he differs from Ovid and his translators, who say nothing of the Lyceans’ ages or intermediate stages of mutation: They are exclusively adult, they are exclusively male, and they are completely h ­ uman one instant,

Visual Narrative

completely batrachian the next. Matheus’s peasants are tamer than Renouard’s, and his Latona has almost none of Ovid’s poetic wrath. Diana reaches with acrobatic grace for a sip, unfazed by the gargantuan frogs a few terrifying feet away. A stoic Apollo alerts his ­mother to the strange proceedings. The oak branches reach through the frame to the sky, and Latona’s plea to Jupiter follows the same path.3 Preceding Matheus by a de­cade was Ambroise Dubois, who represented the episode in the Galerie de Diane at Fontainebleau (fig. 41).4 A fully clad Latona rebukes a pair of Lyceans for harassing her ­children, who take refuge ­behind her; two peasants of minor age appear in altered states, one more than the other. By grading the deformities of the peasants and including youngsters, Matheus entered a long-­standing tradition of the subject in French tapestries. One set, a near con­ temporary of Dubois’s fresco, was woven a­ fter the cartoons of Toussaint Dubreuil for the marriage of François de Savoie and Marie de Bourbon, comtesse de Soissons.5 ­Earlier yet was the Lycean panel from the so-­called Story of Diana Tapestries, a set of eight scenes commissioned by Henri II for Diane de Poitiers in the 1550s, and possibly conceived for the Château d’Anet.6 Some narrative ground had been prepared in advance of Le Brun.

Timely Lecture It was in the latter half of the 1660s that the members of the Académie debated the issue of visual narration. Le Brun, in a lecture on Nicolas Poussin’s Israelites Gathering the Manna of 1637 (fig. 42), was the first to put his views on the line. When he read it, on 5 November 1667, Gaspard and Balthazar Marsy had already invested a year’s worth of work on their Latona and Lizard fountains. No copy of Le Brun’s speech is known to exist, but André Félibien, the historiographe, published a summary in his Conférences de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture pendant l’année 1667.7 Le Brun divided his lecture into four neat sections: disposition; design and proportion; expression of the passions; and light and color. He started by reminding his audience of the particulars of time and place, as set forth in the Old Testament, or as safely deduced from it: the baked desert, the mountains, the uneven mists of daybreak, and so forth. He commended Poussin for truthfully representing the Israelites’ hunger and lassitude at this turning point in their journey, their “extreme necessity” (as Félibien put it).8 He proceeded to describe the age, condition, attitude, and motivation of each Israelite in the first two planes. One’s character is revealed by his contours, he said, and ­every action in the picture is compatible with the elemental subject of privation and despair, followed by salvation and joy. Regarding “disposition,” Le Brun emphasized the integrity of the “parts” (that is, the individual figures who escort the viewer’s eye as it “promenades” about the scene) as well as the integrity of the “groups”

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(that is, the clusters of figures, with their own major and minor “parts,” which “arrest” the eye and prevent it from becoming too “errant”). In the actions of any group, and in the interactions of any two groups, Poussin included “judicious contrasts,” yet all of them are bound together in a comprehensive “unity of action.”9 Now Le Brun narrowed his focus to the suffering old folks in one corner and the joyous younger ones in the other: “The two parts of this painting that are to the right and to the left form two groups of figures that leave the m ­ iddle f­ ree and open to view 10 in order to reveal Moses and Aaron further back.” The two groups, each filled with a wealth of h ­ uman conditions, are bridged by the action of the young w ­ oman who instructs the young man standing alongside her to carry his basket of manna to the old man languishing on the ground at some distance away. Though they bear no direct relationship to the central figures of Moses and Aaron, the actions in t­ hese two groups are appropriate to the biblical history as an integrated w ­ hole. Poussin has introduced the preparatory actions of the Israelites on the left, said Le Brun, and followed up with the concluding actions on the right, now that God has dispensed his miraculous gift. Moses points to the source of their salvation. The final seven pages of Félibien’s summary are given over to the ensuing debate by members of the audience. Félibien attached no names to the participants, but still it is pos­si­ble to identify a few of them by their theoretical views, which are elsewhere known, or by their personal rivalries, which are likewise a m ­ atter of rec­ord. Opening the debate, “someone” declared that the painting did not resemble the events in the desert, that Poussin misread or misinterpreted the biblical text, and that he combined more than one narrative moment in a single picture.11 The manna, he noted, was already spread like dew around their camp when the Israelites awoke. The scene of the nursing ­mother is inappropriate b­ ecause, before the manna arrived, the most aggrieved Israelites had been nourished by the quails. It was contrary to a “true repre­sen­ta­tion” of the episode for Poussin to include both misery and salvation at the same time.12 Le Brun ­rose in protest. What they ­were considering, he insisted, was not merely a painting but a “history.” Historians use words and continuous discourse to advance their narratives; they rec­ord events successively. ­Because the painter must select “one instant” from the flow of events in a narrative, it is sometimes wise for him to include an e­ arlier moment or moments in order to clarify the subject. For the painter to confine himself to the concluding moment in a drama, to exclude any preparatory moment or moments, is tantamount to a poet or historian telling the end of his story but no ­earlier parts. Considering the “grandeur of the miracle” in the desert, Poussin was right to assem­ble more than one biblical moment, to show some Israelites suffering from deep languor, ­others gathering and eating the wondrous food, still o­ thers in prayer. Failure by Poussin to include the falling manna could conceivably lead to confusion over the nature of the substance lying on the ground.13

Visual Narrative

At this point, one of Le Brun’s defenders broke in. He took for granted that the poet and the painter w ­ ere bound by the same rules of narration. As the poet is allowed to unite a succession of events in order to construct a “single action,” so the painter is entitled to the same “license,” as long as his auxiliary events are compatible with the dramatic purpose of the w ­ hole; not d­ oing so would impoverish his work. Th ­ ere is nothing in the Manna that is untruthful or improbable, nor is ­there anything that violates a “unity of action.” Poussin, though he strayed from a literal rendering, has gotten to the “truth of the history.” By observing the rules of dramatic poetry, he is a “true poet.”14 In the preface to his book, Félibien sided with Le Brun on the controversial issue of “moments.” Alluding again to the Manna, he said that a picture, like a fable or literary history, is an imitation of a past action involving a number of figures. It is incumbent upon the artist to choose a single subject, but thereafter he is allowed to render the actions with a degree of latitude, provided they strengthen the ­whole. If the artist aspires to represent “the w ­ hole subject of the piece,” his work w ­ ill be incomplete without a beginning, a ­middle, and an end. Poussin represented the Israelites as they passed sequentially through time, from starvation to a happier condition.15 The camps ­were irreconcilable. On one side w ­ ere t­hose who demanded what amounts to a literal interpretation of the text, an “instantaneous evocation,” in which the inclusion of preparatory c­ auses or incidents is banned. On the other stood Le Brun, Félibien, and t­ hose of their persuasion, who favored Poussin’s more embracing view of the unities.16 For them, Poussin was seeking not one pure, momentary spectacle but rather, as he himself emphasized in a letter to his friend Jacques Stella, a range of passions that the knowledgeable viewer would “read” as if on a written page: “I have found a certain distribution in M. Chantelou’s painting [the Manna], and certain natu­ral attitudes, that show the misery and hunger to which the Jewish ­people have been reduced, and also the joy and happiness that comes over them; the won­der that fills them, the re­spect and reverence that they have for their Lawmaker, with a mixture of w ­ omen, ­children, and men of dif­fer­ent ages and temperaments, ­things that w ­ ill not, I believe, displease t­ hose who know how to read them well.”17 Poussin, by narrating in stages, by linking effects to their c­ auses, told more about the miracle in the desert than any single moment of the event could ever hope to tell. Le Brun’s side had won the day, but the b­ attle lines w ­ ere redrawn even more sharply two months l­ater when, on 7 January 1668, Philippe de Champaigne censored Poussin for taking liberties with his Eleasar and Rebecca, a painting from 1648.18 Instinctively, Le Brun defended Poussin, his mentor, who had only recently died. No issue was fraught with more serious implications for the leadership of the Académie than visual narration. Personality wars play a part in it, as do technicalities over narrative theory, but mostly it was their determination to attain the social and professional prestige of Liberal Artists that motivated Le Brun and his fellow history paint­ers.19 For all their

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pains over two centuries to earn that estimable rank, visual artists w ­ ere still guilty in the minds of many of practicing the “mechanical arts” of the Maîtrise, the old guild of Paris. Félibien clarified the idea in the preface to his Conférences: “Painting, however, is an even higher art, over and above the most celebrated. By developing thoughts as high as, and treating the same subjects as history and poetry, it is not content with strictly retelling them, or wittily inventing them, but forms even more admirable images from them, so that one believes he is seeing the ­actual ­thing, and, in exhibiting it to the eyes of the world, it instructs the ­simple folk in an agreeable way, and satisfies the most learned individuals.”20 To say, as Le Brun said of Poussin, that the painter was equal in genius to the historian or poet, was to lift the standing of the entire institution. ­Behind the scenes, the paint­ers and sculptors of the Académie ­were debating the relative merits of their own arts.21 The leadership had been at pains to pre­sent a united front, promoting them as coequals, and arguments to that effect ­were put before the courts in 1667 in a case involving the sculptor Gérard Van Opstal.22 No one championed the sculptors’ cause more than Le Brun. His ­father had been a sculptor, and he himself was said by his biographers to have practiced the three-­dimensional arts before taking up the brush. Early in the 1660s, he put together his team of young sculptors, Girardon, Regnaudin, the Marsy b­ rothers, and Tuby among ­others, entrusting them with his most urgent assignments. Le Brun’s energies during the years leading to the Apollonian fountains of Versailles ­were consumed by sculpture as much as by painting.

Tableau Only when the visitor has descended to a fixed spot on the landing at the foot of the second flight of steps, well more than halfway down the Fer-­à-­Cheval, did Latona come into purest form. Le Brun designed it to be “read” from that spot. Pierre Le Pautre’s engraving is our gospel (fig. 2). It appears near the geometric center of Israël Silvestre’s view from the west (fig. 3, where the two flights are differentiated). Jean de La Fontaine paused exactly ­there in 1668: “At the bottom of this step, Latona and her twins / Hard-­ hearted and uncouth ­people turn into lowly animals.” At that sacred spot, the beholder stands surprisingly close to the action. In truth, he stands face to face with a three-­dimensional painting by Le Brun. A few meters to the west of the oval basin, a ramp descends to the level of the Lizard fountains, both of which are vis­i­ble in the m ­ iddle ground of Le Pautre’s print. Latona rises above the horizontal line that marks the ramp’s top edge; her right arm parallels that line, and her torso is profiled against the background.23 Her assailants and her twins, as well as her own lower half, are profiled against the ­water and gravel. The rustics fit comfortably in their oval field, two w ­ omen and one man to Latona’s right, the reverse to her left. They alternate by sex in their oval orbit as well as on each of their

Visual Narrative

lateral planes. Latona is privileged by her centrality, frontality, and superior height; the peasants are demoted to inferior status by their angular poses, jagged contours, and peripheral locations. Their arching jets d’eau are picked up in the arabesque lines of the parterres to the rear. Their reflections, all aflutter, condemn them to a state of eternal metamorphosis. A more orderly distribution is unlikely in any medium, be it paint, pencil, or print, let alone marble, lead, and w ­ ater. In the preface to his Conférences, Félibien reduced the art of painting to two essentials: one is reason or theory; the other is practice, or fa­cil­i­ty of the hand.24 The first, which is superior to but inseparable from the second, consists of the artist’s knowledge of the subject and what it takes to render it nobly and truthfully. Ingrained in Félibien’s conception of reason or theory is the princi­ple of decorum, or costume, which he defines this way: I ­will go on to costume, which is nothing more than an accurate observation of all that is appropriate for the persons who are being portrayed, who should be shown with characteristics of greatness or baseness, of kindness or malice, conforming to what they ­ought to represent . . . ​and which still retains what is suitable with regard to age, sex, country, and the dif­f er­ent professions, customs, passions, and manners of dress, proper to each nation.25 Costume is the ­simple but basic concept that underlies many narrative decisions of Le Brun and the Marsy ­brothers. They cast Latona at about twenty-­five or thirty years of age. They endowed her upper body with soft, graceful contours and covered her lower body in a ­simple, dignified mantle (fig. 20). Apollo and Diana, responding like all ordinary c­ hildren to the terrifying sight of the Lyceans, seek the safety and comfort of their ­mother, but it also behooves them to act according to their divinity: Apollo, the god of cosmic order, of art and inspiration, ascends, Sun-­like, distancing himself from the lowly, earthbound forces that seek to obstruct his destiny (fig. 25). Diana, modesty personified, withdraws, her contours Moon-­like (fig. 27). The peasants are cast as rabble of remote derivation. The men are rough, their hair disheveled, their chins unshaven. One man, one girl, and both boys are bareback. The w ­ omen wear rags or strapped dresses. They squat or kneel on beds of marsh grass. One ­woman and both boys hold clumps of grass in their hands. The young rustics in the round basins are separated by reeds and rushes. In Ovid’s Lycea, ­there are no crocodiles, turtles, or lizards, but they circle the round basins and add appropriate color to the exotic scenery.26 Ovid’s Lycea is populated by an unstated number of adult men. As for particulars in their society, such as their companionship with w ­ omen, the poet supplies no information. An artist who filled some of the narrative gaps was Matheus, though his exclusively male peasantry was standard casting (fig. 40). Le Brun, never one to snub the work of popu­lar printmakers, found a number of appealing ideas in the engraving.

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If we recall the arguments with which Le Brun defended Poussin’s right as a “true poet” to represent his histories with “license,” then it w ­ ill come as no surprise to find that he has “adorned” Ovid’s story with his own reasoned notions of what ­really happened on that sweltering day in distant memory when Latona met the peasants of Lycea in their bog.27 His narrative choices ­were largely conditioned by the number of jets at his disposal. Denis Jolly had been ordered to install six satellite jets, not four, in the oval basin. If it was the luxury of two extra jets that led Le Brun to script a role for w ­ omen equal to that of men, ­there is no way of knowing, but his options grew im­mensely with the increase.28 He subdivided the Lyceans into three ­couples, layering them in parallel planes that cross the axis at right a­ ngles: the first runs in front of the marble island, the second traverses it, the third passes b­ ehind. Latona monopolizes the axis. From La Fontaine we know that t­ hese ­couples are married and that each is unique in thought, passion, and degree of metamorphosis. He considers the three in receding order, as they appear to the ideal viewer (fig. 2). The first husband’s fin­gers are now webbed, writes La Fontaine; his wife, noticing the alterations, inherits his condition (figs. 28, 29). The frog-­headed ­couple is next: The husband is “part insect and part man,” while his wife’s body is “still a ­woman”—­another way of saying that the rest of her is unwoman (figs. 30, 31); this second pair is the most batrachian of the three, and it is proof of Le Brun’s tidy mind that their heads are profiled against the grassy border, the home of the fully formed frogs (fig. 2). The third husband only quickens his fate by trying to undo the damages (fig. 32); his spouse is missing from La Fontaine’s verse, but like the other wives she rushes forward to help (fig. 33). Cross-­referencing the rustics in so many intimate ­human ways is unique to Le Brun’s fountain. Each of the six peasants—­that is, each “part,” according to Le Brun’s concept of “disposition”—­assaults the divine ­family with a jet d’eau and, to that extent, they all act together. Si­mul­ta­neously, each wife responds empathetically to the misfortune of her husband, a private conversation through space that harks back to the Manna (fig. 42), where a figure in the foreground plane is motivated by pity or charity for another figure in the same plane, but at some remove. The wives and husbands, once they are reduced to self-­contained ­couples, take on the integrity of “groups”—an ally of Le Brun’s “parts.” That w ­ omen enter into Le Brun’s scenic narrative at all, much less that they have taken their marital vows or fret over the tormented states of their husbands, is one mea­sure of his “license” as a poet-­historian. If four Lyceans ­were too few for Le Brun, eight or ten would have been too many, and not only ­because the oval basin was too small or ill-­shaped to accommodate such an enlarged gathering. Félibien had cautioned the painter against the practice of casting too many secondary actions in a historical scene.29 As Henri Testelin, the secrétaire of the Académie, remarked of Poussin’s Christ Healing the Blindmen (fig. 43): “The painter has eliminated the multitude, which the holy story says followed Jesus, in order to avoid the confusion that it would have caused in his composition, and ­because

Visual Narrative

he had believed that this detail served nothing in expressing this miracle; but in order not to omit anything that was essential to the subject, he had expressed in the small number of figures that accompany Our Lord all the movements and the passions that are relevant to this encounter.”30 To this end, Le Brun appointed a del­e­ga­tion of ten Lycean peasants, six in the primary basin and two in each of the secondary basins, to stand in for the unseen, unnumbered ­others in their village. To another stricture, originating in no less an authority than Leonardo da Vinci, Le Brun answered with some ambivalence. In the 1651 edition of the Traité de la peinture, ­there appears this admonition: “Do not mix a large number of small ­children with a similar number of older ­people, nor young men of the nobility with valets, nor w ­ omen amongst men, if the subject that you want to simulate does not absolutely require it.”31 Le Brun, ignoring the advice, populated the primary basin with a like number of males and females, and the same for the secondary ones. However, by pairing the Lyceans, by sex in all three basins and by marital condition in the oval one, he deftly side-­stepped the pitfalls. No two c­ ouples look or act alike.

Perrier and the Niobides Pierre Francastel argued long ago that Le Brun and his sculptors w ­ ere familiar with a painting by Francesco Albani of the subject of Latona and the Lyceans (fig. 44).32 The painting, originally a tondo, was executed by Albani soon ­after his arrival in Rome in 1601.33 By what provenance it reached France is a mystery. Francastel assumed that the painting was already in the king’s possession in l668, but we know now that Sieur de La Feuille owned it ­until 1671, at which time he sold it, along with the rest of his collection, to the crown.34 Was Le Brun acquainted with La Feuille? Did he somewhere see the picture before 1671? Both questions are open. Arnauld Brejon de Lavergnée has wondered if La Feuille bought his collection from Everhard Jabach, the banker, patron, and connoisseur.35 If he is correct, then it is safe to conclude that Le Brun was familiar with the painting before he designed his fountain. If Francastel erred on the m ­ atter of dates, that by itself is not enough to invalidate his larger conclusions. Albani’s peasants have surged to within an arm’s length of the gods, in one of the most villainous assaults in the pictorial history of the subject. Their attack is bold and it is calculated: As one peasant reaches out to snatch the twins, a more cowardly comrade approaches their m ­ other from her blind side. But metamorphosis has just set in, stopping the kidnappers in their tracks and bending them into odd shapes. The squatting, frog-­headed peasant in the corner is just now aware of his condition and seems to freeze at the insight. A companion looks on compassionately, while another two strug­gle with a bundle of marsh grass in the other corner. Idiosyncrasies abound, original

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thoughts by Albani on the state of the Lyceans during their last moments of humanity. Then, without forewarning, a number of his ideas reappear in the fountain at Versailles. Do we assign the double appearance to chance? It is pos­si­ble. In my view, it is more likely that the painting was somehow accessible to Le Brun.36 Le Brun was certainly beholden to the Niobides, the ensemble of fifteen ancient statues that stood in his day in the gardens of the Villa Medici in Rome.37 Two detailed visual rec­ords of it are known, a drawing by Stefano della Bella (fig. 45), and an engraving by François Perrier (fig.  46).38 They ­were executed in­de­pen­dently. Though Le Brun was familiar with Perrier’s image but not della Bella’s, still it is instructive to view the two side by side. On the arrangement of the fifteen statues, the images are in agreement: Niobe and her youn­gest ­daughter rise above the scene from a rocky knob; her other c­ hildren and a ­horse fill the foreground, spreading out on both sides and, with the lone exception of her kneeling son, vacating the central axis. For della Bella, Niobe and her son are aligned vertically, which creates an axial spine through the w ­ hole. Perrier, who stood a pace or two to the left of della Bella, faced a winding but still open corridor to Niobe, who appears in full silhouette at the end. Copies and casts of the Niobides ­were commonplace, but the vehicle that widened their renown more than any other was Perrier’s Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum of 1638, an anthology that included engravings of the ensemble and several of the individual statues. Access to the Niobides was as easy as reaching for a bound book. Since Perrier’s print is one of the ancestors of Latona, it is only fitting to say a few short words about him. François Perrier was born in Burgundy about 1594. Of his formation as an artist we know with assurance only that it took place in Lyon. He made his first trip to Rome before 1625, finding work with Giovanni Lanfranco at S. Andrea della Valle. When Joachim von Sandrart put together a team of foreign artists to engrave Vincenzo Guistiniani’s collection of antiquities, Perrier became an active member. Perrier was back in Lyon from 1629 to 1631–32, a­ fter which he moved to Paris to work u­ nder Simon Vouet. Almost at once, he took an assistant of his own, the thirteen-­year-­old Charles Le Brun. In 1635, he returned to Rome for a stay of ten years. In addition to his prize commission, the fresco cycle in the gallery of the Peretti palace, he produced an impressive group of easel pictures in the styles of Poussin and Cortona. It was during this phase that Perrier published his Segmenta (on ancient statues) and Icones (on ancient reliefs).39 His last three years in Rome, 1642–45, coincided with Le Brun’s term of study ­there. Settling in Paris, Perrier painted the ceiling of the gallery of the Hôtel de La Vrillière and some ceilings and wall panels in the Hôtel Lambert. In 1648, Perrier, Le Brun, and ten o­ thers founded the Académie. Guillet de Saint-­Georges, the historiographe of the Académie, remembered their warm fellowship: “The master and the disciple always mutually esteemed one another.”40 The master died in 1649.41

Visual Narrative

Each of the Segmenta’s one hundred prints is based on a drawing by Perrier. Only eighty sculptures appear ­there, though, ­because at times he drew multiple views of a piece, such as the Borghese Gladiator (4 views; fig. 67), the Farnese Hercules (3 views), the Medici Venus (2 views), the Belvedere Apollo (2 views), and the Wrestlers (2 views). Like Giovanni Battista de’Cavalieri a generation ­earlier, Perrier allowed the statues to speak for themselves, refusing to “restore” the fragments by filling in their missing parts. He drew them “on site,” so wrote Guillet, and succumbed only occasionally to the temptation to put a work in fictitious scenery.42 The Wrestlers appears against the background of the Coloseum, though it resided at the Villa Medici. The Niobides overlooks a deep and distant valley (fig. 46), but we know from reports and images, not by Perrier, that it stood in a semicircular colonnade in the gardens of the same Villa Medici.43 Niobe kneels on a knob of ground, an allusion to her native Mount Sipylus, to which she was swept by the wind a­ fter weeping herself to stone. For pictorial effect, Perrier embroidered the stage with weeds and the backdrop with trees and dim buildings. To hide their socles, he posed the statues on bumpy terrain or braced them against boulders or outcroppings. Perrier himself added the airborne gods, camouflaging them in a thick cover of clouds and darkening much of the scene with long shadows.44 Both della Bella and Perrier stretched the intervals between the statues, the former more than the latter, neither substantially.45 Della Bella’s stage is shallower than Perrier’s, his heroine closer to the picture plane; by aligning Niobe and her kneeling son and by centering them on the page, he gave a strong axial symmetry to the scene. Perrier’s Niobe appears to be shorter than some of her ­daughters, a reversal of their true heights.46 By stopping a few feet to the left of center, he found himself at the door to a wide corridor, a “parting of the ­waters” for Niobe. If as a result his arrangement is right-­ heavy, he compensated for it by widening the stage and inviting the viewer to “promenade” leisurely from figure to figure. His decisions ­here, even while he was rendering a preexisting group of fifteen marble figures, are consistent with much of his history painting from the years of his second stay in Rome, 1635–45. Noteworthy are his Adoration of the Golden Calf and Striking the Rock, both from the late 1630s, both now hanging in the Museo Capitolino.47 Perrier built his compositions the way Poussin often built his own in the same period, by loading the foreground corners with groups of expressive figures, by loosening or reducing the cast in the m ­ iddle space, and by carving out one or more corridors that lead to the characters or objects of importance.48 Lesser figures are consigned to the rear. A Death of the Niobides, hanging t­ oday in the Villa Madama and likely by Perrier, is or­ga­nized in this way.49 Poussin’s resort to this formula was not lost on Le Brun, who admired the “­free and open” ave­nue leading to Moses in the heart of the Manna (fig. 42). Félibien recalled a part of Le Brun’s lecture in ­these words: “It is still not enough for a work to be perfect; ­there must be par­tic­u­lar signs that distinguish the main and the most remarkable deeds. In the painting of the Manna, Moses is distinguished among all the ­others as

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much by the place that he holds, by his face, by his clothing, and by an air that gives an impression of his fame, as by the actions of t­ hose around him. If one wants to vary one’s subject through a few other actions, it is necessary to be mindful that ­these must not be too many or too lowly, even though they may relate to the subject of the painting.”50 Le Brun’s fountain is a sculptural paraphrase (fig. 2). Latona jumps into view from her prized position in the open center. The scale of her small island, even something of the form of it, resembles the rocky knob on which Perrier has placed his Niobe. ­There is a stranger parallel yet. Perrier’s image of the Niobides appears on a wide rectangular sheet of paper, an inch or so wider than the other sheets in the Segmenta (fig. 46). To fit the sheet inside the cover, the user must fold it at one end, narrowing the image by an inch. When this happens, the girl who raises her arm and lifts her dress and who stands somewhat apart, is erased from the composition.51 Niobe replaces her kneeling son in the center of the sheet. Four, not five, ­children are left in front, equaling the number of peasants in the first two planes of Le Brun’s tableau. In both the engraving and the tableau the figures are grouped in an oval, and in both they alternate by sex. The alternation at Versailles is all the more striking when we recall that ­women do not figure in Ovid’s locus classicus at all, or even in the pictorial traditions. Le Brun’s casting is without pre­ce­dent.52 In such particulars, his tableau is a posthumous tribute to Perrier.

Stretching the Moment, Mildly but Significantly In the fountain’s original state, Latona turned her head and right arm to the southern sky (fig. 2). She faced the Sun during most of the day, and it was no doubt partly in defense against the blistering heat that she has allowed her mantle to slide to her waist. Ovid said that, on reaching the marsh of Lycea, she fell instantly to her knees. Weary, fearful of Juno, fretful over the safety of her c­ hildren, famished, above all thirsty, she seeks only her “common right” as a citizen of the earth. The rest of the drama unfolds with Latona on her knees. In that pose she meets the peasants, appeals to their goodwill, and tolerates their dirty tricks only so long. It is while kneeling that she dispatches her plea to Jupiter. She is still on her knees when Jupiter intervenes. Le Brun handled the issue of narrative time with a mild but indispensable dose of poetic license. The issue arises in the inscription at the foot of Le Pautre’s engraving of 1678 (fig. 2): “Latone entre ses deux enfants Apollon et Diane, demandant vengeance à Jupiter de l’insolence des paysans de Lycie, qui sont changés en grenouilles”; a Latin rendering appears at the right. Jean Edelinck’s view of the main group, from 1679, carries a pair of nearly identical inscriptions (fig. 18). Notable is the conflation of the two principal events, Latona’s plea to Jupiter and Jupiter’s punishment of the Lyceans, both told in the pre­sent tense.53 But of course the events unfolded sequentially, in multiple

Visual Narrative

stages, beginning with Latona’s attempts to soften the hearts of the adult peasants. Included in this stage ­were the threats and refusals and foul tricks by the adults. They ­were followed by Latona’s plea, which in turn was followed by the alterations in the peasants, which evolved unevenly over time. The alterations then led to the last-­second commiserations among the ­couples. The youngsters, stricken in differing degrees by the sight of their elders, attempt to flee or hide. Le Brun treated time as he had treated it in his Tent of Darius, a painting from 1660–61 (fig. 47).54 Alexander, his trusted friend Hephestion alongside, has entered the Persian tent following his victory at the B ­ attle of Issus. Th ­ ere they are met by the ­family and retinue of Darius. Sysigambis, ­mother of Darius, ­mistakes the taller Hephestion for Alexander and begs for mercy to the wrong party. In his livret on the painting, Félibien observed that Le Brun had chosen “the moment when Sysigambis, who had mistakenly addressed herself to Hephestion, throws herself at the feet of Alexander and begs his ­pardon. Since he represents this moment in such a learned manner, he reveals an infinity of beautiful expressions in his painting, which renders it incomparable.”55 We are already a few split seconds into the cliffhanger. Sysigambis, realizing her ­mistake, shifts her plea to Alexander, but she is still unaware of the favorable outcome. Alexander ignores the insult: “You w ­ ere not mistaken, ­mother; for this man too is Alexander.”56 Clemency is granted. The war inside Alexander subsides, reason and restraint winning out over damaged pride and lawless passion: “For in overcoming himself, he overcame, not barbarous ­peoples, but the Conqueror of all Nations.”57 Reactions cascade through the Persian camp, striking each figure uniquely, according to each’s age, sex, social station, cultural origin, native custom, and degree of involvement. The triggering event in both works is a verbal petition by one party to another party of superior authority, by Sysigambis to Alexander in the painting, by Latona to Jupiter in the fountain. The superior authority replies instantly to the petition, dispensing mercy to the Persians in one instance, punishment to the Lyceans in the other. The act of dispensation, itself a subsequent event, precipitates a wave of thought and feeling in ­those who receive it. The m ­ other, wife, and d­ aughters of Darius, from their inner positions, react directly to the actions of the Macedonians; their servants and slaves, on the periphery, react to the reactions. A wave of action and reaction sweeps across the Latona fountain, too, and at about the same velocity. Jupiter’s revenge on the first husband has advanced as far as his hands and, like him, his wife is still mostly ­human. For the frog-­headed c­ ouple, the percentages are reversed. The girls, witnessing the plights of their elders from afar, try to escape, their own mutations notwithstanding. On it goes, ending fi­nally with the former peasants on the shoreline, their home forever.

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Latona Group

The centerpiece of the fountain is deeply rooted in the doctrines of Charles Le Brun, the designer, and Gaspard Marsy, the sculptor who followed his designs. Emerging from their lectures at the Académie is a fund of original ideas that go to the heart of the fountain, and from t­ here to the conceit of the western axis of the gardens of Versailles. Their ideas clearly reflect their formations. For Le Brun: three years of study in Rome; the tutelage of Nicolas Poussin; a reverence for Raphael and the ancient masters. For Marsy: apprenticeships in the ateliers of the leading sculptors of the older generation, two of whom had lived at length in Rome; acquired knowledge of the innovations of Poussin and his friend François Duquesnoy; and an understanding of a class of statuary that was thought to be ancient Greek. ­Here, on one of the most prestigious stages in the kingdom, was a timely opportunity for the artists to unveil a new standard of excellence in marble sculpture.

Background When he reached the Eternal City in Poussin’s com­pany in November 1642, Le Brun was carry­ing a letter of recommendation from Pierre Séguier, his protector, to Cardinal Antonio Barberini, nephew of Urban VIII Barberini and dedicated ally of the French. Thanks to a papal authorization, Le Brun spent more than a year of study in the finest collections in Rome.1 He was leading the idyllic life in July 1644 when the papacy passed suddenly from the Barberini to their rivals, the Pamphili, allies of Spain. In a letter to Séguier from the following year, Le Brun complained of the hardships that he and his fellow countrymen ­were facing in Rome.2 He was fortunate to be able to continue his visits to the Palazzo Barberini, especially since Antonio and his b­ rother Francesco had fled to France. One object he would have routinely seen in the Barberini gardens was a life-­size marble group of Latona and her twins by Domenico Pieratti (fig. 48), an artist whose

Latona Group

stature was considerably loftier in his day than in ours. The sculpture was executed between 1629 and 1635 on a commission from Francesco. Pieratti was required by his contract to carve the work for a “galleria,” but on arrival it was erected in a loggia outside the palace.3 The Ovidian subject rarely appears in the plastic arts; as far as I know, Pieratti’s was preceded by only one extant life-­size group, a marble by Agostino Ubaldini, from the 1620s, which held no interest for Le Brun, though he was familiar with it.4 Robert Berger has proposed that Pieratti’s group was the “primary visual model” for Le Brun’s centerpiece of Versailles some two de­cades ­later.5 It was an influence but not his only or even foremost one. Looking closely at the Italian work ­will alert us in advance to what the Versailles group resolutely is not. Pieratti sought to seize the beholder at the instant of encounter, to sum up the drama in a single flash or first impression. With this end in sight, he squeezed his figures into a solid pyramid with one dominant face. Latona throws her weight onto her left knee, creating with her raised right thigh a safe resting spot for her ­daughter’s hand. Her relaxed leg draws inward, t­ oward her son, and is countered by the downward, outward axis of her shoulders. Her anguished face turns skyward at still another ­angle. Taut, compressed, wound tightly as a spring, this Latona is on the verge of physical explosion; an agile model would be hard-­pressed to duplicate her pose. Diana’s body has all the zigzagging lines of her unseen tormentors, the odd-­limbed Lyceans. Apollo postures with the self-­conscious grace of Michelangelo’s Risen Christ. He grips the edge of a drapery and a miniature lyre. The c­ hildren are much older than Ovid’s “babes,” and indeed they hardly qualify as “twins,” since Diana, standing upright, would tower over her b­ rother by a head or more.6 The group at Versailles is similarly configured (fig. 20). Latona again kneels in the center of a geometric unit and pleads skyward. Diana again sits uneasily in the left corner, but her back f­ aces her m ­ other and her left side the viewer. Apollo is again on his feet to the right, but instead of posturing, statue-­like, he now searches for higher and safer ground in his m ­ other’s arms. Latona safeguards both c­ hildren, but Apollo more than Diana. Le Brun picked the same Ovidian moment, when Latona’s tolerance was overtaken by her wrath and she prayed to Jupiter for revenge, though, as we have seen, the vis­i­ble presence of the rustics at Versailles has the effect of widening the temporal dimension. Marsy’s group is at once taller and shallower than Pieratti’s. It is also less congested and less active internally, which tends to lighten the look of it as a w ­ hole. Latona is more erect h ­ ere, rising well above her c­ hildren, and together they occupy a rather slender isosceles triangle. This Latona is more collected, even if her mantle has slipped to her waist, exposing her upper half. She kneels in quiet counterpoint, her hips tilting one way, her shoulders the other. She pivots slightly at the waist, advancing her left hip and right shoulder in further fine opposition; her head, following the rules of classical contrapposto, turns in the direction of her advancing arm. Her left leg is stable enough for Apollo to climb like the Sun to a higher, nobler place (fig. 25). Diana, already displaying her legendary modesty, recoils in lunar profile (fig. 27). So thoroughly

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are the essences of ­these two gods subsumed in their forms and actions that Marsy had no reason to include their defining attributes.7 Unlike Pieratti’s c­ hildren, who fill the forespace, Marsy assigned his to the plane of their m ­ other; they flank her like bookends and line up with the frog-­headed rustics in the second plane of the tableau (fig. 2). Auxiliary information arrives l­ater, once the visitor has taken the Fer-­à-­Cheval to the bottom and toured the basin. Diana’s trusting ­little hand, Apollo’s determined ascent, and Latona’s well-­made, well-­secured sandals come into view from the rear (fig. 26). Latona’s arms are equally expressive from this side, one beckoning Jupiter as it hovers over and reassures Diana, the other comforting Apollo as it hoists him skyward. Le Brun and Marsy spent valuable time in front of paintings by Raphael, notably his La Belle Jardinière (La Vierge à l’Enfant et Saint Jean), a jewel in the royal collection from François I onward (fig. 49). Like Raphael, they filled one corner of the triangle with a resting child and the other with an upright child of superior rank; both are secure inside the boundary of the geometric unit. Apollo and Diana are identical in age and stature to Christ and Saint John the Baptist, making them much younger, shorter, and plumper than Pieratti’s c­ hildren (fig. 48). In temperament they are close kin to the youngsters in Raphael’s Madonna of François I (La Grande Sainte Famille), another possession of the crown (fig. 50). The painter Nicolas Mignard said in a lecture in September 1667 that Raphael had given each figure “a character that is entirely consistent to who he is, and entirely becoming of the holiness of his subject.”8 Christ’s affection for his ­mother is imprinted in his eyes, smile, and gestures; she greets him with reverence and humility, with love that is more divine than ­human; her countenance is wise, modest, and fully appropriate.9 Most of Mignard’s critique is germane to our marble group. Latona lifts her son ­gently yet securely, reassuringly, while he yearns for her with all the passion of Raphael’s Savior. M ­ others and sons converge, their arms interlock. The Belle Jardinière is formulated in this way. The painter Jean Nocret observed in a lecture from April 1669 that Christ’s face is “so full of kindness and sweetness and so full of love for his ­mother that he is scarcely separated from her, standing on the Virgin’s foot, looking steadily at her in testimony of his reciprocal love for this ­great queen, along with an embrace that bears witness to e­ very conceivable tenderness.”10 In one of his two lectures before the Académie, which we ­will soon read, Gaspard Marsy said that Raphael was without peer in his mastery of the most exquisite style or manner in art.11

Richelieu Torso Carving a statue of Venus in seventeenth-­century France was a double-­edged sword for the sculptor. No subject in the repertory gave him wider field to exercise his art and

Latona Group

science or more rightful claim to fame if he produced a winning piece. Conversely, in taking on that subject, he entered into direct competition with the legendary sculptors of Antiquity, ordinarily a losing proposition. In his book on the royal collection of ancient statuary, André Félibien remarked that Venus had been represented more often than any other deity in the pantheon and that this explains why so many lovely images of her survive. Of a statue of Venus in the collection, he said: “Since the most excellent sculptors of Antiquity w ­ ere intent on displaying that which is most perfect in the structure of the h ­ uman body, it was especially in their statues of Venus that they endeavored to express, with all their art and science, the many beauties that go into the body of a perfectly beautiful ­woman.”12 Few French commentators on the art of sculpture failed to rhapsodize over the Medici Venus, which, in the seventeenth c­ entury, was standing in Rome (fig.  51). For Perrier, who published three views in his Segmenta of 1638, the statue was a model of plurifacial art. In 1656, Abraham Bosse issued five mea­sured engravings of the w ­ hole figure and o­ thers of a hand and a foot. Félibien stated in 1666 that no antiquity surpassed it in beauty. The statue’s stock r­ ose higher still when Le Brun told the Académie in 1667 that a figure in Poussin’s Manna had been inspired by it (fig. 42). Sébastien Bourdon, building on the idea l­ater in that year, noticed a figure in Poussin’s Christ Healing the Blindmen (fig. 43) that reminded him of the statue.13 ­There was no more ardent champion of the Medici Venus than the sculptor Thomas Regnaudin, who knew it from his stay in Rome, 1669–70. ­Because this Venus is so bashful, he said in a ­later speech to the Académie, she attempts to cover up by bending forward and pressing her legs lightly together. Her hair had once been gilded, he argued, and the impressions on her upper left arm indicate that she had worn a golden, stone-­studded bracelet. For added glitter, she had also worn earrings, the very pair, in fact, that Cleopatra dissolved in vinegar to impress Marc Antony. No portrayal of Venus was more deserving of such rich jewelry than this one, so said Regnaudin.14 The Medici Venus was for Regnaudin the most beautiful, most admired statue in Rome, and he placed it alone atop the ancient canon.15 In so ­doing, he was replying to a vein of criticism from the 1660s in which the statue ­either shared top billing or fell a notch beneath it. Balthasar de Monconys claimed in 1664 that the Celestial Venus and the Medici Venus ­were not only by the hand of the same sculptor but ­were of equal excellence, a routine judgment among antiquarians in Italy.16 However, the Medici Venus’s stiffest competition came from the marble remains of a standing Venus, the Richelieu Venus, also known at the time as the Richelieu Torso (fig. 52). The Richelieu Torso was unearthed at the Baths of Pozzuoli and sent to the Château de Richelieu, south of the Loire, in the second quarter of the seventeenth c­ entury.17 ­There it joined a collection of other ancient figures of Venus, not all of which are easily identified t­ oday. One in par­tic­u­lar, in my opinion the Richelieu Torso, was known to Poussin, who told his friend the Abbé de Maucroix, who ­later told Jean de La Fontaine, that he was inclined “to put it above the Medici one.”18 Paul Fréart de Chantelou, Gian

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Lorenzo Bernini’s guide during his trip to France in 1665, said on 13 September of that year that “only the torso [at Richelieu] is antique”—­implying with the word “only” that some modern features had been grafted onto it.19 Bernini, who had seen the torso several times at Pozzuoli, told Chantelou that he valued it above the Medici Venus; he scolded the authorities for allowing such a trea­sure to leave his country.20 Chantelou owned a superb plaster cast of the Richelieu Torso, and on 26 September  1665 he introduced it to Charles Perrault as “an antique relic, the most beautiful Greek work of this kind, in the opinion of the most knowledgeable”—­sly words in praise of Bernini, no friend of Perrault’s.21 Bernini again voiced his esteem for the Torso on 2 October, in the same conversation in which he famously faulted Michelangelo for his inability to render his marble figures “fleshlike.”22 Two days ­later, Chantelou told Jean-­Baptiste Colbert that the Richelieu Torso was thought to be more beautiful than the Medici Venus, a remark that brought a dubious smile to Colbert’s face but approval to Bernini’s.23 During his conversation on 2 October, Chantelou told an acquaintance of his plan to donate his exemplary cast of the Richelieu Torso to the Académie. The cast arrived in November.24 At the end of that month, the officers ordered the production of enough new casts of Chantelou’s cast to supply each student with one of his own. The students ­were then instructed to “restore” their casts, each according to “his own preference.”25 If a competition among the students was held, we do not know. None of their academic exercises is known to exist in any case. It is now impossible to judge the merits of the Richelieu Torso ­because the marble has under­gone at least four restorations over the years, and the “epidermis” has been gravely compromised (fig. 52).26 One “adaptation” of the original does exist, Pierre Le ­ ater, which stood u­ ntil recently along the AlGros’s marble Venus Emerging from the W lée Royale (fig. 53); he commenced work on it in 1685. Con­temporary sources agree that Le Gros looked to the Richelieu Torso for his model, an allusion, surely, to Chantelou’s gift to the Académie.27 As for his additions, the same sources are ­silent.28 One takeaway is that the pure, soft contours of the torso of his Venus are more expressive than the damaged remains of the Richelieu Torso itself.

Imperative of the Nude On 4 February 1668, Gérard Van Opstal, one of Marsy’s masters, lectured on “the torso of a small antique Venus.” For demonstration he used not the Richelieu Torso itself, which remained at Richelieu, but a plaster cast, almost certainly Chantelou’s gift.29 His text has vanished, but the essence of it is preserved in a report by the comte de Caylus, written many de­cades l­ater. Van Opstal opened with an elegy on the art of sculpture, his calling in life. Caylus dismissed it out of hand: “It is true that this elegy is not accompanied by any detail.” Then, continuing: “Nevertheless, he [Van Opstal] recommended more study

Latona Group

of it [the ancient Torso], since the use of clothing not only puts constraints upon the figures in our country, it hinders them from presenting to us their nude studies, which always struck the attention of the Greeks, and as a result it was easy for them to benefit at any given time. It is one of the reasons, according to Van Opstal, that the Ancients reached such a degree of perfection, which, it seemed to him, we have not yet attained.”30 Van Opstal was addressing two interrelated issues, both of which had been discussed recently at the Académie. The first, that sculptors needed to devote more time to the study of ancient statues, had been a subtheme of his own lecture on the Laocoön (fig. 56) in July 1667. The second, that artists needed to work more diligently on their study of the nude, had been introduced by Le Brun in his lecture on Poussin’s Manna, in November 1667, during which he expressed his dis­plea­sure with paint­ers who avoided the nude by clothing their figures in “mere rags.” He exhorted his colleagues to own up to the noble tradition of the nude form, not to evade it. Two months l­ ater, Le Brun revisited the issue in his debate with Philippe de Champaigne over the merits of Poussin’s Eleasar and Rebecca. To Champaigne’s charge that Poussin had slavishly copied the proportions and drapery of an ancient statue for one of his figures, Le Brun countered by insisting that Poussin was working ­toward the same ends as the Ancients and quite naturally arrived at the same solutions. Then, returning to one of his lines of defense of the Manna, he argued that historians who write in­de­pen­dently on a subject ­will inevitably agree on particulars even if each is unfamiliar with the other’s work. By discovering “the genuine effects of nature,” Poussin equaled the ancient masters on their own terms. Moreover, the Ancients observed the same rules of proportion b­ ecause they took “nature and truth” for their model. Le Brun concluded his case with a truly incredible argument: “In truth, the Greeks had a ­great advantage over us b­ ecause their country produced naturally better formed persons than ours, and furnished them with more beautiful models, ­because they wore clothes that did not hinder the body and did not spoil the form of the exposed parts, and even their clothes only half covered the body, making it easier for their paint­ers and sculptors to observe their beauty. To make it even easier, they had constantly before their eyes nearly nude young slaves as well as the frequent per­for­mances of well-­developed athletes that gave ­these excellent craftsmen ample material for study and for perfecting [their works].”31 Van Opstal’s admonitions, coming four weeks l­ater in his lecture on the Richelieu Torso, stand out in bold relief against t­ hese academic arguments. In addition to the ancient Greek challenge ­there was the modern Italian one. On 13 September 1665, right a­ fter he discussed the Richelieu Torso with Chantelou for the first time, Bernini took French paint­ers to task for “their petty, miserable, niggly style.” Their only remedy, he said, was to study the ancient statues, especially the Belvedere Torso (fig. 54), then the Lombard school of paint­ers, then Raphael. Le Brun responded to the challenge almost as soon as Bernini entered his carriage to return to Rome. A common denominator of the statues at Versailles in the second half of the 1660s is their

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nudity. The Grotto of Tethys, a showcase of modern French sculpture, was overrun by nudes or near nudes. The tritons and sirens on the attic level are unclad by nature (fig. 5), as are their aquatic cousins in the Siren fountain out front (fig. 74). Félibien dedicated multiple pages of his monograph to the (mostly) nude forms of Apollo and the attendant nymphs (fig. 7);32 the tritons in one of the equestrian groups are essays in muscular nudity (fig. 6, right). Galatea and Acis, standing in the vestibule, are both bare-­chested and bare-­legged. The Apollo who ascends at the end of the gardens is covered by a ­simple swath of drapery (fig. 4). Most of the figures are exposed from the waist up at least, in accord with Le Brun’s idealized image of the Greeks. Keeping pace, Latona appears half nude on her island in the heart of the gardens (fig. 20). Anything less than an unabashed nude ­there would have amounted to a sellout on Le Brun’s part, a dereliction of duty. The figure is a rebuttal to Bernini’s scathing criticisms of the state of French art, outperforming her Italian competition (fig. 48) in t­ hose domains of art in which Bernini had found the French most wanting. As or more impor­tant, she poses a challenge to the Ancients on their own sacred ground, the beauty of the nude female form in marble.33

Marsy’s Lecture of 1669 The next chapter in the saga of the Richelieu Torso was written by Gaspard Marsy himself. On 7 December 1669, e­ ither while he was applying the finishing touches to his Latona or shortly ­after he had applied them, Gaspard delivered the first of his two lectures to the Académie (Appendix C). Not often do we have such a wide win­dow into a sculptor’s frame of mind on topics of central concern to his current work. It is t­ here that he avowed his deep reverence for the Richelieu Torso, the ancestral model of his Latona. If his speech is titled “the torso of Hercules” (i.e., the Belvedere Torso, fig. 54), in only four of his fourteen paragraphs of text did Gaspard name or allude to that ancient relic. He spoke with the aid of two plaster casts, one of the Belvedere Torso, the other of, in his words, “this fragmentary torso of Venus.” This second torso, he asserted, was “more beautiful than that of the Medici Venus”—­a fearless claim echoing Poussin, Bernini, and Van Opstal.34 The object of his worship was the Richelieu Torso, e­ ither the cast that Chantelou had donated to the Académie or, far less likely, one of the derivatives. Gaspard confessed to stage fright at the beginning and asked to read from his prepared text. Then, text in hand, he acknowledged his long years of training in the studios of his deceased masters, Gérard Van Opstal, François Anguier, and Jacques Sarazin, as well as “the number of the most capable sculptors of our ­century ­because of their extensive study of this g­ reat art in Rome, where antiquities are enthroned.” From this group of masters and mentors he learned that the Greeks had perfected four “­grand manners” in the art of sculpture. The manners w ­ ere practiced by artists who lived in

Latona Group

specific cities or regions of Greece. Gaspard evaluated the manners according to his own system and argued that their properties are found in the œuvres of a select few modern artists and regional schools. Athens is the birthplace of Gaspard’s first manner. Preeminent in the art of the Athenians is “design” or “membrification,” which Gaspard, invoking Leonardo da Vinci, defined as “the most thorough and complete knowledge of the disposition of the muscles, and of the connection of all the parts, which we commonly call the chain.”35 In their mastery of this science the Athenians rank above the other schools. Glycon displayed it in his Farnese Hercules (fig. 55), he said, and Michelangelo based “his earliest and finest studies” on it. As time went by, Michelangelo redirected his attention to the Belvedere Torso by Herodotus,36 another Athenian, finding more anatomical truth in this fragment of a seated Hercules than in the Farnese Hercules, whose muscles are “too evident,” “too pronounced.” This is why Michelangelo over time softened “this roughness of the muscles” in his figures, all of which, male and female alike, are mighty in stature. The Carracci, along with the rest of the Bolognese school, ­were more recent prac­ti­tion­ers of the Athenian manner. Gaspard said that the Belvedere Torso has “all the perfections, proportions, and anatomical accuracy of Glycon’s [Farnese] Hercules, without any of the defects.” Though it is Athenian in origin, the Belvedere Torso has much in common with his second manner, the Sicyonian, named for the town of Sicyon on the Peloponnese. It was from his study of this manner that Herodotus overcame “the vice of his birth,” he observed, a reference to the tendency by Glycon and his fellow Athenians to roughen or exaggerate the muscles of their figures. Discovery of the secrets of the Sicyonians enabled Herodotus to carve “this fragmentary torso of Venus that is more beautiful than that of the Medici Venus by virtue of the ­great precision of its design and the softness of its muscles and contours.” That Gaspard was speaking of the Richelieu Torso is borne out by his cross-­reference to the Medici Venus. That Herodotus carved both the Belvedere Torso and the Richelieu Torso was vital for Gaspard ­because it enabled him to conclude that subjects as far afield as Hercules and Venus can have certain expressive properties in common. Th ­ ese properties are Sicyonian in origin and constitute “a beauty and extraordinary grace, exhibiting the firm flesh of an athlete or wrestler, whose muscles are not overly developed but are long, smooth, natu­ral, and graceful, as you can see in t­ hese two subjects [the Torsos], as well as in the works of Phidias and Praxiteles, disciples of Apelles, the true genius of design.”37 The Sicyonian is superior to the other manners. For Gaspard, only Raphael in the modern age had earned a place in the exalted circle of artists who mastered it. Gaspard’s third manner originated on the island of Rhodes. Outstanding ­here is “[a] par­tic­u­lar tenderness and gracefulness for delicate and beautiful ­things” that is usually lacking in the Athenian and Sicyonian manners, though the Belvedere and Richelieu Torsos do possess this virtue. It was perfected in “this famous Laocoön from the

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Belvedere [Courtyard, the Vatican],” a collaborative work of three native Rhodians (fig. 56).38 François Duquesnoy was more talented than Michelangelo when called on to carve delicate objects, according to Gaspard. Titian, Correggio, and the Lombard school of paint­ers are modern-­day members of the Rhodian camp for their wondrous dexterity with the brush. He said in passing that some historical medals w ­ ere carved in the Rhodian manner. Corinth is the capital of his fourth manner. It suffers in comparison to the other three and is, in essence, trifling. The Corinthian manner is commonly found in jewelry and embroidery work. Etienne Delaune and Germain Pilon practiced it, as did Flemish and German artists of the Gothic. To consolidate with an outline: Greek Manner

Greek Artists

Recent Artists

Athenian

Glycon, Herodotus

Michelangelo, Carracci, Bolognese school

Sicyonian

Herodotus, Phidias, Praxiteles, Apelles

Raphael

Rhodian

Sculptors of the Laocoön

Duquesnoy, Titian, Correggio, Lombard school

Corinthian

(none cited)

Delaune, Pilon, Flemish and German Gothic

The first three manners are worthy of emulation for dif­fer­ent reasons. Athenian expertise in design and musculature is without equal, but it runs the risk of excess, even corruption, if it is not tempered by a Sicyonian regard for the softness of contour and the illusion of firm flesh over the entire form. Still, neither the Athenians nor the Sicyonians w ­ ere capable of duplicating the delicacy or gentle touch of the Rhodians. The Belvedere and Richelieu Torsos are masterpieces ­because “our divine Herodotus” has combined the virtues of the finest ancient manners. Gaspard’s lecture is striking in two additional ways: first, he spoke negatively of a revered member of the ancient canon; and, second, he attributed a statue to an ancient sculptor on stylistic grounds. The Farnese Hercules was, in his judgment, the quin­tes­ sen­tial Athenian statue, but ­those proud muscles, though surely they ennoble the figure, fall short of reaching the “exquisite taste” of the fi ­ nest manner; they are too prominent, too declarative; they lack the soft modulations in surface, the fluid contours, that belong to his ideal compound. This is what separates it from the Belvedere Torso; in terms of their Athenian virtues, the two works are of equal merit. Herodotus, the sculptor of the Belvedere Torso, discovered that higher dimension in the art of the Sicyonians. ­Because the Richelieu Torso possesses an identical set of virtues, Gaspard concluded, it must have been carved by the same Herodotus. A month ­later, in January 1670, Le Brun applauded the efforts of the recent speakers, a small group that included Gaspard Marsy.39 Henri Testelin, the secrétaire of the Académie, paraphrased a large part of Gaspard’s lecture in a book of his own that

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appeared a quarter c­ entury ­later, but not without misrepresenting some of his points (Appendix C).

Origin of Marsy’s Four Manners Above all e­ lse, it is the consciousness of ancient Greek sculpture that stands out in Gaspard’s lecture of 1669. Recently, Charles Dempsey traced the genesis of ­these new ideas to François Duquesnoy and Nicolas Poussin in Rome in the 1620s, and to the antiquarians Cassiano dal Pozzo and Vincenzo Giustiniani.40 Duquesnoy, a native of Brussels, established himself in Rome in 1618, first as a carver of wood and ivory and l­ater as a restorer of ancient statues; he is said by G.-­P. Bellori to have copied the Laocoön and the Belvedere Torso.41 In 1625–26, Duquesnoy roomed with Poussin, who had arrived in Rome in 1624 and already spent time in Domenichino’s studio drawing from the live model. They visited the g­ reat collections together, they drew and modeled figures in paintings by Titian, and they mea­sured the Belvedere Antinous (fig. 57) and other statues. Not least, they contributed to Cassiano’s Museo cartaceo, a graphic inventory of the ancient remains of Rome. As the 1620s drew to a close, Duquesnoy joined Joachim von Sandrart and his team of foreign artists in engraving Giustiniani’s collection of antiquities. Dempsey argues that Duquesnoy’s and Poussin’s discovery of a Greek style took place during the years of their earliest contacts, around 1625 or 1626, and that they reached a full understanding of it by 1629, by which time Duquesnoy was at work on his Saint Susanna for S. Maria di Loreto, Rome. Not only had the artists developed an idea of the successive periods of Antiquity, they began to identify and classify the vari­ous ancient styles. This awakening led to a new set of expressive criteria in their own art. One of their acquaintances in Rome was Charles-­A lphonse Dufresnoy, a French painter, poet, intellect, wide traveler, fluent practitioner of Latin and Greek, early connoisseur of the art of Rubens and Titian. When Dufresnoy arrived in 1633 or 1634, Poussin and Duquesnoy, together with Pietro Testa and Andrea Sacchi, among ­others, welcomed him into their learned circle. By then, he was already in the pro­cess of composing his De arte graphica, a treatise in Latin verse.42 First editions in Latin and French ­were published in 1668, less than a year ­after he died.43 The French translation, entitled L’art de peinture, was written by the young Roger de Piles, who appended a lengthy body of comments, his Remarques, to it. At the end of his Remarques, de Piles added a short text, the Sentimens de Charles-­Alphonse Dufresnoy, which, he pledges, is a faithful reworking of notes left by Dufresnoy at his death; the Sentimens is a meditation on paint­ers from Domenico Ghirlandaio to Francesco Albani and Giovanni Lanfranco, two of Dufresnoy’s friends in Rome. So far, we are familiar with four texts: (1) Dufresnoy’s Latin verse, De arte graphica; (2) de Piles’s translation, L’art de peinture, with variations by him owing to the

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disparities in language; (3) de Piles’s abundant compilations, his Remarques; and (4) de Piles’s Sentimens, his reworking of Dufresnoy’s abandoned notes. Th ­ ere is a fifth text to add to the list, in French prose: Dufresnoy’s Observations sur la peinture.44 It is dated 1649. The first half of the Observations deals with artistic theory, with ideas that overlap the De arte graphica to such an extent that it is undoubtedly a ­matter of an early draft. The second half, a historical survey of paint­ers, anticipates the Sentimens. Introducing Ghirlandaio, Michelangelo, and the l­ater masters of Italy, Dufresnoy writes: “This art reached its perfection in Greece. The main schools ­were in Sicyon, then in Rhodes, Athens, and fi­nally, in Rome. Wars and luxury having brought about the downfall of the Roman Empire; it died off entirely, together with the sciences, arts, and lit­er­a­ture, but began to reappear about two hundred years ago.”45 In the Sentimens, this same passage reads: “Painting reached perfection in Greece. The main schools ­were in Sicyon, then in Rhodes, in Athens, in Corinth, and fi­nally, in Rome.”46 Dufresnoy’s concept of ancient art history was evolving with each successive text: The Corinthian school appears for the first time in the Sentimens, the Roman school for the last time. In the end, he recognized the four Greek schools and no ­others. He assigned six lines of his De arte graphica to them.47 De Piles, in his L’art de peinture, translated ­those Latin lines into French prose, which reads, in En­glish: “Among the academies that ­these ­great men and t­ hese rare geniuses have created, four stand out: Athens, Sicyon, Rhodes, and Corinth, which differ from one another only very l­ittle, only in the means of execution, as we can observe in the ancient statues, which are the standard of beauty, never equaled in the centuries that followed, though we are not very far from equaling them, as much in knowledge as in skill.”48 It was from L’art de peinture, de Piles’s readily accessible French rendering of Dufresnoy’s De arte graphica, that Gaspard lifted the skeletal outline for his lecture. He went so far as to consider the four Greek manners in identical order: Athenian, Sicyonian, Rhodian, Corinthian.49 To his credit, he named at least one artist from each ancient school except the Corinthian, filling in or elaborating on what Dufresnoy in his treatise had only sketched.50

Older Generation Gaspard was introduced to the art of the Ancients during his four or five years of apprenticeship in the ateliers of Sarazin, Anguier, and Van Opstal in the 1650s. Sarazin lived in Rome from 1610 to 1627, finding work t­ here with Domenichino and friendship in a colony of foreign artists; his ties to the antiquarian world of Rome predate Duquesnoy’s by several years at least.51 Anguier’s stay in Rome ran from 1639 to 1641 or 1642, coinciding with Duquesnoy’s last years.52 Of Gaspard’s early masters it was Van Opstal who left the deepest impression on his formation. When, in his December  1669 lecture, Gaspard paid tribute to his

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masters, he pronounced Van Opstal’s name first, then Anguier’s, and then Sarazin’s, perhaps a fair ranking of their influences on him. We know from Chantelou that Le Brun held a grudge against Van Opstal in 1665. Bernini, an admirer of Van Opstal’s miniatures in ivory and marble, reproached Le Brun ­behind his back ­after learning the sordid details.53 Van Opstal’s lecture in 1668 on the Richelieu Torso increases in value when it is read with Bernini, and with Bernini’s unsparing criticism of the state of French art, in mind. Though the relative merits of the Richelieu Torso and the Medici Venus are not identified by Caylus in his one-­paragraph report on the lecture, in my view it is next to certain that Van Opstal joined Bernini in bestowing his highest accolades on the Richelieu Torso. Gaspard’s judgment to that same effect, voiced at the end of 1669, falls in line with the prevailing view. The theory and practice of Van Opstal loom over Gaspard’s definition of the third Greek manner, the Rhodian. More than anything ­else, it is a “par­tic­u­lar tenderness and gracefulness for delicate and beautiful ­things” that characterizes this manner, he said, and the Laocoön is the supreme incarnation (fig. 56). Van Opstal had said much the same, in words of his own, in his lecture on the Laocoön in July 1667, more than two years before Gaspard’s reading. A part of Félibien’s paraphrase reads: “He [Van Opstal] examined all the parts of this figure to show its excellence. He remarked on how, with such art, the sculptor formed the breadth of the stomach and the shoulders, all the parts of which are marked distinctly and with tenderness. He brought attention to his tensed hips, his sinewy arms, his legs neither too thick nor too thin, but firm and full of muscles, and generally all the other limbs, where one sees that the flesh and the nerves are expressed with as much force and gentleness as in nature itself but with une belle nature.”54 It was Van Opstal’s fame as a carver of miniatures in marble, ivory, and precious stones that led Richelieu to bring him from Flanders to France in the 1640s. When Van Opstal sued a client in December 1667 for default of payment, his ­lawyer told the court that he had always been esteemed as a sculptor, “but particularly for work in t­ hese bas-­reliefs in marble and ivory, which requires a deep understanding of the rules of art and a g­ reat finesse of the hand.”55 Caylus observed that Van Opstal was able to create the illusion of soft flesh even though his figures ­were poorly designed.56 Put other­wise: Lacking a gift for design or membrification (in the Athenian sense), he compensated for the deficiency by blessing his figures with such soft, graceful contours (in the Sicyonian sense) and such delicate surfaces (in the Rhodian sense) that they as much as imitate life itself. In a portrait by a con­temporary, Van Opstal appears to fondle one of his ivory drinking mugs, the surface of which is swarming with nymphs and satyrs in high relief.57 The painting is at once a likeness of the high-­living Van Opstal and a witness to the sensuality of his miniature art and to his deft touch as a carver. Gaspard’s debts went beyond his masters to “the number of the most capable sculptors of our ­century” who studied at length in Rome. A member of this small fraternity

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is François Anguier’s younger b­ rother Michel, who had known Duquesnoy in Rome from 1641 to 1643 and Poussin from 1642 to 1651.58 This is what Michel remembered in 1670 of a field trip he had taken with Poussin to the Belvedere Courtyard some twenty-­five years ­earlier: Monsieur Poussin, speaking of this figure [the Laocoön, fig. 56], . . . ​said that one could study the anatomy of this figure for the beautiful assemblage of the muscles [i.e., membrification], which is revealed in all the parts of this body, which muscles are covered by a very delicate skin that unites ­these g­ reat muscles in a graceful, flowing, gentle manner without in the least bit debasing the tendresses that are found throughout this figure. Also, it is this that makes up the best part of the study of sculpture, that is to know how to give force and grandeur to the design without any disagreeable crudity.59 In November 1669, Michel Anguier lectured on the Farnese Hercules (fig. 55).60 Gaspard Marsy was an attentive listener on that occasion, and several of the talking points in his ­ ere obviously borrowed own speech on the Belvedere and Richelieu Torsos a month l­ ater w from Anguier’s. Gaspard told his audience that he would sidestep the question of proportion b­ ecause it had been amply covered in recent days, a tribute to Anguier. Gaspard’s first two manners, the Athenian and Sicyonian, are nearly identical to Anguier’s two (nameless) classifications. They agreed that the Farnese Hercules was the paragon of the first, more forceful manner, and that Michelangelo built his dynamic early art on his study of it, before softening his tone l­ater. Anguier gave no reason for Michelangelo’s change in outlook, but for Gaspard it was his devotion to the Belvedere Torso, an Athenian masterpiece, that tilted him in that direction. On Raphael they disagreed: for Anguier, he graduated from one manner to another; for Gaspard, he favored the Sicyonian lifelong. Both said that Carracci practiced the bolder manner, though his Lombard origins ­were of interest to Anguier only. It was Gaspard, not Anguier, who widened the discussion of Greek art by crediting the Rhodians and Corinthians with unique properties.

Contours and Proportions A sovereign tenet at the Académie in the 1660s is that one’s character, one’s essential nature, is defined by one’s physical self, one’s contours and proportions utmost. When Gaspard declared in 1669 that the Richelieu Torso was exemplary for “the g­ reat precision of its design and the softness of its muscles and contours,” implicit in his remark is that the character of this Venus is delicate, beautiful, and admirable. By possessing the same contours and proportions, his Latona, an au­then­tic member of the Venusian tradition, inherits the same virtues.

Latona Group

No seventeenth-­century sculptor was more admired by his contemporaries in France than Duquesnoy. Gaspard was proud of his niche in Duquesnoy’s tradition, and in his account of the Rhodian manner he spoke affectionately of “our ­great sculptor, Sieur François the Fleming [Duquesnoy].”61 The artists never met. However, Jacques Sarazin and François Anguier, two of Gaspard’s masters, lived in Rome during Duquesnoy’s time t­ here; it is no leap of faith to conclude that they w ­ ere familiar with his innovations. Surely he overheard the secrets of the new style from ­others who lived in Duquesnoy’s Rome, such as Le Brun (1642–45) and Michel Anguier (1641–51), or Charles Errard (1627–43, first trip), or Thibaut Poissant (1642–47), not to mention Dufresnoy (1633/34–56) or Pierre Mignard (1635–56), both of whom had crossed paths with Duquesnoy for nearly a de­cade.62 The ave­nues of artistic exchange between Rome and Paris ­were well-­traveled in the ­middle half of the 1600s. Such was Duquesnoy’s luster in France that Louis XIII invited him to become premier sculpteur du roi, and it was en route to fill the office in 1643 that he tragically died. What Duquesnoy and Poussin discovered in their study of ancient statuary is one of the themes of Dempsey’s essay on the Greek style. Dempsey quotes a paragraph in Giovanni Battista Passeri’s biography of the sculptor: His understanding contained within itself the most exquisite subtleties, and always fastened upon the best and choicest perfections, and he had a talent that was so refined that by his very se­lections of the best he made known the profundity of his knowledge. . . . ​He wished to show himself to be a rigorous imitator of the Greek style, which he called the true mistress of perfect procedure in art b­ ecause it held within itself at one and the same time grandeur, nobility, majesty, and loveliness, all qualities that are difficult to unite in a single compound, and this feeling was increased in him by the observations of Poussin, who desired altogether to vilify the Latin style for reasons I s­ hall report in my account of his life.63 In their search for an equivalent style, Duquesnoy and Poussin paid particularly close attention to loveliness, or lively grace, a quality that is not easily combined with the more sober qualities of grandeur, nobility, and majesty. The secret to the “single compound” lies in the property of contour. Duquesnoy’s ideas on contour have survived thanks largely to Orfeo Boselli, one of his students, who wrote a treatise on the art of sculpture in the late 1650s: “The less the contour is pronounced, the more Greek ­will the style be. . . . ​Since the h ­ uman body is ­spherical, it does not love straight lines: for it is beautifully graded, and, where the contour recedes, it meets with one that swells, and this law must never be broken.”64 Duquesnoy counseled his students on subjects as vari­ ous as beauty, design, attitude, and proportion and contour in the Greek sense. Diligence is impor­tant, of course, but a deep understanding of contour is paramount. The

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sculptor must develop a loving regard for surfaces, for the soft, ­gently flowing dips and swells in contour that give it the sense of living flesh. As Boselli explained it: The ­grand manner, accordingly, and the exquisite taste appear in making the work with sweetness and tenderness, which consists in knowing how to hide the bones, nerves, veins, and muscles; in keeping one’s eyes to the w ­ hole and not to the parts, something so difficult that only to the ancients was conceded the ­great marvel of seeing a figure consummately beautiful, with every­thing and with nothing being ­there; of seeing a mind that had regard for the bones and a hand that worked in flesh. This tenderness of manner not only was practiced in the Apollos, Antinouses, Bacchuses, Fauns, and other youths of natu­ral stature, but also in ­great River Gods and even in stupendous colossi. The more they remove, the grander the style becomes, for by so much the more does a sense of flesh increase as the hollow becomes less deep; and they substitute for the muscles something that seems a vein. It is an artifice beyond the supreme, and of surpassing difficulty.65 Michelangelo fared poorly by t­ hese standards. It was fash­ion­able in France in the third quarter of the c­ entury to reproach Michelangelo for his breaches of decorum,66 but preceding that attack the Italians had launched one of their own in the area of style. Already in the 1620s, Vincenzo Giustiniani had ranked the Vatican Meleager above the Risen Christ by applying the new criteria: The ancient statue is “so well-­proportioned in e­ very part, of such exquisite workmanship, and with so many signs of indescribable vivacity that in comparison to other works it seems to breathe.”67 The Risen Christ, though it is not without merit, is merely a statue, a piece of marble, lacking the Meleager’s sense of life. Bernini’s public rebuke of Michelangelo, that he was unable to intimate the look of soft, pliable flesh, belongs in this tradition.68 Gaspard approved of the trend in Michelangelo’s art, from an exaggerated to a more refined style; still, he was no match for Duquesnoy, whose figures seem to be alive and breathing. When Duquesnoy and Poussin mea­sured and copied the ancient statues, it was not for the purpose of reusing a pose or gesture in their art but rather to understand the contours and proportions of idealized types, or prototypes. Boselli, again echoing Duquesnoy, promoted the Laocoön, the Belvedere Torso, and the Nile and Tiber as the models for el­derly men; the Farnese Hercules for power­ful old men; the male figures in the Farnese Bull for mature men; the Vatican Meleager for younger men; the Medici Venus and the Niobides for ­women; and the Cesi Juno, the Capitoline Urania, and the ­ omen.69 Farnese Flora for clothed w Poussin’s use of idealized types was discussed at length by Le Brun in his lecture on the Manna (fig. 42). The two old men in the left corner, he said, resemble the Laocoön, a man of advancing age who has lost some of his former strength. The w ­ oman who offers her breast to her m ­ other is a reanimation of the Niobe (fig. 58), sharing with that proud

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queen a beauty that is at once robust and delicate, befitting her m ­ iddle age and noble birth; her own ­mother has t­ hose same proportions, though her muscles lack their former vitality. The man languishing en terre is modeled a­ fter the Borghese Seneca (fig. 59), the prototype of the noble old-­timer who appears to be intelligent; the young man beside him, by contrast, is proportioned ­after the Belvedere Antinous (fig. 57) and bound by the same graceful contours. The ­woman who swivels with such grace is patterned ­after the Versailles Diana (fig. 60); her neighbor, who cradles a basket of manna, is identical in stature to the Belvedere Apollo (fig.  61). The ­woman who catches the falling manna in her dress has the proportions of the Medici Venus (fig. 51). The younger of the grappling boys has the fragile, underdeveloped form of Laocoön’s older son (fig.  56), while the bigger, more aggressive boy has the bodily forms of one of the Wrestlers (fig. 62). The kneeling man along the border of the canvas is modeled ­after the Hercules-­ Commodus (fig. 65). Never once, though, did Poussin copy or imitate a statue.70 Félibien, in his review of the lecture, admired “the proportion of all the figures, which M. Poussin has taken from the most beautiful antiques, and perfectly suited them to his subject.”71

Le Brun’s “Lost Lecture” Jacqueline Lichtenstein and Christian Michel, coeditors of Conférences de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture, argue that Le Brun delivered a lecture on ideal ancient types, and that May 1669 is the likeliest date.72 Neither the manuscript nor even the lecture’s title has survived, but the event itself was mentioned by Michel Anguier in a lecture in November 1669 and again by Sébastien Bourdon in a lecture of his own in July 1670. The latter, addressing the property of proportions in ancient statuary, deferred to Le Brun’s remarks on the subject: “I ­will say nothing ­here about their beauties or their characters, M. Le Brun having duly illuminated t­ hese m ­ atters.”73 Nivelon, his biographer, left no doubt that Le Brun had confronted the issues with his usual resolve: “He did the same ­thing again on the proportions and the contours, by distinguishing, in the antiques, the considerations that they [the Ancients] had, and the rules that they observed in representing their gods, their heroes, and other subjects.”74 Lichtenstein and Michel argue further that the essentials of Le Brun’s lost lecture are preserved in the ­later writings of Henri Testelin, the erstwhile secrétaire. Over the course ­ ables dealing with the of four years, 1675 to l679, Testelin composed a series of six T precepts of line or design, expression, proportions, chiaroscuro, ordinance, and color.75 ­ ables ­were not lectures; rather, they ­were dense outlines of ideas squeezed onto The T single sheets of paper. He introduced his ­Table on proportions to the Académie in October 1678. Two years ­later, Testelin published all six T ­ ables together in his Sentimens des plus habiles peintres du temps, sur la pratique de la peinture, recueillis et mis en ­tables de préceptes, a volume that includes Testelin’s own engraving of five ancient statues

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(fig. 63). ­A fter settling in Holland for his Protestantism, in 1693 or 1694 he issued, ­under a revised title: Sentiments des plus habiles peintres du temps sur la pratique de la peinture et sculpture, recueillis et mis en ­tables de préceptes avec six discours académiques.76 ­Here, Testelin expanded on the outlines of his T ­ ables and discussed the ideas of his former colleagues with more clarity and much more detail. More often than not ­those old acquaintances go unnamed, and so it is in his section on contours and proportions; yet, what he writes ­there is fully compatible with the lecture by Le Brun on Poussin’s use of ancient prototypes in the Manna. ­There is no reason to doubt that what Testelin outlined in October 1678, and what he expanded upon in the early 1690s, is founded on Le Brun’s lost lecture of May 1669. Le Brun, then, was the first speaker in this series of lectures at the Académie to argue that ­there are four basic types of subjects and, therefore, that many types of contours.77 Each type is represented by an ancient statue—­indeed, four of the five statues that appear in Testelin’s engraving (fig. 63). One type, of concern to us in our next chapter, is that of the burly, awkward peasant; it is represented by the Dancing Faun (fig. 64), whose contours wander erratically, indecisively.78 A second type, for superhumans like the Hercules of the Farnese Hercules (fig. 55), has “big, strong, decisive, and firm” contours; his major muscles dominate his lesser ones, and “­there is nothing but which is carefully chosen and well ordered; this is appropriate for representing heroes, who must have only that which is perfect.”79 The third type is represented by the Hercules-­Commodus (fig. 65), the statue of a deified mortal who possesses “power­ful, austere, and fearsome” contours; other members of this class are the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 66), the Laocoön (fig. 56), and the Belvedere Antinous (fig. 57).80 The fourth type of contour is reserved for beautiful, virtuous, and divine figures. As Gaspard Marsy said in his lecture, such contours are “noble and definite, passing smoothly from one to the other, forming long and distinct body parts, as are found in the figures of young men and girls, where nothing sharp is seen, but, on the contrary, nicely flowing contours.”81 The Belvedere Torso (fig. 54), the Richelieu Torso (fig. 52), the Medici Venus (fig. 51), and the Versailles Diana (fig. 60) are contoured accordingly. This is the right honorable f­ amily of Gaspard’s Latona (figs. 20–24).

New Criteria in the Gardens The lines that Félibien awarded to Latona in his Description sommaire du chasteau de Versailles of 1674 are few in number and simply note the actions of the figures (Chapter 3), and his reports on the Soleil levant and the Soleil couchant are similarly descriptive; a portable guidebook was no place for lengthy appraisal or commentary. He does remark at the end of his passage on the Soleil couchant that the figures have “une beauté singulière” and that, along with the rest of the Grotto of Tethys, they are worthy of

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“une description particulière.”82 ­Here he alludes to his own ­earlier Description de la Grotte de Versailles of 1672, a “feature book” that focused on a single unit in isolation.83 It was in his loving dissertations on the two nymphs who kneel before Apollo that Félibien defined his ideals of feminine beauty. The pair was carved by François Girardon. First, Melicerte, who tends to the divine foot with such graceful discretion (fig. 7): Her eyes and her actions make known the re­spect that she has for him. A very light drapery, tucked up ­behind her waist, covers her from her hips down, without however hiding the form of her thighs and legs; but in what is uncovered, we perceive so g­ reat a degree of beauty and grace, that it is difficult to imagine that t­ hose beautiful figures of Antiquity that are so esteemed w ­ ere more perfect and more accomplished. The parts that form a well-­made back and that leave in the center a certain hollow that marks the placement of the spine, rise in the latter with much delicacy from the hips to the level of the shoulders, and are worked with so much knowledge and skill, that we believe we see, as if through firm flesh and delicate skin, all the muscles of the back and sides. But since her plumpness covers them all almost completely, the places that separate ­these vari­ous muscles one from another, called interstices, are very slightly perceived; and it is necessary to choose special days to discover the beauty of the workmanship, ­because ­there is so much smoothness that the shadows are imperceptible. All that forms beautiful arms and beautiful hands is found in the arms and legs of this figure; and in its throat and bosom ­there are such natu­ral beauties, that nothing more perfect can be seen.84 Only upon entering the Grotto at just the right time of day, at just the right light, does the visitor “discover” the gentle contours of Melicerte! Is ­there more persuasive proof that the connoisseurs of the day ­were sensitive to the new criteria? Félibien was equally enchanted by Chloe, who lifts her beautiful face to Apollo while pouring from an ewer (fig. 7): As for the other Nymph, who also has one knee on the ground, she is disposed that we see her entire back. Her garment falls from her waist down, and all the rest of her body is nude. She performs an action contrary to that which I have just described [i.e., Melicerte’s]: instead of lowering her head, she raises it, and even sits up as if to speak. Thus we see in her back and shoulders effects that are entirely dif­fer­ent from ­those of the other figure, ­because ­there appears a break right above the waist, where the body bends and ­causes the spine to curve in the manner of a bow: this ­causes in disposition of the muscles effects entirely contrary to ­those that appear when the head is lowered and when the back is entirely curved; for the muscles, being relaxed, are more apparent, and one discovers more easily the places where they are separated one from another.85

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Félibien had been in regular contact with Poussin, co-­innovator with Duquesnoy of the new criteria, during his two-­year stay in Rome, 1647–49. Girardon had lived t­ here for three or four months in 1669, a­ fter having tended to some of his preparatory studies for the marbles before his trip.86 Their understanding of the new criteria was born of direct experience. The Latona group remained outdoors from 1670 to 1980, a total of 310 years, during which time the marble surfaces w ­ ere relentlessly exposed to the ele­ments and the bombardment of jets d’eau from the Lyceans; the damage over time appears in our photo­graphs (figs. 20–27).87 Still, the surfaces are sufficiently intact to bear witness to Gaspard’s achievement. We have it from his lecture of 1669 that he aspired to breathe life into his materials, to soften the contours of his figures, to imitate the look and touch of real flesh. Like Chloe, Gaspard’s Latona rests on one knee and raises her head in reverent speech to a divine power. True to character, her shoulders, breasts, and abdomen are simply and delicately contoured (fig. 23). Her navel and the notch in her throat are softly hollowed out. Her right bicep is lightly compressed by a band. Transitions from part to part are almost imperceptibly gradual. As Boselli said of Duquesnoy’s insight into the practices of the Ancients: “The less the contour is pronounced, the more Greek w ­ ill the style be. . . . ​Where the contour recedes, it meets with one that swells. . . . ​The more they remove, the grander the style becomes, for by so much the more does a sense of flesh increase as the hollow becomes less deep.”88 ­Under Latona’s palpably soft outer fabric lies a firm structure of joints, bones, and muscles. In Gaspard’s words for the Richelieu and Belvedere Torsos (figs. 52, 54), her muscles are “not overly developed but are long, smooth, natu­ral, and graceful.” Her ribs are clearly articulated ­under the gentle modulations in surface. Her back is thick and pliable on the outside but solid inside, her spine finely indented to accommodate her upright posture (fig. 24). The infants are as squeezable as dough or clay, but their pudgy, sagging forms are held together by solid armatures within (figs. 21, 25). An elastic skin seems to envelope the w ­ hole. The scrupulous Dame Jourdain wrote in her manuscript that the Latona group was carved in marble by Gaspard and that it “passe au jugement des connaisseurs pour un chef-­d ’œuvre de l’art, tant à cause de la noblesse des expressions que de la correction du dessin, et de la beauté du travail.”89 In one sentence, she closed in on the defining criteria of the new style. An ongoing theme in the academic discourse was that the study of the live model is a fundamental part of any artist’s learning, but that the knowledge thus acquired has limits, even drawbacks, if it is not “corrected” by the lessons of ancient statues; they alone, with their endless variations in contour and proportion, can lead the artist to an understanding of the ­human form as a ­whole, not merely a collection of parts, and can teach the artist to discipline the random, fleeting impressions that spring from his

Latona Group

study of the model.90 At first sight, Gaspard’s heroine has the natu­ral, unaffected look of a living person, a well-­conditioned ­woman, twenty-­five, perhaps thirty years of age. Her hair runs in long, twisting locks and is knotted casually in back (fig. 24).91 For all her familiarity and natu­ral look, this is no mere h ­ uman but rather a Titaness of such allure as to excite the passions of Jupiter, the ­mother by him of the celestials. Latona, if anyone, is accountable to a higher order. That the art world of Paris was abuzz with talk of the Richelieu Torso in the second half of the 1660s is undeniable. When Poussin and Bernini dropped the Medici Venus a notch below the Richelieu Torso in their rankings, it was not so much a demotion of the one as it was a promotion of the other for its even more supple, more sensual forms. No sooner had Bernini left for Rome in October 1665 than the academicians ­were ordered to “restore” their casts of the Richelieu Torso; one of the professors of the month, in December 1665, was Gaspard Marsy. In February 1668, Van Opstal read his lecture on the Richelieu Torso. Gaspard commenced his Latona a few months ­later. In December  1669, at or very near the end of his ­labors on the marble figure, Gaspard professed his love for the Richelieu Torso in a lecture of his own. It was primarily to the Richelieu Torso that Gaspard turned for counsel when searching for the most becoming forms for Latona. When viewed from the ideal spot (fig. 2), she is “bisected” into clothed and unclothed halves by the horizontal break in the gravel ­behind. Her torso, rising in proud frontality, is profiled against the backdrop.92 Her arms reach out, leaving her lateral contours unobstructed. In arguing that the Richelieu Torso is the prototype for Gaspard’s figure, ­there is no need to insist that they have similar poses or attitudes. What m ­ atters is that Latona, a bona fide member of the Venusian ­family, has the proportions and contours of the Richelieu Torso.93 It is from t­ hose pure properties that she inherits her delicacy, her mature, sensual beauty, her generative vigor. It m ­ atters not one iota that Latona is a kneeling figure and the Richelieu Torso was once the m ­ iddle part of a standing one. As it happens, by the strict rules of classical contrapposto, the torsion of the Richelieu Torso calls for an active right arm and a turn of the head in the same direction (fig. 52). Le Gros obeyed t­ hose rules for his Venus Emerging from the W ­ ater (fig. 53).94 Latona is structured identically. In essence, Gaspard’s answer was to “restore” the Richelieu Torso according to “his own preference,” exactly what the students at the Académie had been instructed to do with their casts when Bernini went home in 1665.

Expressive Types Paint­ers have their colors, compositions, designs, and other formal tools to drive home an impression on their viewers, just as orators, authors, and composers have their own tools of persuasion. In his famous reply to Chantelou’s ungrateful remark, that the

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Ordination he painted for him was inferior to the Finding of Moses he painted for Jean Pointel, Poussin said that dif­fer­ent subjects call for dif­fer­ent formal means, resulting in two appropriately dif­fer­ent pictures: “Do you not see that it is the nature of the subject that ­causes this effect [in you], and your disposition.”95 Poussin was alluding to Chantelou’s psychological or emotive response to a work of art. He called upon the Ancients, who had a­ dopted rules or mea­sures, or Modes, for their works, “particularly when all the ­things that entered into combination ­were put together in such a proportion that it was made pos­si­ble to arouse the soul of the spectator to vari­ous passions.”96 Félibien said of Raphael’s Madonna of François I that “la variété des airs de tête et des attitudes” prompt the viewer to feel “les mêmes sentiments de joie ou d’admiration” as the figures in the painting (fig. 50).97 For Dempsey, a work’s expressive power derives from “the beholder’s instinctive, empathetic response to the perfected forms of the variously differentiated characters [i.e., ancient types].”98 In the case of Poussin’s Massacre of the Innocents (fig. 68), Dempsey traces the “pure forms” of the assassin’s brutish virility to the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 66); the “pure forms” of compassionate motherhood to the Niobe (fig. 58); and the “pure forms” of sweetness and innocence to an ideal infant type.99 The viewer condemns the one and empathizes with the ­others, “instinctively identify[ing] with the morally correct conclusion.” His response is instantaneous, preempting his reason or even his recollection of the biblical narrative. In front of the Manna (fig. 42), the viewer instantly sides with the weary Borghese Seneca-­like old-­timers (fig. 59) and with the two Niobe-­ like ­mothers; conversely, he scolds the older of the fighting boys, who owes his essential forms to the Wrestlers (fig. 62). So the visitor to Versailles is easily and instantly won over by Latona’s “pure forms,” which are prefigured in the ancient Venuses, and by the “pure forms” of Apollo and Diana, which derive from the c­ hildren in paintings by Raphael (figs. 49, 50).100 The “pure forms” of the Lyceans, which they owe to the coarse rustic type (fig. 64) and, in the case of the men in the first two planes of the tableau, to the Borghese Gladiator, only succeed in winning our rebuke.

“Simultaneous Passions” Jennifer Montagu has presented Le Brun’s theory of “Expression” as a triptych.101 The ­middle panel, “expression générale,” is basically the “­simple and natu­ral resemblance of the t­ hings that one wants to represent.” It covers enormous territory, including the artist’s choices in areas such as color, design, landscape, grouping of figures, and so on; it is close in definition to costume, that which is appropriate to the subject at hand. One of the outer wings of the triptych is physiognomics. The other is “expression particulière,” the spectrum of h ­ uman passions, which, like all e­ lse, contributes to “expression

Latona Group

générale.” Le Brun’s graphic studies of the passions are among his most recognizable works (e.g., figs. 70–73). Le Brun read his lecture on “expression générale” on 7 April 1668. A half year ­later, on 6 October 1668, he followed it with his lecture on “expression particulière,” which covered so much new ground that it spilled over into the meeting of 10 November.102 Prefacing his remarks in October, he reminded his audience that he had previously addressed the subject in “les conférences passées,” an allusion to his lecture in April and to his lectures on Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il (May 1667) and Poussin’s Manna (November 1667), as well as to his improvised comments during the lectures by Van Opstal on the Laocoön (July  1667) and by Champaigne on the Eleasar and Rebecca (January 1668). For Le Brun, the passions are movements of the soul. That which arouses a passion in the soul ­will result in an action by the body, as the soul pursues what is good for it and avoids what is bad. An action is a movement of the body, brought about by changes in the muscles. The muscles move in response to the nerves that pass over them, and the nerves are activated by small particles, or esprits, which are sent through the blood from the heart, where it is heated and rarefied, to the brain. Some believe the soul resides in the ­middle of the brain, he said, an allusion to Descartes, whose Traité des passions was published in 1649, while ­others maintain it is sheltered in the heart, which is capable of feeling the effects of the passions. ­Here, Le Brun found room for compromise: The soul, which resides in the brain, receives the impressions of the passions, but it feels the effects in the heart. If for Descartes the soul is indivisible, for Le Brun it harbors two “appetites”: the concupiscent, the agent of such “­simple passions” as love, hate, desire, joy, and sadness; and the irascible, the seat of such “composite passions” as fear, anger, despair, and hope. Admiration is the primary passion in both systems. The face, by virtue of its proximity to the brain, responds more rapidly to an impression than the more distant parts of the body. Most revealing are the brows b­ ecause their movements correspond to the appetites: Brows that rise ­toward the brain are animated by the irascible passions, ­those that descend are ruled by the concupiscent passions. ­Simple passions result in s­ imple movements of the brows, composite passions in more complex ones. Next most revealing is the mouth: When the heart complains, the corners drop; when it is pleased, they rise up. Support for Le Brun’s theories was by no means unan­i­mous. One ferocious critic was Grégoire Huret, a painter and teacher of perspective at the Académie, who derided all such inquiries into the nature and ­causes of the passions. Nothing to Huret was more preposterous than the notion that a passion such as despair is distinguishable from, say, grief or sadness, or that two or more competing passions are detectable on the face at the same time.103 Huret published his dissent in 1670, by which time the concept of “simultaneous passions” was deeply entrenched in academic doctrine. Le Brun had already been

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promoting the idea in 1660–61  in his first royal commission, the Tent of Darius (fig. 47). In what amounts to an “authorized report” on the painting, Félibien invoked the legend of Euphranor, who had famously combined the virtues of fairness, love, and valor in a statue of Alexander/Paris.104 Félibien proceeded to evaluate the passions of each of Le Brun’s figures, according to the facial and bodily actions of each. Appearing on Alexander’s face is a combination of valor, gentleness, and youthfulness. Four passions are united in his outward actions: compassion for the Persians (look and countenance); clemency, along with grace (open left hand); esteem for Hephestion (extended right hand); civility ­toward the princesses (withdrawn left leg). Hephestion is stunned at once by Sysigambis’s error, Alexander’s compliment, and the beauty of the princesses. Combined in Sysigambis, a w ­ oman of grandeur and majesty, are the passions of sadness, re­spect, and humility. One by one, each of the sixteen figures is diagnosed. The concept of simultaneous passions was elevated to the status of dogma in 1667, thanks in part to Le Brun’s speech on Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il (fig. 69). In the eyes and mouth of Michael, he maintained, ­there is evidence of a genuine disdain t­ oward the Devil, and in the arched brows an inner tranquility. With Raphael on board, the concept took hold. Now it enjoyed a pedigree reaching from Le Brun to Raphael to the masters of Antiquity. Even some of Le Brun’s fiercest critics joined the parade. One, Philippe de Champaigne, observed in June 1667 that the Magdalene in Titian’s Entombment is motivated by a compound of deep grief and tender compassion for Mary, and that Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea are seized not only by grief but by “a zeal and an affection full of reverence” for Christ’s body. Nicolas Mignard, standing l­ ater in the year before Raphael’s Madonna of François I (fig. 50), was moved by Mary’s reverence, humility, modesty, love, and devotion for her son, and by Christ’s transcendent joy, affection, and love for his m ­ other.105 ­There are in the limbs of Laocoön (fig. 56), Van Opstal said in July 1667, “a diversity of very beautiful actions and very suitable to the subject.” He drew attention to the signs of suffering by Laocoön, ­those that appear not only on his face but elsewhere, even in his toes. ­Later, “someone” interrupted Van Opstal to commend the sculptors for capturing “all the marks that can signal Laocoön’s high birth and the true state in which he finds himself, when he was devoured by t­ hese serpents that came out of the sea and threw themselves upon him and his two sons.” Another “someone” noted that Laocoön was “a man well built, but a man already aged, and a man of qualité”; in the ­later debate, his age was cited three times, his noble heritage four.106 The debate eventually circled back to c­ auses and effects, at which point, it seems, Le Brun dominated. ­Here is Félibien’s paraphrase of the words of an unnamed speaker, prob­ably Le Brun: Now it being likely that horror, fear, sadness, pain and despair all lay hold of Laocoön’s mind at the same moment, when he realizes the misery of his plight,

Latona Group

all t­ hese diverse passions should be expressed in this figure. And although it is almost impossible to see in life so many strange effects all at once, and very difficult to portray them well with the chisel. We have, however, been shown how all t­ hese changes that may take place in such an amazing action, and all the movements that such strong passions may lead to in a man’s body, are expressed in this figure in an admirable way.107 Félibien spent the next two pages tracing the operations of the passions, sequentially, step by step. The argument is vintage Le Brun, and it anticipates, both in organ­ization and language, his lecture a few months ­later. Le Brun brought special zeal to the issue during his lecture on Poussin’s Manna in November 1667 (fig. 42). Time and again he returned to the group of Israelites in the left corner, notably the standing old man who witnesses the charity of the “double ­mother” with both astonishment and admiration; in the m ­ other herself he detected equal mea­sures of duty and piety, and in the old ­woman a mixture of love, recognition, and determination to remain close to her d­ aughter. Bourdon followed in December with a speech on Poussin’s Christ Healing the Blindmen (fig. 43), and his words ­were pure ­music to Le Brun: The old man peering in from the second plane is gripped by incredulity, curiosity, and defiance; the turbaned man by both admiration for Christ and astonishment at the miracle; and Saint John, who fixes his eyes on the old man, by compassion and disdain “tout ensemble.”108 Again our inquiry has taken us to the leading edge of the debates. Apollo and Diana are assailed by a blend of astonishment, revulsion, and terror at the sight of the Lyceans (figs. 21, 25), and si­mul­ta­neously comforted by their trust in and love for their ­mother.109 Naturally, the most diverse movements of the soul, the most heightened passions, are brought together in Latona, the dramatic center, including fatigue, thirst, and desperation over her c­ hildren’s safety. For Ovid, wrath is her controlling passion, but at Versailles, it is closely attended by a kind of solemn entreaty. Latona tilts her head skyward, ­toward Jupiter. With her right arm, she petitions him to avenge her persecutors and at the same time to relieve her and her c­ hildren’s distress (figs. 20–22). According to the inscriptions on the early prints (figs. 2, 18), Latona is demanding revenge on the insolent peasants. Her brows are pinched on the inside and her pupils rise; her fin­gers, each animated by intense feeling, spread out in wayward directions.110

Drapery If one’s character is revealed by his physical form, then it follows that his drapery, to the extent it covers his form, has a like duty to reveal it. Nearly half of Latona is draped.

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Our expectations, that Le Brun and Marsy w ­ ere likely to face the issue with dedication and to turn to nature as well as to fitting models of the past for guidance, are not disappointed. Nicolas Mignard was the first participant in the new round of lectures to take up the issue of drapery in a sustained way, and his approach, predictably, was s­haped by the princi­ple of costume. The clothes worn by the figures in Raphael’s Madonna of François I (fig. 50), he said in September 1667, are worthy of the grandeur and nobility of their inner characters; far from hiding their lovely proportions, they bestow still more majesty and grace on them.111 Le Brun, two months l­ ater, said the figures in Poussin’s Manna are dressed in clothes that fit their characters and their national customs (fig.  42). He pointed to the old man standing at the far left who wears a heavy mantle over his upper body and pants known to the Ancients as bracca over his lower body; neither garment conceals his contours. The Israelites are attired differently ­because their conditions vary, he said.112 In December of that year, Bourdon declared that Poussin and Raphael w ­ ere like-­minded in their approaches to drapery, singling out for proof the yellow-­mantled Apostle in the Christ Healing the Blindmen who “is done with the same intention, and on the maxims, of Raphael” (fig. 43). With Félibien’s approval, he said that Poussin always dressed his major figures amply and nobly and put the lightest clothing on ­those in the background.113 Girardon is a master of the art of drapery, said Félibien, citing the standing figure of Doris (fig. 7), whose mantle not only reveals her form under­neath but leaves her neck, arms, and shoulders uncovered; it is in their lyrical nature that Doris and her companions in the Grotto of Tethys wear such caressing veils.114 Inevitably, Gaspard’s search for appropriate attire for his Latona led to a number of familiar places in art history (fig. 20). The diagonal trail of drapery that crosses her hips is a commonplace in the ancient canon, witness the Vénus d’Arles and the Celestial Venus, two among many. The Vénus d’Arles’s mantle is held in place by the elevation of her left hip and the confluence of folds around her left arm; the surplus spirals to her feet. A less excitable variation appears in Latona. Her mantle is s­ imple and understated, owing more to the lessons of Raphael and Poussin than to any antiquity. It has ­little chiaroscuro ­because Gaspard used his drill sparingly.115 No fold runs contrary to the contours of her body or to the everyday act of kneeling. Her weight-­bearing thigh spreads her mantle in front and deposits just enough on the side for Apollo to take a firm toehold; the folds fan out at the top, sunburst-­like (fig. 20). On the opposite side, the folds of Latona’s mantle follow the contours of her relaxed leg and match the crescent lines of Diana’s drapery. Lapping and bobbing over the rock, the hem of her mantle is a quiet reminder that her persecution took place at ­water’s edge. In back, her mantle again ascends on the solar side and descends on the lunar side, and it again lingers at her waist (fig. 26). The back echoes the front in subdued tones. ­There is in the Metamorphoses a narrative logic for Latona’s partial undress: The wilting heat of Lycea, along with the recent nourishment of Apollo and Diana at the

Latona Group

breasts of their m ­ other, go some way t­ oward justifying her fallen mantle. We have spent a part of this chapter attempting to prove that Gaspard had strong nationalistic and academic motives for displaying his heroine’s nude form. ­There is another ­factor: Latona’s dishabille as a source of erotic appeal. Her mantle hangs precariously at her waist, front and back, barely covering her “modest parts”—­Regnaudin’s discreet wording for the Medici Venus (fig. 51); it threatens to slip off at the slightest disturbance. By such a chance exposure, Latona is that much more vulnerable to the advances of the Lycean peasants and that much more enticing to the courtiers of Versailles. Félibien, it is worth recalling, made no effort to hide his robust attraction for the thinly clad nymphs inside the Grotto (fig. 7). The short, light dress of the Versailles Diana (fig. 60), he noticed, conceals none of the soft forms under­neath it.116

Marble Marble, the metamorphic limestone, was a subject of occasional conversation in the assembly room of the Académie. Above all, t­ here was the concept of technical virtuosity. It was difficult enough for a sculptor to imitate soft warm flesh in any medium, but to achieve that illusion in the obdurate material of marble was a mark of consummate skill. An attendee at Van Opstal’s lecture on the Laocoön, no doubt Le Brun, said the figure was less a statue in marble than a fully animated body.117 ­Here is Félibien again, speaking of Girardon’s marbles in the Grotto (fig. 7): “Fi­nally, t­ here is nothing in ­these figures that is not worked with a g­ reat deal of care; and though the disposition of the location where they are placed prevents one from being able to see all their beauties, they are nevertheless equally finished and cut from a single block of marble, the same as the ancient statues, where ­there is nothing joined together. This is noteworthy, as much for the difficulty encountered in the choice of materials as for the care that is necessary to use in such a g­ reat ­labor.”118 Doris, standing at the far right, reaches out with both hands, one holding a small vase, the other a heavy platter. Shortly before the Soleil couchant emerged as the winning subject for the interior of the Grotto (fig. 6), Claude Perrault submitted a projet calling for colossal figures carved in white marble and partly covered in rocailles, “which would have made them appear to be of a single piece” (Chapter 7).119 Claude had no qualms about feigning a desired effect, such was the irresistible appeal of one-­piece sculptures. It was assumed, rightly or wrongly, that the masters of Antiquity had kept to single blocks, even for figures that reach daringly into space, such as the Versailles Diana (fig. 60) and the Belvedere Apollo (fig. 61). Regnaudin was convinced that the Borghese Gladiator was cut from one block (fig. 66).120 Chantelou said in 1665 that the Farnese Bull “is remarkable only for its size and for the number of figures carved from one stone”121—­that is, an other­wise mediocre antiquity is partially redeemed

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by the sculptor’s skill in carving. Th ­ ere was a vein of opinion in France, originating in Pliny, that the Laocoön was extracted from a single block (fig. 56).122 On 21 May 1668, the sum of 220 livres was sent by the Bâtiments du Roi to a wagoner for hauling five blocks of marble from the Pont-­Rouge to the ­house of Gaspard Marsy.123 This was one week a­ fter Gaspard had received the first installment for his figure of Latona, which consists of Carrara marble.124 Was he searching for the superior blocks of marble, one for Diana in the corner and another for the rest?125 What a time and place for Gaspard to demonstrate his mastery over his medium, to carve an unsupported arm in one piece with the torso (figs. 20, 21).126 Alas, we are unable to say if he succeeded. The challenging limb, a separate block of marble, is joined by clamps to the shoulder and the divide is filled with a cement and smoothed over to appear invisible (figs. 23, 24). It is not known when the break occurred, or if Gaspard’s tools ­were responsible.127

CH A PT ER 6

Lycean Peasants

The laws of costume ­were as sacred for the portrayal of lowly or bestial forms as for heroic, divine, and beautiful ones. We have read André Félibien’s injunction, that each character, noble or vulgar, good or bad, is entitled to each’s proper repre­sen­ta­tion.1 In his lecture on the Saint Michael and the Dev­il (fig. 69), Le Brun applauded Raphael for tending to the monster with “the same industry” as to the celestial being flying triumphantly overhead. Raphael’s demon is broken and disjointed, his neck wrenched so violently that his face turns all the way around to his shoulder. More impor­tant, said Le Brun, he is crushed not by the physical weight of the archangel, whose right foot barely touches him, but by a divine power acting invisibly, spiritually. The figure of Saint Michael was for him an essay in contrasts: The plane of his body opposes that of his face; as one shoulder recedes in space, the other advances, exposing his chest; his right leg, which is vertical and almost frontal, is opposed by his right arm and his left leg, which bends at the knee and withdraws. The beauty of the contrasts is commensurate with the beauty of the subject.2 Le Brun’s was the first in a new round of theoretical lectures at the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture. He read it on 7 May 1667, and a summary was published by Félibien the next year. It is known from the official minutes of the meeting that Henri Testelin, the secrétaire, was in attendance.3 Testelin preserved his notes and, years ­later, in a book of his own on the precepts of painting, he returned to Le Brun’s discussion of the Saint Michael and the Dev­il, and specifically to “the nobility and the precision in the proportions and contours of [Raphael’s] Saint Michael, and the heaviness in ­those of the Devil, which make such a pleasant contrast, and which represent so well the nature of the subjects, that they can be considered the authority and the rule; which is to say, proportions and contours have a rapport with the movement of the esprits.”4 ­Here again we have it from a leading spokesman of the Académie that a figure’s proportions and contours are the indicators of its character. In his section on ordinance, in the same book, Testelin turned to an aspect of the princi­ple of contrast that is missing in Félibien’s book of 1668. Félibien had praised the contrasts in Raphael’s figures,

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each individually; of the two together, one in opposition to the other, he said almost nothing. But Testelin remembered, or perhaps amplified, what Le Brun said of the pair: It was pointed out [by Le Brun] that the disposition of ­these two figures together makes a harmonious contrast, which is so judiciously observed that on the side on which the angel raises his right arm, the Devil lowers his, and on [the side] where he [the Devil] strug­gles to raise his left arm, the angel’s is in contrast thrust down. By a similar logic, whereas the figure of the angel is upright and is seen from the front with a pleasant and noble expression, the Dev­ il’s, in contrast, is face down on the ground, showing his back and making vis­i­ble through a forced twist one of the most hideous f­ aces. But, aside from the simultaneous contrast of ­these two actions, each is very beautiful in and of itself. 5 So an ugly or deformed figure is “beautiful” by e­ ither of two means, if he is harmoniously contrasted with a noble opponent, or if his repulsive condition befits his character. Testelin went on to consider the contrapposti of the archangel in language almost identical to Félibien’s.6 Le Brun said that Raphael had portrayed the monstrous and the celestial with equal dedication, each according to his proper nature. His ideas on contrast are instructive at this point b­ ecause he voiced them just as his sculptors ­were preparing to represent a group of unholy creatures of their own, the peasants of Lycea. The meticulous care with which Le Brun dissected Raphael’s demon, alone and in opposition to the archangel, should advise us that his plans for the rustics ­were far from impulsive or random. The Lyceans are frequently said to descend from the northern naturalistic traditions of the Marsy b­ rothers, natives of Cambrai. That commonplace calls for close scrutiny. It w ­ ill be proposed h ­ ere that the peasants quite rightfully belong at the center of the academic princi­ples and practices of Paris.

Adults An outstanding feature of Renouard’s 1619 edition of the Metamorphoses is his extravagant use of invective ­toward the Lyceans. ­Here is a sampling of his name-­calling: “this peasant rabble . . . ​­these rough villa­gers . . . ​­these villains . . . ​­these inhuman peasants . . . ​­these disagreeable peasants.” No two libels are worded the same way. In his 1660 edition, Du Ryer cast them in benign, even picturesque terms: “the old inhabitants of Lycea . . . ​the Lycean villa­gers . . . ​[or simply] some peasants”—­though, in his moral lessons at the end of his book, he endorsed Ovid’s denunciation of them as “ordinarily malicious and mean” (Appendix E). They dwell far beyond the borders of civilized life; their obscure origins, Ovid said, is why their encounter with Latona is poorly known.

Lycean Peasants

In their village, ­there is no room for hospitality or generosity to strangers. By refusing to share their abundant w ­ ater, a basic commodity, they defied an elementary rule of ­human be­hav­ior. It was more for their defiance of this rule than for their impiety ­toward a Titaness that they paid the price of their humanity. At Versailles, they pay it in degrees, some only slightly, ­others mostly, still o­ thers fully. Their heads are drawn up, their limbs reach out in crazy directions; their feet, now webbed, are anchored in the ­water; their hands are missing a fin­ger or two. Anatomically, they belong to an idealized type, originating as usual in the repertory of ancient statues. It is time to revisit the lecture hall of the Académie. In Chapter 5, we learned from the research of Jacqueline Lichtenstein and Christian Michel that Le Brun delivered a lecture on the properties of proportions and contours in May 1669, and that his thoughts are preserved in the writings of his friend and colleague Testelin. It was Le Brun, the argument goes, who identified four types of contours, one for each of the four types of subjects. The prototypes are found in the ancient canon: for noble divinities, the Belvedere Apollo (fig. 61); for superhuman heroes, the Farnese Hercules (fig. 55); for deified mortals, the Hercules-­Commodus (fig. 65); and for peasants or country folk, the Dancing Faun (fig. 64). Such was Le Brun’s four-­ part formulation. According to Testelin, an alternate, two-­part scheme, viewed from the a­ ngle of proportions, was also proposed. One type, for heroic or divine figures, is represented in the Belvedere Apollo, the Versailles Diana (fig. 60), and the Medici Venus (fig. 51), whose heights are ten times that of their heads. The other type, for peasants and rustics, is based on “the ancient image of the young faun [fig. 64], which is only nine heads in height, in the same way that unrefined men such as peasants have large heads, short necks, hunched shoulders, and all the lower parts of the body thick and massive.”7 Félibien wrote in 1677 that Faun, king of the Latins, was the inventor of plowing and the f­ ather of lesser fauns, satyrs, pans, and silvans. Shepherds of the field worshiped Faun’s offspring as demigods and looked upon them as their guardians. Typically, he noted, fauns have the legs of a goat, though ­there are instances in which they look no dif­fer­ent than ordinary ­humans but for their long tails and pointed ears. In their proportions, they resemble “rustic men and country folk” more than heroes.8 Testelin, in a follow-up in 1678, said that one f­ actor bearing on the proportions of earthy creatures such as the Dancing Faun is their “condition.” “­Simple for common, rural subjects; for men of coarse esprit and of humid temperament must be of heavy and coarse proportions, the muscles showing very ­little distinction one from another, the head large, the neck short, the shoulders high, the stomach small, the thighs and knees large, the feet thick like the young faun’s [fig. 64].”9 Both the proportions and the contours of the Faun are cited in Testelin’s comprehensive report from 1680.10 In his l­ater book, he defined the physical build of the rustic type: “The contours should be rough, wavering, and indistinct, calling the manner of drawing wavering when one does not see any

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muscles have any control over any o­ thers, but instead they follow one another indiscriminately; rough and indistinct such that the muscles appear confused with the tendons and the arteries, and nothing is articulated; this is for s­ imple subjects and coarse ­people [gens grossiers].”11 Such is the natu­ral condition of “coarse ­people,” “vulgar, rustic subjects,” and “unrefined men such as peasants.” That the Lyceans w ­ ere cast in the rustic mold is attested by Jean de La Fontaine, an almost certain visitor to the Marsys’ workshop during their preparations. Their anatomies, he writes, are t­ hose of “hard-­hearted, coarse ­people” (“gens durs et grossiers”). Testelin’s “coarse ­people” (“gens grossiers”) resonates off the poetic line.12 Living close to the earth, toiling strenuously with their hands, sickles, and ploughs, it is only natu­ ral that they have developed large heads and short necks to go above their hunched shoulders and massive, lumpy upper bodies. Their contours bump along erratically, their muscles bulge randomly (see, e.g., figs. 34, 35). Gaspard Marsy said in 1669 that the muscles of the Farnese Hercules are exaggerated, overblown, but at least they function together, logically, in sequence and ranking order, following the rules of membrification (fig. 55) (Chapter 5). Not so for the inhabitants of Lycea, who owe their sturdy but shapeless forms to the rustic standard.

“Gladiator Frogs” It was Ovid’s indictment of the Lycean peasants as “ordinarily malicious and mean” that prevailed in the gardens of Versailles. Surly, stubborn, stingy, foul-­mouthed, xenophobic, belligerent, they press on in their assault even as they commiserate with one another and strug­gle to regain their ­human selves. Du Ryer said in his translation that the threat to Latona came close to turning physical: “Nevertheless, t­ hese peasants lost none of their hard-­heartedness, and what­ever pleas she made to them, she could obtain nothing. They even threatened her if she did not withdraw from their presence, and to that they added insults.” Renouard had put a more sinister edge on ­those same lines from the Metamorphoses: “Yet t­hese rough villa­gers ­were not so; they continued to push Latona away what­ever pleas she made to them. They even threatened to strike her if she did not leave, and had no shame in saying many insults to her” (Appendix E). More than their comrades, it is the men in the first two planes who pre­sent the gravest danger to the divine f­amily. They besiege the island, their right arms resolutely outstretched. Latona squarely ­faces one, Apollo the other. From the ideal spot (fig. 2), the visitor looks down on the three-­quarter rear profile of the first and the three-­quarter frontal profile of the second—­two sides of the same figure. They are coupled not only to their wives but to one another, and for this double cross-­reference they are unique players in Le Brun’s tableau. In their lance-­like gestures, they bear an unmistakable like­ ill be ness to the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 66), the prototype of virile aggression. It w

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con­ve­nient, in tribute to their marble ancestor, to adopt the sobriquet “Gladiator frogs” for ­these two attackers. The Gladiator was a celebrity from the moment it came to light in the second de­ cade of the seventeenth-­century.13 It appears four times in François Perrier’s Segmenta of 1638, more often than any other antiquity (fig. 67). No artist of merit was unfamiliar with Perrier’s anthology, editions of which w ­ ere sold in Rome and Paris at remarkably low prices. Copies and casts of the statue ­were legion, in France and across Eu­rope. Gaspard Marsy owned a small plaster copy of it.14 A bronze reduction appears in Nicolas de Largillière’s portrait of Le Brun, an emblem of his wide culture.15 It was only a ­matter of time before the Gladiator entered the academic discourse, and, in May 1670, Philippe de Buyster became the first to address it exclusively. In attitude and proportion, he said, the statue is among the most beautiful remains of Antiquity. He spent a third of his lecture explaining what he called the “good attitude,” the interplay of the limbs wherein the arm on the side of the advancing leg is drawn back, while the arm on the side of the receding leg is thrust forward. “This is what makes the cross of the figure, and this is what Antiquity always regarded as the most beautiful attitude; and also on the side where the head turns the shoulder must rise. For if the shoulder was lowered on the side to which the head turns, this would have a bad effect.”16 This “attitude” corresponds to one of Perrier’s views (fig. 67, lower left). Next on Buyster’s agenda w ­ ere the ratios or proportions, the shoulders to the head and the hips to the face. Approaching the statue from the other three sides, as Perrier himself had done for his companion views, is the only way to visualize ­these relationships. Buyster, it seems to me, mounted a copy or cast of the Gladiator on a turntable, pausing one by one at Perrier’s four views as he rotated it before his audience.17 Thomas Regnaudin was living in Rome in 1670 and did not hear Buyster’s speech in person, but in preparing one of his own on the same statue, for delivery in February 1677, he spent rewarding time with the ­earlier manuscript.18 Like Buyster, he started by examining the Gladiator’s “attitude,” which to him was “extremely beautiful and well contrasted and highly animated.” You see that he rushes forward, holding his shield in the left hand, to cover himself; the arm advances and the leg on the same side steps back; the right arm, which holds the sword, draws back and the right leg advances; this makes ­those beautiful contrasts that we seek in all our figures. Notice also as his body turns in order to advance his left arm, which holds his shield, his head turning to that side to observe his ­enemy. And notice that even though the figure stretches, it is always in its plane, that is, the nape of the neck is in line with the ankle of the right foot, which advances; all the Ancients ­were very mindful of this. And I ­will say, Messieurs, with truth, this figure is one of the most beautiful and most contrasted of all t­ hose that Antiquity may have made, for it makes such a beautiful

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effect from ­every side that one deems all of it amazing, which is not the case with all ancient figures; this is why the late M. Perrier drew it from four a­ ngles, which he did not do with all the other ancient figures that he sketched.19 Regnaudin had studied the Gladiator at the Villa Borghese, up close and over the space of many months, but what he saw in the figure was preconditioned by his exposure to the Segmenta; his ideas on plurifaciality had been ­shaped, before he left Paris, by Perrier. Likewise, the answering three-­quarter profiles of the “Gladiator frogs” suggest that Le Brun and the Marsy ­brothers had under­gone a pro­cess of preconditioning of their own. It was the inquisitive Regnaudin who showed more interest in the life of ancient gladiators than any other artist at the Académie. The Romans, he said, entertained the ­people in their cities by staging fights between their most robust, muscular slaves. By Regnaudin’s reckoning, the warrior in the statue is approximately twenty-­five years old. He is neither as well-­developed as the Farnese Hercules, whose muscles are like “mountains,” nor as slight as the Belvedere Apollo (and figures like him), whose muscles are covered by a delicate skin and whose contours are soft and fluent in ways more suitable to deities than to “terrestrial men.” For Regnaudin, the Borghese Gladiator, a statue of a mortal man, occupies a ­middle ground.20 ­Here he took the position of Van Opstal, who asserted in 1667 that Laocoön, another mortal, had the physique of neither Hercules nor Apollo.21 The “Gladiator frogs,” mortals to the core, fill the same ­middle ground. Like their ancient ancestor, the “Gladiator frogs” launch their assault with as much combative energy as they possess. But ­here is the irony: Due to their semi-­human, semi-­ batrachian subjects, the Marsy ­brothers ­were called on to “corrupt” the very model that inspired them. If the Gladiator’s out­going arm is locked at the elbow, if it proj­ects straight through to its target, the arms of the frogmen at Versailles are bent at the elbow and twisted to expose their webbed hands openly; their thrusts are crippled, blunted, by the onset of metamorphosis. Owing to the muscle-­bound rustic prototype (fig. 64), the “Gladiator frogs” are also squatter and more hunched than the Gladiator. And still, t­ hese assailants follow the rules of contrapposto just as obediently as their revered model: Their advancing legs are paired with their receding arms; their receding legs are paired with their advancing arms; their heads turn in the direction of their advancing arms.22 It is a sign that they cling to their humanity.

Youngsters The adolescents, like their elders, are coupled male and female. To the south, a girl attempts to flee or hide, not yet sensing the ­water’s unforgiving grip (fig. 36); her part-

Lycean Peasants

ner stares at the Sun in the southern sky, a batrachian habit, stiffening as if suddenly conscious of his grim f­uture. The girl to the north tries a hasty retreat of her own (fig. 38); her pool mate, whose Moorish face is unique among the youngsters (fig. 39), looks away from his advancing arm, and by that aberration he creeps that much closer to full froghood. The other youngsters are cast in perfect contrapposto—­or, as Buyster said of the Borghese Gladiator, their limbs work in partnership, in “what makes the cross of the figure.” Their humanity is still intact, at least partially, for such a “good attitude.” One unfortunate result of Jules Hardouin-­Mansart’s overhaul of the Latona fountain is that the youngsters w ­ ere cut off contextually from their elders. The boy in the southern pool (fig. 36) has suffered the same degree of deterioration as the c­ ouple that once occupied the second plane of the tableau (figs. 30, 31), and his head, like theirs, is cast in strict profile—­affinities strongly suggesting that he is their son. Such a ­family bond went by the wayside when the spouses w ­ ere exiled by Mansart to opposite sides of his marble cone, each outside the other’s view. The boy in the northern pool has the same tightly wound curls as the man in the third plane, the only two peasants to wear such a cut (figs. 32, 39)—­the fashion of ancient satyrs and fauns. Is this a son with his f­ather? Both girls are motivated by an urge to retreat, and their matching coiffeurs and facial casts suggest sisterhood; their direct sight lines to the adults are now missing. Adolescents. Females. Siblings (?). Urgent efforts to flee or hide. It is striking that not one of t­ hese particulars is found in Ovid’s tale of Latona and the Lycean peasants, but they all appear, together, in his preceding tale of Niobe and her fourteen doomed c­ hildren. One passage, as translated by Du Ryer, reads: “This one wants to take flight, and thinking she w ­ ill avoid death, she meets it in her path. That one falls over dead upon the body of her ­dying ­sister. This one tries to hide, and that one ­trembles at the blows the o­ thers have felt, and ­those she fears are for her [VI, 295– 96].”23 The two “­Running Niobides,” who appear individually as well as together in Perrier’s engraving of the ensemble, fit the bill (fig. 46).24 One boy kneels, then drops to the earth; one girl, nearing death, slouches; another boy flees. The runners turn their heads against the direction of their flight, prefiguring the actions of the girls at Versailles.25

“Violent Passions” What happens when the passions of two persons are in such empathetic accord that they act as one? The issue was raised by an unidentified speaker during a lecture by Sébastien Bourdon on Poussin’s Christ Healing the Blindmen in December  1667 (fig. 43). Of the two blindmen who inch expectantly t­ oward Christ, he observed:

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The action of ­these blindmen is but the same action, ­because they both have the same goal and are seeking the same ­thing, which is the recovery of their eyesight. Since they have the same thought, the nerves that come from the brain and move the head make them both act in a similar manner. The muscles in each one of them producing similar results is the reason why their brows, their noses, and their cheeks stretch and recede in the same way; such that it would be said first of all that they resemble one another, and that t­ hese two f­ aces, though very dif­fer­ent, are made from the same model.26 Refining his argument, the speaker added that the first blindman’s action is filled with faith and confidence in the touch of Christ. It is clear from the gestures of the second blindman, who follows the path of the first, that he seeks “the same grace.”27 By the conformity of their gestures they express the grandeur of their faith.28 So it is with the wedlocked peasants. The spouses in each ­couple are altered to the same extent, but the extent of their alterations varies from ­couple to c­ ouple. The first wife, seeing her husband’s webbed hands, is overcome to his extent; in the face of a common fate, they assume a common condition. La Fontaine was sensitive to their tormented states: “The other while watching him is metamorphosed.” The second wife takes on her husband’s new language: “His wife pities him with the voice of a frog.” The third wife, though she is absent from La Fontaine’s verse, is assailed like the ­others by an overwhelming empathy. If acts of commiseration are missing from Ovid’s story of Latona and the Lyceans, they rise up in his wrenching narrative of the seven d­ aughters and seven sons of Niobe. Phaedimus and Tantalus, b­ rothers, ­were wrestling good-­naturedly when the divine assassins appeared in the sky over the athletic field: Since they ­were joined body to body, each bracing himself to overturn the other, when Apollo shot an arrow piercing them, it si­mul­ta­neously knocked them both to the ground. They ­were si­mul­ta­neously wounded, falling together, groaning mouth to mouth; at the same moment a ­dying gaze made their eyes roll back into their heads, and at the same moment their souls left their bodies, which an arrow held joined even a­ fter the coldness of death. Alphenor having seen them being struck, ran to them fretting to lift them back up; but he did not have time to do them this charitable ser­vice; just as he hoped to embrace them, an arrow passed through his breast taking out his lung and at the same time his blood and his life. (VI: 239–51) Damasichthon, a third ­brother, attempts to reverse the damage by withdrawing an arrow from his knee but is ­stopped by a second arrow to his throat (254–58); a girl dies while trying to withdraw an arrow from another b­ rother (290–91). Such futilities are

Lycean Peasants

familiar to us in the action of the Lycean man in the third plane, who contrives to defeat the divine w ­ ill by wiping away the deformities (fig. 32). Besides La Fontaine, ­there ­were at least two writers of the period who sought to understand the predicament of the Lyceans in ­human terms. Claude I Denis, a retired fontainier who dedicated a lengthy verse to the fountains of Versailles in the mid-1670s, was the ­earlier: Their misfortunes are artistically expressed in their eyes, They seem to cry out in expiation for their crimes. Mournfully regarding, by the decision of destiny, Latona and her c­ hildren in the ­middle of the basin.29 Denis goes on to equate the aigrettes of the Lizard basins with the tears of the youngsters on e­ ither side (figs. 36, 38).30 The other author of the day was Dame Jourdain. In her manuscript of 3 January 1695, she described the sculptures in the gardens with astounding precision.31 The date, almost a de­cade ­after the married ­couples had been divorced by Mansart, suggests that she viewed the peasants individually: “­There are some who, not yet being completely transformed, show quite well through their expression their astonishment and despair.”32 One rewarding way to approach Jourdain’s revelations is to consider what Le Brun said of Astonishment and Despair and other heated passions. That Le Brun put as much “industry” into the portrayal of his villains as his gods and heroes has already been noted. W ­ ere the essential points of his theories known to Jourdain? Her acute observations tempt one to believe it. Astonishment, Le Brun argued in his “expression particulière” of 1668, arises from a surplus of Admiration or Won­der: Won­der is a surprise that ­causes the soul to consider attentively objects that seem to it rare and extraordinary, and this surprise is sometimes so power­ful that it pushes the spirits t­owards the place whence the impression of the object is received, and they are so much occupied in considering this impression that t­ here are none left to pass thence to the muscles; the body therefore remains as motionless as a statue. This excess of Won­der leads to Astonishment, and this Astonishment may happen before we know w ­ hether the object is good for us or not.33 Le Brun believed that Astonishment was sometimes joined to Terror, a heightened state of feeling (fig. 70).34 The first wife, who reacts suddenly, unthinkingly, to her husband’s alien new features, jumps to mind (fig. 29). For Dame Jourdain, a second Lycean condition is Despair. ­Here is Le Brun’s analy­ sis of it (fig. 71):

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Extreme Despair can be shown by a man grinding his teeth, foaming at the mouth, and biting his lips, having his forehead furrowed with vertical folds, his eyebrows drawn down over his eyes, and strongly contracted t­ owards the nose. His eyes ­will be burning and full of blood, the pupils rolling and hidden now by the upper lip, now by the lower, sparking and restless. His eyelids ­will be swollen and livid, the nostrils large, open, and raised up, the end of the nose drawn down, and the muscles and tendons of ­these parts very swollen, as ­will be all the veins and nerves of the forehead, t­ emples and other parts of the face. The upper part of the cheeks ­will appear fat and prominent, but they ­will be drawn in about the jaws; the mouth w ­ ill be open and very much drawn back with the corners more open than the m ­ iddle, the upper lip full and turned out, and livid like the rest of the face. The hair ­will stand on end.35 Le Brun observed that Anger is known to breed Despair in addition to Rage, whereupon the face is wildly distorted (fig. 72): When Anger fills the soul, he who feels this passion has red and inflamed eyes, the pupils restless and shining, the eyebrows now lowered, now raised, and contracted against each other. The forehead w ­ ill appear deeply furrowed, forming wrinkles between the eyes; the nostrils ­will be open and enlarged, the lips full and turned out and pressed against one another with the u­ nder lip raised over the upper, leaving the corners of the mouth slightly open to form a cruel and disdainful grin. He ­will appear to grind his teeth, and to foam at the mouth. His face ­will be pale in some places and inflamed in o­ thers; the veins of the forehead, t­ emples, and neck w ­ ill be swollen and taut, and his hair standing upright. He who feels this passion gasps rather than breathes, the heart being oppressed by the abundance of blood that flows to its aid. Rage and Despair sometimes follow Anger.36 From the face, the effects of the passions quickly travel to the rest of the body, producing, in the case of Anger, the following signs: “But in Anger all the movements of the body are large and extremely violent, and all the limbs are agitated; the muscles should be very prominent, larger and more swollen than normal, and the veins and nerves taut.”37 Is it Anger that unsettles the “Gladiator frogs” (figs. 28, 31)? They are the initiators, the spearheads of the attack, and their wives respond to them instinctively, instantly. All three ­couples are ranked in this way: the husbands act, their wives react, rushing to their aid. Signs of Despair, like ­those of Anger and other extreme passions, soon appear in the outer regions of the body: “In Despair all the limbs are in almost the same state as

Lycean Peasants

in Anger, but they should appear in greater disorder, for one can draw a man who tears his hair, bites his arms, and tears his flesh, who runs and flings himself down.”38 Such a figure lurks in the second row of Le Brun’s Tent of Darius, the eunuch who with one hand tries to tell Sysigambis of her error and with the other claws at his chest in a mad effort to shed his clothes (fig. 47). Félibien said in his book on the painting that such an action is common among t­ hose in positions of subjugation who are thrown into extreme states of affliction or mourning.39 The third Lycean, who digs at his shirt in a deranged attempt to reverse the damages to his body, seems to suffer from deep Despair (fig. 32). His actions, sympathized La Fontaine, only quickened his fate: “This one gets himself wet / Washes himself, and the more he believes he is washing off all of ­these traits / The more the ­water contributes to making them perfect.” Le Brun’s definition of Terror and, to a lesser extent, Horror, fits the Lycean girls to perfection (figs. 36, 38). Terror is an intensified state of Horror, which explains why Le Brun spoke at greater length of the former. The girls, both of whom attempt with upraised right arms to cover their ­faces, are gripped by Terror, or frayeur (fig. 73): ­ ose afflicted by extreme Terror have the eyebrow raised high in the ­middle, Th and the muscles that produce this movement very prominent and swollen, pressing against each other and drawn down over the nose; both the nose and the nostrils must appear drawn up. The eyes must appear wide open, the upper lid hidden below the eyebrow, the white of the eye surrounded with red, the pupil in an unsettled movement, but nearer the lower part of the eye than the upper, the lower eyelid swollen and livid; the muscles of the nose ­will be swollen, and also the nostrils. The muscles of the cheeks w ­ ill be extremely prominent, forming a fold on ­either side of the nostrils, the mouth wide open with the corners drawn back, and all the veins and tendons very prominent. Every­ thing ­will be strongly marked, as much on the forehead as around the eyes; the muscles and veins of the neck must be very taut and prominent; the hair w ­ ill stand on end and the complexion be pale, while the extremities of the features, such as the end of the nose, the ears, and the parts around the eyes, w ­ ill be somewhat livid. If the eyes appear wide open in this passion, it is b­ ecause the soul makes use of them to discover the nature of the object that c­ auses this terror. Raised at one end and lowered at the other, the eyebrow seems to show by the raised end that it wishes to rise to the brain to protect it from the danger that the soul apprehends, while the other end appears drawn down and swollen due to the spirits that flow in quantity from the brain, as if to cover the soul and defend it from the evil which it fears. The widely open mouth marks the spasm of the heart which is oppressed by the blood that withdraws t­ oward it, obliging whoever is subject to this passion, if he would breathe, to make such an effort

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that the mouth opens very wide, and the air passing through the vocal organs produces an inarticulate sound. If the muscles and the veins appear swollen, this is only ­because of the spirits which the brain sends into ­those parts.40 The telltale signs are imprinted in the features of the girl in the south (fig. 37).41 Her brows, responding to the terrifying sight of her elders, rise in the ­middle. Her eyes widen, her pupils flit about, an outward symptom of Terror; her eyelids are creased, inflamed. Her mouth opens wide and even, receding at the corners. Her teeth are evenly exposed against her upper lip, in accord with Le Brun’s ­later diagram, though he did not address this point in his text. Her cheek muscles bulge noticeably, while the folds separating her cheeks and nostrils are narrow and deep. The swelling of her nasal muscles distends her nostrils. Her forehead, surrounded by so many tensions, sinks in the ­middle. The effects of Terror and Horror soon flood across the body. Le Brun spoke of the more long-­distance signs: But in Horror the movements must be much more violent than in Aversion, for the body ­will appear drawn violently back from the object that c­ auses the Horror, the hands wide open and the fin­gers spread, the arms drawn tight against the body, and the legs in the act of fleeing. Terror has something of t­ hese movements, but they w ­ ill appear more exaggerated and wilder, for the arms ­will be stretched stiffly forward, the legs in the act of fleeing with all their might, and the ­whole body in disorder.42 The girls’ flight is a natu­ral consequence of Terror. Their arms, fin­gers, and even their voices are thrown into disarray. Their hair, rather than standing on end, as Le Brun prescribed, is swept back by their attempts at rapid escape. The double actions of the girls, covering their ­faces while fleeing, are closely aligned with ­those of the amours who occupied the first plane of the Dragon, a fountain by the Marsy ­brothers from 1666–67 (fig. 15, a view from the back side).43 Félibien, reporting on the festival of 18 July 1668, is the definitive source: “Around this dragon ­there are four small amours on swans (each of which has a large jet) that swim ­toward the border, as if to run away. The two amours that are turned t­oward the dragon hide their f­aces with their hands so as not to see him; all the signs of fear are clearly expressed on their f­ aces. The other two, more daring b­ ecause the monster is not turned ­toward them, attack him with their weapons. ­There are bronze dolphins between the amours that shoot bubbling masses of ­water from their open mouths.”44 This was a revival of an ancient trope, originating in the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides, where Agamemnon veils his face so as not to witness his d­ aughter’s sacrifice.45

Lycean Peasants

Timanthes ­adopted the trope in a celebrated painting. For his admirers, including Cicero, Quintilian, Pliny, and Valerius Maximus, the veiling by Timanthes was a rhetorical device, a concession that his capacity to visualize a state of extreme emotion was insufficient.46 Interest in the trope was widespread in our years.47 Le Brun, in a painting of the subject, portrayed Agamemnon not veiled but in the course of veiling. According to Claude Nivelon, the king appears “in the pro­cess of covering himself or of covering his face, to the side of the object, a large purple cloak, and is disposed in a way that appears he cannot do it. This duplicity of action, combined with the movement that he makes to lean back slightly, opening his right hand to indicate his astonishment, expresses knowingly the ­battle in his mind, which cannot, as a ­father, see a shock so acute, that he would want to see however without a very determined ­will, fighting against love, fear, and the desire to see.”48 Le Brun put the veil not to rhetorical but to psychological use. With the hesitant gesture he drew attention to Agamemnon’s weak character, his wavering desire to have it both ways, to see but not to see.49 Which brings us back to the irresolute amours at the Dragon. Though they are “turned ­toward the dragon,” they cover their ­faces. Like Le Brun’s Agamemnon, they are moved by competing urges, to peek at the monstrous, but not to square up to it.50 Another ingredient is the amours’ compulsion to flee from, while still facing, the dragon. The aggregate is Terror, the motivating passion of the two girls at Latona. It was agreed at the Académie in the 1660s that some passions ­were more difficult for an artist to visualize than o­ thers. At the lower end of the scale of difficulty w ­ ere the “violent passions” (e.g., hate, grief, anger) and at the upper end the “gentle passions” (e.g., love, modesty, joy). As Nicolas Mignard said in September 1667, the “strong passions” ­were simpler to represent ­because the soul, when it is seized, agitates the entire body; by contrast, the gentler passions, what he called “­these affections hidden in the depths of the heart,” tested the artist more rigorously ­because they generate fewer outward signs.51 Félibien, in another reference to Girardon’s nymphs (fig. 7), said that gentleness was more difficult to represent than a passion that agitates not just the face but the w ­ hole body; pain and anger w ­ ere easier to visualize than decency or love, which 52 scarcely betray themselves. By this mea­sure, the bar of difficulty was lower for the Marsy ­brothers, the sculptors of our excitable peasants of Lycea. Du Ryer’s “explanation” of the Ovidian fable, at the end of his translation of 1660, includes an entertaining put-­down of life in the French country tavern: “Moreover it can be i­ magined that they [the Lyceans] w ­ ere transformed into frogs b­ ecause, like frogs who enjoy themselves in swamps and mire, the villa­gers in a similar way hold nothing dearer than taverns, where they amuse themselves shouting and singing; and would feel that they ­were ­dying of thirst if they ­were not, so to speak, inhabiting wine barrels” (Appendix E). Did early viewers of the fountain at Versailles imagine that the adult peasants ­were drunk, that the wine had inflamed their tempers and stiffened their

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resolve to deny Latona? It leads one to won­der if their wild be­hav­ior was modeled in part on that of ancient satyrs and maenads, and if Le Brun scripted it into his visual narrative at the outset. We end this chapter where it began, with the observation by Le Brun that the demon in Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il (fig. 69) is deformed not by the downward thrust of the archangel’s leg but by a divine power acting invisibly. Such was the destiny of the Lyceans, the victims of an unseen super­natural force.

CH A PT ER 7

Panegyric and Manifesto

It was in the m ­ iddle part of the 1660s that the king approved the recommendation of his counselors and set the wheels in motion to enhance the western axis with three scenic fountains, what is t­ oday sometimes called a “sculptural triptych.” Did he decide all at once to proceed with the triptych, or incrementally, over the course of months? Put another way: Was it a unified program from the beginning, or was it rather a ­matter of afterthoughts, adding a panel or two panels to a preexisting panel, or one panel to a preexisting two? A single burst of inspiration or a series of adjustments over time? Rarely, and even then in scant detail, is the issue taken up in the modern lit­er­a­ ture. My case, favoring the incremental approach, is based on a combination of old and new evidence. Few questions are more vital to our understanding of the Premier Versailles. A place to commence the investigation is the “pavillon du réservoir d’eau,” the ­simple utilitarian building that lay on the terrace, to the north of the château (fig. 12, a view from 1668).1 Soon a­ fter the pavilion was erected in 1664, the king de­cided to alter it. Liliane Lange argued in her famous essay from 1961 that the alterations began in June 1665, citing for evidence a statement by Jean-­Baptiste Colbert’s agent at Versailles, Louis Petit, that he had closed the lowest section of the pavilion and that Jean Delaunay, a rocailleur, was at work t­ here.2 The pavilion was then known as the “grotte” ­ ecause the roof for the veneer of rocailles and coquillages that Delaunay applied to it. B continued to serve as a reservoir, this grotte was transformed into what was, literally, an “­under ­water” retreat for Apollo and his h ­ orses, the Grotto of Tethys. In his Mémoires, Charles Perrault takes sole credit for the conception of the Grotto: “I gave the plan [le dessein] for the Grotto of Versailles, which is of my invention.”3 He is referring not to a graphic proposal but rather to the founding idea of the Grotto, the ­ orses at day’s end; Charles had no known talents as idea of Apollo recouping with his h a draftsman. His claim to the invention is backed up by André Félibien, who three times in his 1672 monograph on the Grotto refers to the founding and orchestrating role of an unnamed “Celuy.” Robert Berger, the first to recognize the precious value of t­ hese

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clues, has identified Celuy as Charles Perrault.4 The passages are well worth quoting. First, from a section on the Grotto’s facade (fig. 5): Three large bas-­reliefs adorn the facade of this building. The central one represents the Sun descending into the sea; the two ­others are filled withTritons and Sirens who rejoice at his coming. Th ­ ere are yet smaller ones,round in shape, wherein are Sea-­Cupids who frolic upon dolphins—­a ll of this to indicate in some way the intention of Celuy, who has given the plan [le dessin] of this entire work.5 Second: It is not always the richness of the material or the length of the ­labor that must be considered in a work; it is the mind and the beautiful idea of Celuy who has directed it; being certain that the more the mind appears detached from the help of Nature in what­ever work t­ here may be, the more the work is worthy of admiration.6 And third (fig. 6): If t­ hose who have given t­ hese efforts to the execution of such a beautiful work merit some honor, for having brought it to such high perfection, whatdoes Celuy not deserve, who gives the initial impetus to all t­ hese noble inventions, and ­under whose intelligence [par les lumières] they [the artists and artisans] work, not only by creating bodies perfect in themselves, but by establishing that they have yet some special connection to the ­great Prince [Louis XIV] for whom they are undertaken?7 Félibien was an eyewitness, and his book bears the authority of his office, historiographe of the Bâtiments du Roi. The currency of it serves as a defense for Charles, who penned his Mémoires at a distance of thirty years from the events. Not only does it substantiate Charles’s claim of invention, it lends credibility to some of his related claims, not all of which w ­ ere accepted by contemporaries. In his ­earlier lost manuscript, which he composed in 1693 to accompany two volumes of drawings by his ­brother Claude, Charles remembered a brief phase of activity that preceded the invention and adoption of his “plan.” Jacques-­François Blondel, who read the manuscript in l­ ater years, has left this second­hand report: “See also, in the first volume of Perrault’s manuscript, page 157, the designs that he [Claude] had provided for his Grotto in 1667 [sic; too late a year]. Charles Perrault reports in this manuscript that his ­brother’s projet was not executed ­because he had ­imagined a design without

Panegyric and Manifesto

example. For this reason, he says, it should have been preferred. It was of colossal figures that would have been of white marble, surfaced in part in rocailles, which would have made them appear to be of a single piece.”8 The true identities of t­ hese craggy g­ iants, so unpre­ce­dented in concept or form or material as to spell their doom, are lost to us.9 It is likely but not certain that Claude submitted his projet at the invitation of the Pe­tite Académie, and that it was this same agency that refused it. Claude, noted Charles, “had ­imagined a design without example. For this reason . . . ​it should have been preferred.” With his lament that “it should have been preferred,” Charles is insinuating that Claude’s projet was one among o­ thers, that at least one alternative projet coexisted with it. “Preferred” to what, precisely? “Preferred,” I would like to propose, to Charles’s response to the same invitation, his own projet (or “plan”) for Apollo at leisure.10 If Charles’s projet took the form of a memo, his usual way of opening a debate with his colleagues, Claude’s, I suspect, was a drawing and possibly an accompanying memo. Not that they submitted their projets at the same time, but instead that Charles r­ ose to the occasion when Claude’s adventurous proposal was dismissed; the choice of one projet over the other does not point to a head-­to-­head competition. It took the repudiation of Claude’s colossi to open the door to Charles’s “plan.” Charles proceeded to share his winning invention with his ­brother. We know, thanks to Blondel, that Charles discussed his invention in his lost manuscript of 1693. Blondel’s brief report is invaluable for what it reveals of Charles Le Brun’s controversial role in the affair. ­A fter his passing nod to Claude’s colossi, Blondel continues: “The interior of this Grotto was magnificent. Le Brun, Charles Perrault always says, had only disposed the groups [sic] of figures that ­were executed by Girardon and Regnaudin [the Soleil couchant, fig. 6], and Claude Perrault having given the design of all the rest, even the compartments of the vault and the floor, for which he has conserved for us the designs, on pages 161 and 163 of the same manuscript volume.”11 Charles, revisiting the same subject in his ­later Mémoires, is s­ ilent on Claude’s colossi but forthcoming on his own successful plan. Le Brun is again cited. Seeking to put his invention of the Soleil couchant into a broader framework, Charles acknowledges Latona and the Soleil levant, both of which, he claims, w ­ ere already in situ when he in­ven­ted it: I gave the plan [le dessein] for the Grotto of Versailles, which is of my invention. When the King ordered the construction of the grotto of Versailles, I reflected upon the fact that His Majesty had taken the Sun as his devise, with a terrestrial globe under­neath the words Nec pluribus impar, and that most of the ornaments at Versailles had been taken from the fable of the Sun and Apollo (­because his birth, and that of Diana, with their m ­ other Latona, had been put into one of the fountains of Versailles, where it still is ­today [the second state, fig. 1], and that a rising Sun had also been put in the reflecting pool that is at

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the very end of the Petit Parc [the Soleil levant, fig. 4]. I thought, therefore, that at the other end of the same Parc where this grotto was (for it has since been demolished), it would be good to put Apollo about to lie down in Tethys’s home ­after having made a tour of the world [the Soleil couchant, fig. 6], in order to represent the King coming to rest at Versailles a­ fter having labored for the good of the ­whole world. I told my thought to my ­brother the physician [Claude], who made a design of it, which was carried out exactly, to wit: Apollo in the large central niche, where the nymphs of Tethys wash and bathe him, and in the two side niches, he represented the four ­horses of the Sun, two in each niche, who are groomed by tritons. Monsieur Le Brun, when the King had approved this design, drew it to full scale and gave it to be carried out, almost without changing a ­thing, to the Sieurs Girardon and Regnaudin for the central group, and to the Sieurs Gaspard [and Balthazar] Marsy and [Gilles] Guérin for the two side groups, where the ­horses are being groomed by tritons. My ­brother [Claude] also made designs for all the other ornaments of this grotto: statues, rocks, pathways, ­etc.; he also made the design for the door, which was very beautiful: It was a golden Sun that spread its rays, also of gold, over the w ­ hole breadth of the three doors, which w ­ ere of iron bars painted green [fig. 5]. It seemed as though the Sun w ­ ere in that grotto, and that one could see it through the bars of the door.12 In the first of his three revelations, Félibien said that the reliefs on the facade “indicate in some way the intentions of Celuy [Charles], who has given the plan [le dessein] of this entire work.” The implication is that Charles’s “plan” for the Grotto of Tethys went beyond the Soleil couchant to include the exterior and interior “ornaments,” the designs of which, according to Charles, ­were by Claude. In his third passage, Félibien commends Celuy for inspiring the artists and craftsmen who carried out “all ­these noble inventions.” Charles emerges from Félibien’s book as a valuable source of information as well as a more substantial contributor to the Grotto of Tethys. Charles contended in his Mémoires that Claude made a design of the Soleil couchant and gave it to Le Brun, who then drew it full scale and passed it on to the sculptors “almost without changing a ­thing.” ­Earlier, in his manuscript of 1693, Charles claimed that Le Brun had only “disposed the groups [sic] of figures” by Girardon and Regnaudin; indeed, wrote Blondel in his synopsis, Charles “always says” so. Charles, it seems, was thin-­skinned on this point, repeating himself several times at least that Le Brun’s contribution was of subordinate value. One explanation for his dogged claim is that a tradition favoring Le Brun’s exclusive role had arisen in the years leading up to 1693, and that Charles, with Claude’s legacy in mind, missed no occasion to refute it. Claude Nivelon, Le Brun’s biographer, assigned the Soleil couchant to Le Brun without even mentioning Claude.13

Figure 1. Jules Hardouin-­Mansart, Latona fountain (current state), from the east (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 2. Pierre Le Pautre, Latona fountain (original state), from the east. Engraving, 1678 (photo: BnF).

Figure 3. Israël Silvestre, Axial view of Versailles from the west. Engraving, 1674 (photo: BnF).

Figure 4. Jean-­Baptiste Tuby, Apollo fountain (Soleil levant) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 5. Jean Le Pautre, Grotto of Tethys, Facade. Engraving, 1672 (photo: BnF).

Figure 6. Jean Le Pautre, Grotto of Tethys, Interior. Engraving, 1676 (photo: BnF).

Figure  7. François Girardon and Thomas Regnaudin, Apollo Bathed by the Nymphs of Tethys (Soleil couchant) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 8. Plan of Versailles (“Du Bus plan”). Drawing, ca. 1662. BnF, Cartes et Plans, Ge DD 2987, no. 833 (photo: BnF). East at bottom, West at top.

Figure 9. Plan of Versailles (“Institut plan”). Drawing, 1663. Bibliothèque de l’Institut, Paris. Ms. 1307, fol. 68 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY). East at bottom, West at top.

Figure 10. Plan of Versailles. Engraving, 1666. BnF, Est., Va 422, t. 4 (photo: BnF). East at bottom, West at top.

Figure 11. Plan of Versailles. Drawing, 1668. BnF, Est., Va 78f, t. 1 (falsely inscribed “1664”) (photo: BnF). East at bottom, West at top.

Figure 12. Pierre Patel, Bird’s-­eye view of Versailles from the east, 1668. Musée de Versailles, inv. no. 765 (photo: RMN-­ Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 13. Detail of Figure 12 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 14. Israël Silvestre, Angular view of Versailles from the north. Engraving, 1674 (photo: BnF).

Figure 15. Israël Silvestre, Axial view of Versailles from the north. Engraving, 1676 (photo: BnF).

Figure 16. Folio from Denis Jolly’s inventory for June–­December 1666, with addendum by Charles Perrault. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, unnumbered entry, fol. 11r (photo: AN).

Figure 17. Jean Le Pautre, Axial view of Versailles from the west. Engraving, 1679 (BnF).

Figure 18. Jean Edelinck, Latona group. Engraving, 1679 (photo: BnF).

Figure 19. Adam Pérelle, Bird’s-­eye view of Versailles from the east. Engraving, ca. 1680 (photo: BnF).

Figure  20. Gaspard and Balthazar Marsy, Latona group (frontal view) (photo: RMN-­ Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 21. Latona group (angular view) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 22. Latona (head and upper torso) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 23. Latona (torso) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 24. Latona (rear view) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 25. Apollo (frontal view) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 26. Apollo (rear view) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 27. Diana (profile view) (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 28. Gaspard and Balthazar Marsy. First Lycean husband (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 29. First Lycean wife (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 30. Second Lycean wife (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 31. Second Lycean husband (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 32. Third Lycean husband (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 33. Third Lycean wife (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 34. First Lycean husband (rear view) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 35. Second Lycean husband (rear view) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 36. Gaspard and Balthazar Marsy, Lizard fountain (south) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 37. Lizard fountain (south) (detail) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 38. Gaspard and Balthazar Marsy, Lizard fountain (north) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 39. Lizard fountain (north) (opposite side) (photo: Thierry Prat).

Figure 40. Jean Matheus, Latona and the Lycean Peasants. Engraving, 1619 (photo: BnF).

Figure 41. Charles Percier, Tracing of Ambroise Dubois’s fresco at Fontainebleau, Latona and the Lycean Peasants (photo: BnF).

Figure 42. Nicolas Poussin, Israelites Gathering the Manna, 1637. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. 7275 (photo: RMN-­ Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 43. Nicolas Poussin, Christ Healing the Blindmen, 1649. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. 7281 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 44. Francesco Albani, Latona and the Lycean Peasants, ca. 1604. Musée Municipal, Dôle (photo: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 45. Stefano della Bella, Niobides. Drawing. Uffizi, inv. no. 14810F (photo: Gabinetto Fotografico).

Figure 46. François Perrier, Niobides. Engraving, 1638 (photo: BnF).

Figure 47. Charles Le Brun, Alexander at the Tent of Darius, 1660–61. Musée de Versailles, inv. no. 6165 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure  48. Domenico Pieratti, Latona and Her ­Children, 1629–35. Galleria Barberini (photo: Galleria Barberini).

Figure 49. Raphael, La Belle Jardinière (La Vierge à l’Enfant et Saint Jean), 1507. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. 602 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 50. Raphael, Madonna of François I (La Grande Sainte Famille), 1518. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. 604 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 51. Medici Venus. Uffizi (photo: Alinari/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure  52. Richelieu Torso. Musée des Beaux-­A rts, Orléans (photo: Orléans, Musée des Beaux-­A rts©François Lauginie. Dépôt du Louvre, MR 385). Only the torso is ancient. The limbs and head are of ­later origin. The ­whole figure is known as the Richelieu Venus.

Figure 53. Pierre Le Gros, Venus Emerging from the ­Water (photo: author).

Figure 54. Belvedere Torso. Musei Vaticani (photo: HIP/Art Resource, NY).

Figure  55. Farnese Hercules. Museo Nationale, Naples (photo: Erich Lessing/Art ­R esource, NY).

Figure 56. Laocoön. Musei Vaticani (HIP/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 57. Belvedere Antinous. Musei Vaticani (photo: Alinari/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 58. Niobe. Uffizi, Florence (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 59. Borghese Seneca (­Dying Seneca). Musée du Louvre (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 60. Versailles Diana (Diana Chasseresse). Musée du Louvre (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 61. Belvedere Apollo. Musei Vaticani (photo: Alinari/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 62. Wrestlers. Uffizi, Florence (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 63. Henri Testelin, Exemple touchant les proportions et les contours. Engraving, from his Sentimens des plus habiles peintres du temps, sur la pratique de la peinture, 1680 (photo: BnF).

Figure 64. Claude Mellan, Dancing Faun. Engraving, 1671 (photo: BnF).

Figure 65. Hercules-­Commodus. Musei Vaticani (photo: Alinari/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure  66. Borghese Gladiator. Musée du Louvre (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure  67. François Perrier, Borghese Gladiator. Engravings (images reversed), 1638 (photo: Jacqueline Lichtenstein and Christian Michel, eds., Conférences de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture. Paris, 2006, tome I, vol. 2, p. 618).

Figure 68. Nicolas Poussin, Massacre of the Innocents, ca. 1625. Musée Condé, Chantilly (photo: RMN-­ Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure  69. Raphael, Saint Michael and the Dev­il, 1518. Musée du Louvre, inv. no.  610 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 70. Charles Le Brun, Astonishment. Diagram. Musée du Louvre, Cabinet des dessins, inv. no. 28292, fol. 7 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY).

Figure 71. Charles Le Brun, Despair. Diagram. Musée du Louvre, Cabinet des dessins, inv. no. 28312, fol. 49 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 72. Charles Le Brun, Anger. Diagram. Musée du Louvre, Cabinet des dessins, inv. no. 28310, fol. 44 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 73. Charles Le Brun, Terror. Diagram. Musée du Louvre, Cabinet des dessins, inv. no. 28296, fol. 40 (photo: RMN-­Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY).

Figure 74. Pierre Le Pautre. Siren fountain. Engraving, 1679 (photo: BnF).

Figure  75. Charles Perrault, “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo.” Manuscript. AN, O1 1595, no.  115 (photo: AN).

Figure  76. Louis de Chastillon, Fontaine des Muses. Engraving, from Charles Le Brun, Recueil de divers desseins de fontaines et de frises maritimes, ca. 1683–84 (photo: BnF).

Figure 77. Louis de Chastillon, Fontaine des Arts. Engraving, from Charles Le Brun, Recueil de divers desseins de fontaines et de frises maritimes, ca. 1683–84 (photo: BnF).

Figure 78. Louis de Chastillon, Deluge fountain. Engraving from Charles Le Brun, Recueil de divers desseins de fontaines et de frises maritimes, ca. 1683–84 (photo: BnF).

Figure 79. Atelier of Charles Le Brun, Python fountain. Drawing. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, CC147 (photo: Nationalmuseum).

Figure 80. Charles Le Brun, Parnassus. Drawing, ca. 1674–75. Musée Condé, Chantilly, Ms. 442 (photo: RMN).

Panegyric and Manifesto

I see no reason why the opposing sides cannot be bridged, particularly now, in the light of Félibien’s Celuy. Charles’s concession, that Le Brun redrew Claude’s drawing “almost without changing a ­thing,” is the key, and it indicates that, even for a reluctant Charles, Le Brun deserved some creative credit, without denying Claude his rightful share. Charles greatly devalued the extent of that credit, the degree of “change” by Le Brun. But his words possess a core truth. Le Brun did much more than “dispose” the group of figures that he saw in Claude’s drawing, he thoroughly edited and refined and formalized it, according to his own princi­ples of design, which are elsewhere a ­matter of rec­ord in the gardens.14 The resolution of the Soleil couchant is certainly Le Brun’s, but it was preceded by Claude’s drawing. On one impor­tant point, historians of Versailles, including the author, have cast a dubious eye.15 It has to do with the acuity of Charles’s memory of the chronology of the events along the western axis. The indictment is always framed the same way: The program for the Grotto was not conceived in response to Latona and the Soleil levant, it preceded and inspired them. Charles has reversed the sequence. Refutation of his claim is said to lie in the Comptes des Bâtiments, where it states, clearly and unequivocally, that Girardon and Regnaudin ­were paid for the first time for their Soleil couchant on 28 May 1666, and that the initial payments to Jean-­Baptiste Tuby for his Soleil levant and to the Marsy ­brothers for their Latona, ­were both sent on 13 May 1668, two years l­ ater.16 It is true that Latona is identified by name for the first time on 13 May 1668, but almost two years ­earlier, on 24 September 1666, the Marsy ­brothers w ­ ere paid “on account, for the works of lead sculpture they are making [for Versailles].” Concealed in ­those imprecise words, I have argued, are their ­labors on the small creatures that sat along the borders (Chapter 3; Appendix A).17 I also argued that the nozzles that Denis Jolly installed on the borders in the second half of 1666 w ­ ere intended for the small creatures, and that, si­mul­ta­neously, the number of nozzles on the surface of the oval basin was raised from four to six to accommodate that many adult Lyceans. In addition, Jolly was laying pipes to the centers as well as to the borders of the round basins to the west, the ­future homes of the young rustics and the small amphibians circling them. As for Tuby, the 13 May 1668 payment for his Soleil levant was indeed his first, but he received it well a­ fter his earliest l­ abors. He had made considerable headway on his group by 2 May 1668, the date of the privilège du roi of Jean de La Fontaine’s Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, a book in which the group is predicted with some accuracy.18 Jolly had already begun to extend the reach of his pipes to the Bassin des Cygnes, the ­future home of the Soleil levant, in 1666.19 Support for a pre-1668 start for the Soleil levant is also provided by the Siren, a fountain originating in 1666 that lay on the terrace in front of the Grotto of Tethys (fig. 74); the leading figure presses a conch to her lips and seems to hail a celestial presence with her outstretched arm and fixed

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look into the western sky, through which Apollo travels en route to his nocturnal rest (fig. 12); it suggests that the Siren was programmed in coordination with the expected arrival of the solar god from the other end of the axis.20 The payment on 28 May 1666 to Girardon and Regnaudin states that the sculptors w ­ ere paid “on account, for the works of sculpture they have made at the Grotto of Versailles.” Drawings or models of their seven-­figure group?21 How much time is it fair to allocate for their hands-on work before 28 May 1666? How much for other necessities before that, such as the planning, the acquisition of materials, or the adjustments to the sculptors’ schedules? A reasonable estimate would push the conception of the Soleil couchant to the beginning of 1666, possibly to the latter part of 1665, the year in which Delaunay was veneering the pavilion with coquillages and rocailles.22 This, in turn, pushes Claude’s rocaille-­coated colossi to an even ­earlier moment in 1665, perhaps close to Delaunay’s starting point. It also positions the Soleil couchant a half year or so before the events in the Parterre de Latone, in the second half of 1666, involving Jolly and the Marsy b­ rothers.

“Fer-­à-­Cheval Memo” The case for an integrated conceit was presented in 1961 by Liliane Lange. Though she accepted the traditional dates for the execution of Latona and the Soleil levant (1668– 70) and the Soleil couchant (1666 start), Lange proposed a much e­ arlier date of conception for the three units together: the end of 1664 or the beginning of 1665. She factored in a generous period of planning by the learned men of the Pe­tite Académie: “[They] had therefore si­mul­ta­neously forecast the statues of Latona and her ­children and Apollo leaving the ­water, and in relation to ­these the statues of the Grotto. . . . ​And this projet d’ensemble must have been elaborated before 1666, the year in the course of which the statues of the Grotto ­were begun. The idea of it had been sketched during the winter of 1664, or ­later, in the spring of 1665, the time when the g­ rand réservoir was transformed into a grotte.”23 Lange’s claim was bold, original, and appealing, and it reigned for a quarter ­century. Then, in 1985, Gerald Weber unearthed a document that posed a serious challenge to Lange. It led him to question the assumption that the imagery of the western axis was ruled from the start by a “true core,” a “­whole program.” He wondered if our desire for a unified program is compatible with the incomplete evidence.24 What Weber discovered was an unsigned, undated sheet of paper with proposals for the round basin at the end of the G ­ rand Parterre and the oval basin beneath it (fig. 13). The sheet bears a title: “Desseins de fontaines pour Versailles” (fig. 75). For the [round] basin of the ­Grand Parterre in front of the château: One could put a Pallas [Athena] holding a lance created by the jet itself of the fountain, or

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an Arion with his lyre seated on a dolphin who spurts the jet d’eau, or an infant triton who, having puffed cheeks, raises the w ­ ater in the air. For the oval basin in the parterre below: One could put a Hercules who crushes Antaeus, from the mouth of whom comes the jet d’eau as though it ­were his blood that Hercules makes him vomit in crushing him. This group would have some nobility and would, I think, make a fine effect when viewed from above [the top of the Fer-­à-­Cheval].25 Weber assigned a date of about 1666–67 to the sheet.26 Owing to the locations of the two basins at issue, allow us to call it the “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo.” The handwriting of the memo is incontestably that of Charles Perrault. No less certain, he addressed it to his colleagues at the Pe­tite Académie. It is a draft, a point of departure for one of their semiweekly meetings on the state of the royal arts, and in that re­spect it resembles his memo from 1666 for a program of statuary for the dome of the Tuileries in Paris (Chapter 3). ­Water, and the ways to deploy it, is Charles’s preoccupation, and it explains his disjointed cast: Pallas or Arion or an infant triton for the basin on top, Hercules and Antaeus for the one below. Charles seems content with almost any subject in the upper basin as long as it called for an impressive jet, no m ­ atter that it overlooked the agonizing death throes of Antaeus.27 A Herculean fountain, he imagines, would lend “some nobility” and “make a fine effect” to ­those peering down upon it—­vague notions indeed. Apollo is nowhere in sight in the document. Nor do the two round basins to the west figure in it.28 In the end, his projets ­were ignored, each and e­ very one. Of utmost value for our inquiry is that the f­ uture of the oval basin was still an open question when Charles penned his memo; the legend of Latona and the Lycean peasants had not yet been anointed. Attaching a date to the Fer-­à-­Cheval memo would assist us in estimating the date of conception of the Latona fountain. It is evident, too, that the round basin at the end of the G ­ rand Parterre played an unassuming but critical role in the birth and fledgling days of our fountain. Jolly laid the pipes that traveled from the Grotto of Tethys to the round basin in the first two months of 1665; they fed a central jet.29 About a year ­later, in the spring of 1666, he conveyed the discharge from the round basin to a jet in the center of the oval basin;30 only then ­were both basins equipped with jets (fig. 10, a plan of 1666, in which both jets are vis­i­ble). The delayed activation of the jet in the oval basin is a strong point in ­favor of 1666 (or, more narrowly, the spring of 1666) as the date of the Fer-­à-­ Cheval memo, which addresses both jets. For a short period, then, Charles’s plan for the Soleil couchant and any member of his proposed cast, above and below the Fer-­à-­Cheval, w ­ ere acceptable together.31 The solar group, alone, was firmly established along the axis; the rest was still an open field.

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That Charles was the author of both the Fer-­à-­Cheval memo and the plan to populate the Grotto of Tethys with the Soleil couchant is a crucial link in the chain of events leading to the adoption of the full triptych. ­There is one more turn in the story of the round basin on top, and it tends to add weight to the proposal that Charles wrote his memo in the first part of 1666. In April 1666, an other­wise unknown sculptor, Pierre de La Haye, was paid for a lead group of an amour riding a swan, “pour mettre a un bassin de fontaine de Versailles.”32 What “bassin de fontaine”? The round one? More than likely, b­ ecause Jolly said in 1667 that he installed an infant sur swan in “le bassin du parterre de broderie” (the G ­ rand Parterre).33 It is certain that by 1667, Charles had already in­ven­ted his “plan” for the Soleil couchant. In fact, all three panels of the triptych ­were progressing nicely by 1667, even if they ­were conceived at dif­fer­ent times. The planners ­were willing to leave La Haye’s group in place in the round basin while work proceeded on the triptych, but only temporarily: It was gone by 1668, the year of Patel’s bird’s-­eye view (fig. 13, showing a figureless basin). We have just seen that a single, unaccompanied jet ­rose from the center of the oval basin in the spring of 1666. By the ­middle of that year, the planners de­cided to surround the central jet with satellite jets—­one more significant clue to an early 1666 origin of the Fer-­à-­Cheval memo, which acknowledges a central jet in the oval basin but no other. On 18 September 1666, Colbert was informed that ­there would be six satellites, not four, in answer to the basin’s “forme” and “grandeur” (Appendix A).34 In consequence, the Parterre de Latone was a bustling place in the second half of 1666. It was then that Jolly performed his now familiar tasks ­there. Not only did he feed the six satellites of the oval basin with w ­ ater, he delivered the ele­ment to the two small round basins to the west; he also embedded twenty nozzles in the border of the oval basin and twelve in the border of each round one (Appendix A). The Marsy ­brothers ­were paid in September 1666 for “the works of lead sculpture they are making [for Versailles].” The Latona fountain, I conclude, was conceived at a point in the ­middle of 1666, that is, ­after Charles wrote his Fer-­à-­Cheval memo (spring 1666) but before Jolly tended to his hydraulics and the Marsy b­ rothers to their sculptures in the Parterre de Latone (summer and fall 1666). It followed Charles’s plan for the Soleil couchant by about six months and was programmed in response to it.35 Was the Soleil levant conceived in unison with the Soleil couchant, at the outset, or somewhat l­ ater, with Latona? I staunchly f­ avor the latter alternative. If Apollo’s daily ritual of rising and resting had been programmed together, ­there would be no Fer-­à-­ Cheval memo, none of Charles’s haphazard thoughts on the contents of the oval basin

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between the outer wings. It is difficult to imagine a more jarringly hostile intrusion in the m ­ iddle than the life-­and-­death ­battle of Hercules and Antaeus. (We w ­ ill turn to the axis-­long allegory at the end of this chapter.) A closing remark on Charles’s memory of the western axis. I have joined a chorus ­ ere in situ when of historians in challenging his claim that Latona and the Soleil levant w he conceived the Soleil couchant; the contrary was the real­ity, the scene of a resting Apollo led the way, in conception. But in terms of physical presence, modest parts of the Latona fountain arrived first. The unsung pioneers w ­ ere the small creatures, who arrived in 1667 and dominated the axis, entirely alone, for three years (fig. 12, where they reign supreme).

­Water and the Lyceans Early on, the gardens ­were enlivened by “effets,” Félibien’s term for the pyramides, artichauts, éventails, double éventails, lances, gerbes, aigrettes, and couronnes—an incomplete list of the aquatic games itemized by Jolly.36 Most ­were ephemeral by design and soon succeeded by creatures of the ele­ment. La Haye’s amour sur swan, from April 1666, and Louis Mazeline’s dolphin, from July 1666, w ­ ere the earliest representatives of this class, followed by the Marsy ­brothers’ fountains of the Siren and the Dragon, from September 1666. The southern axis was the beneficiary of several fountains in 1667: Louis Lerambert’s Amour, accompanied by doves, shooting an arrow of ­water into the air; Gaspard Marsy’s amour, at play in the w ­ ater; and a swan, by an anonymous sculptor, is37 suing a jet from its beak. The multiple projets in Charles Perrault’s Fer-­à-­Cheval memo had only ­water in common.38 The northern axis was a parade ground of novelty in the aquatic arts: Lying between the Siren and the Dragon ­were the Couronnes, the Pyramid, the Bain de Diane, and the parallel rows of Enfants along the Allée d’Eau—­most of which w ­ ere advancing in 1668 (fig. 12, right; fig. 15). They w ­ ere named, like most of the other fountains, for their aquatic inhabitants or their aquatic architectures.39 The garden-­wide imagery had ­water, and ­little ­else, holding it together. Some of it was mildly Apollonian in spirit (dolphins, swans, Bassin des Cygnes), some more overtly Venusian (amours, doves). Not ­until the western axis was deeded to his bountiful ­labors did Apollo fi­nally win exclusive rights over the imagery of the gardens. Even then and ­there, ­water was the determining ­factor. In an essay on the Labyrinth (figs. 10, 11, left), Charles remarked that “­these [Aesopian] fables have been chosen among several o­ thers only b­ ecause they have been found more suitable to serve as ornaments for fountains (which they do with an incredible success).” “One can even say that they [the animals] in some way speak the words that the fable attributes to them, since the w ­ ater that they spout forth at one another seems

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to give them life and action, but serves them also as a voice to express their passions and thoughts.”40 The Dragon was said by Félibien “to seem to vomit blood through its mouth, sending into the air a bubbling mass of ­water” (fig. 15).41 He was echoed in part by Charles Perrault, for whom the monster “seems to vomit out his rage with his blood.”42 For Charles, then, but not for Félibien, the upsurge of blood is accompanied by rage, a wild passion; the intense pressure of the outburst is mea­sured by the jet, the tallest in the gardens (fig. 14, far right).43 At the Bain de Diane, Charles marveled at the energizing force of the descending veil of ­water: “Does it not seem to you that the movement of the ­water makes the figures seem to move, and that the bathing nymphs are in real ­water?”44 For La Fontaine, the rustics at Latona are “transforming as the ­water spills over them.” The first wife (fig. 29) expresses “pity” for her husband (fig. 28) “with the voice of a frog”—­that is, the passionate, the vis­i­ble, and the audible are one with the motivating power of the ele­ment. The third husband “washes himself, and the more he believes he is washing off all ­these traits, / The more the ­water contributes to perfecting them” (fig. 32). As long as their reflections dance on the surface of the w ­ ater, the peasants w ­ ill continue to mutate (e.g., figs. 2, 36, 38). It is no mystery that ­water was the ­bearer of meaning along the western axis. What we have been calling “Félibien’s law” states that due consideration was always given by the Bâtiments du Roi to two interrelated f­ actors, where a work was heading, and what was already t­ here (Chapter 2). The Soleil couchant was already in the works for the interior of the Grotto of Tethys, so the Soleil levant was a logical response to it, the god emerging from the depths a­ fter a night of rest and rejuvenation. Latona was likewise a response to the preexisting Soleil couchant. Our fountain rightly belongs in a “par­tic­ u­lar location,” at a point between the outer panels. One cannot divorce Latona from the other panels and still speak of a “sculptural triptych” (Appendix D, for an interrogation of the Fronde thesis, which does precisely that). The allegories of the Latona and Dragon fountains are not unrelated. I argued in 2016 that the Dragon, like Latona, alludes to the king’s triumph over the resistant forces of nature—­with one critical distinction: The Dragon’s allegory is told in the witty, ironic language of burlesque. Charles Perrault, who in my view planned the Dragon in league with his ­brother Claude and Le Brun, wrote that “burlesque, which is a type of ridicule, consists of the incongruity [la disconvenance] between the idea that one gives of a ­thing and its true idea, just as the rational consists of the congruity [la convenance] of ­these two ideas.”45 ­There is an original idea, then a ­counter idea, and the reader (or viewer) is rewarded with joy by discovering the incongruity. Charles’s own response to the Dragon is the definition of burlesque in practice: “And that Dragon, from which issues a mountain of w ­ ater, has something terrifying about it that does not please you less.”46 Like the amours at the Dragon, Charles was assailed by opposing passions: terror on one side and irresistible impulse to see the source of the terror on the other (see Chapter 6). One idea is turned upside down by a second, contrary, idea. We are re-

Panegyric and Manifesto

minded that the burlesque mode was introduced to the gardens by the Pe­tite Commande (see Chapter 2, n. 20). Such an irreverent conceit was permissible in the shadowy lowlands at the foot of the northern axis but not along the sunny and stately western axis, the kingdom of Apollo.

Apollo Ascendant La Fontaine was privy to the allegorical premise of the resting and rising Apollo as early as 1667–68: When the Sun is tired, and has finished his task, He descends to Tethys, and finds some repose. Thus does Louis seek relaxation From a toil that must be renewed e­ very day. If I was more skilled in the art of fine writing, I would portray this monarch extending his empire: He would hurl thunderbolts; one would see at his feet ­Peoples overthrown, ­others humiliated. I leave ­these subjects to the masters of Parnassus; And while Louis, depicted as the god of Thrace, ­Will make the entire sacred valley roar in their verses, I ­will celebrate him ­under the name of Apollo.47 The analogy is echoed by two texts from 1668: La Peinture, a verse by Charles Perrault;48 and the Eglogue de Versailles, a pastoral opera with ­music by Lully and lyr­ics by Quinault and Molière.49 By that year, we know, not only had Ovid’s story of Latona and the Lyceans been designated for the oval basin, but the small batrachians ­were already at home ­there. Félibien rephrased the same analogy in his monograph on the Grotto of Tethys, from 1672: ­ ecause in the same way that the poets have pretended that the Sun, ­after havB ing finished his journey, goes for rest in the palace of Tethys and relaxes from his daily work, it was thought that that ingenious fiction could serve as an agreeable subject for a grotto for Versailles, where the King goes from time to time to take some relaxation and to rest from his ­great and illustrious toils, without that rest preventing him from immediately returning to work with the same ardor as the Sun, which begins again to illumine the world upon leaving the ­waters where he has rested.50

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Charles Perrault weighed in a second time in his Mémoires, noting that he planned the Soleil couchant “in order to represent the King coming to rest at Versailles ­after having labored for the good of the ­whole world.” Even though he mistreated the chronology, it is significant that Charles included Latona in his discussion of an axis-­long conceit. The subject of Apollo and Tethys, together at night, was capable of standing alone as a work of art, as indeed it did in two paintings by Le Brun, both easily accessible to Charles.51 Latona and the Soleil levant, I am proposing, came l­ ater and together. Our fountain is affiliated with the Soleil levant as much as the Soleil levant is affiliated with the Soleil couchant. Commentators ­were vocal on the rising and the resting Apollo, dawn and dusk, but laconic on what happens between t­ hose framing times of day, when the god illuminates not only the world at large but also the western axis, over which he soars and upon which he showers his abundant rays. Apollo ascends twice along the western axis, at the outset of his daily routine (fig. 4) and again at a moment of peril during his childhood (fig. 25). Both times, his ascendant action is indivisible from his celestial being or his mission to dispense light and inspiration, to bring art and culture, to the world. As the sculptor Jean-­Baptiste Poultier said of Gaspard Marsy’s g­ reat figure: “Apollon a l’air digne du Dieu de la Lumière et des beaux Arts.”52 Apollo, the Sun, climbs hand and foot above “the coarse ­people” of Lycea who seek to obstruct his destiny. W ­ ater, denied in Ovid’s legend and withheld by the crude forces of nature at Versailles, was acquired by the king’s artists and ­ iddle, the engineers and put into spirited play in the gardens. With Latona in the m axis was suffused end to end with united purpose. It was a pure, integrated assertion of royal gloire. Apollo played the lead in two reciprocal “strains of allegory” in our period.53 One, the cosmological Apollo, was the governor of time and the cycles of nature and ­human life, the bringer of harmony to the universe. The other was the inspirational Apollo, the patron of art and science, the source of creativity. The western axis was the kingdom of both at once. As Apollo, the Sun, rises and sets along the axis during the natu­ ral course of the day, so that same Apollo, the Roi-­Soleil, takes the same daily journey in the form of scenic fountains.54 If he had had his way in the early 1670s, Le Brun would have amplified the axial conceit by erecting a two-­sided, Parnassus-­like mountain in the center of the (first) Parterre d’Eau in front of the château, a Fontaine des Muses facing the château (fig. 76), a Fontaine des Arts facing the gardens (fig. 77)—­Félibien’s law in sterling form (Appndix F, for a précis of this and other Apollonian elaborations of the western axis).55 Latona was, for Le Brun, a declaration of deepest avowal. It was the visual equivalent of his positions in the debates at the Académie in the 1660s, the formative de­cade of artistic theory in France. He ducked no issue of consequence, as we have been at pains

Panegyric and Manifesto

to demonstrate in our chapters. At the same time, the Latona fountain was a ­counter by Le Brun to Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s attacks on the state of French art; to that end, it became a weapon in the cultural wars. Le Brun faced another formidable foe, the Ancients, and in that collision he was joined by the Marsy ­brothers; to the extent their fountain met the challenge, or even prevailed, it became a polemic on the side of the emerging modernes.56 Their investment in the fountain was enormous. To earn a seat in the heart of the gardens of Versailles, to testify to the triumph of the art and culture of Louis XIV, it had to be in the vanguard by ­every mea­sure. Latona was at heart a double declaration, a panegyric and a proud manifesto, both together inscribed in the materials of marble, lead, and w ­ ater.

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It seems fitting to close with two affidavits from Charles Perrault. The western axis of the gardens is a common denominator, and Le Brun is a behind-­the-­scenes player in both. The two together go to the heart of this book. The axial conceit is brought to life in the first, a sparkling set piece from 1673 or 1674 by Perrault. His stage is the Labyrinth (figs. 10, 11, left). A ­ fter remarking that only the most suitable Aesopian fables ­were chosen for the fountains ­there, and that they embodied a “moralité galante,” he continues: This mystery, which was unexpected, combined some with the unexampled charms and embellishments of that delightful place—­much greater than what was expected—­have prompted some p­ eople to say that Amour himself had a hand in it, and what they say is not unfounded. They assert that this ­little god, having one day encountered Apollo, who was walking in the beautiful gardens of Versailles, which he now loves more than he ever loved the island of Delos, spoke to him in his fashion: “I see that every­thing is done ­here in your name, and, if I am not mistaken, u­ nder your guidance; b­ ecause I notice so much greatness and so much esprit in the vari­ous works of this admirable domain, that even the arts with all their lumières would never have been able to create them if they had not been instructed and supported by a superhuman intelligence, and such as yours. You w ­ ill acknowledge to me that past centuries have produced nothing comparable, and that the excellent works of sculpture, which you exhibit ­here, be they when you arise from the bosom of the sea to illuminate the earth, be they when you repose in the grottoes of Tethys ­after your ­great ­labors; you ­will acknowledge to me, I say, that t­ hese figures bring more honor to you than all ­those that Antiquity ever dedicated to you.” “You are very courteous,” answered Apollo, “to give me all the gloire for ­these chef-­d ’œuvres, knowing the role that you have h ­ ere.” “Be that as it may,” replied Amour, “I leave all the gloire to you, and agree that you direct every­thing, provided that you

Epilogue

leave to me the disposition of the Labyrinth, which I love with a passion and which entirely suits me.”1 The “Apollo” who met Amour in the Petit Parc was, of course, his modern incarnation. In remarking that Versailles is more beloved by Apollo than Delos, his birthplace, Amour alludes to Saint-­Germain-­en-­Laye, where the king was born in 1638. Amour reminds Apollo of his governance over the imagery in the gardens and his generous patronage of the sculptors u­ nder his command. Perrault, ardent moderne, has Amour twice tout the superiority of the arts of Versailles over their ancient rivals, invoking two “chef-­d ’œuvres,” the Soleil levant and the Soleil couchant, to justify his ranking; they, the “works of sculpture” themselves, ­will serve the king’s gloire with honor. Second, the Recueil de divers ouvrages en prose et en vers, a collection of some twenty-­ five writings by Charles Perrault, has often appeared in our endnotes. His manuscript, titled Recueil de divers petits ouvrages en prose et en vers pour la bibliothèque de Versailles, is preserved t­ oday in the Musée Condé, Chantilly.2 Le Brun drew the frontispiece in 1674 or 1675 (fig. 80). The sheet is divided by a diagonal into right triangles, Parnassus in the foreground. At the summit sits Apollo, his lyre in hand, his laurel crown set against a starry radiance. Branches of laurel hang overhead, à la R ­ aphael’s ­great fresco in the Vatican. Apollo’s index fin­ger runs laterally and is aligned on the two-­dimensional sheet with the balustrade of the Enveloppe. The trophies and reliefs of ­children at play on the facade are roughly indicated by Le Brun; the statues of the Months and the keystone masks, though they w ­ ere in place in 1674, are missing (Appendix F). Five Muses, beautifully composed, rest comfortably on the holy turf in the foreground. The c­ ouple is absorbed in their m ­ usic, and the trio, likewise withdrawn, converse with one another. Another three, occupying a higher ground along the left edge, are fully engaged in the broader proceedings. Two of the three gesture ­toward Clio, the ninth s­ ister, the goddess of History, who, like Apollo, is crowned in laurel. Her folio lies in the geometric center of the sheet.3 In “Les neuf Muses,” a poem in his manuscript, Perrault sang of her serious duty: L’équitable Clio qui prend soin de l’Histoire, Des illustres mortels éternise la gloire . . . ​4 The folio is weighty. Clio has written much in it already, preserving for posterity the triumphs of Apollo at Versailles. She responds to Apollo’s commanding gesture with one of her own. Her right hand is profiled against the steps of the Fer-­à-­Cheval, and just below it is the sacred spot on the lower landing from which Le Brun’s tableau of Latona and the Lycean peasants was seen to finest advantage (figs. 2, 3). Latona gestures

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heavenward. Jets d’eau fly from the mouths of the rustics and converge on the small island of marble in the center of the oval basin. ­There is still one more vignette. A fluvial deity lounges on an urn, ­water flooding out. ­Behind her stand four representatives of the arts: Painting, with her palette; Planimetry, or Iconography, with her mea­sur­ing stick;5 Sculpture, with her bust; and Gardening, with her rake. The third and fourth figures converse. Following Clio’s lead, the figure holding the stick gestures t­ oward the gardens. ­Water springs from the divine mountaintop, descends in stages to the earth, and is put to inspired use in the gardens of the living Apollo.

A PPE N DI X A

Execution of the Fountain

The first time the Latona fountain is listed by name in the pages of Jules Guiffrey’s publication of the Comptes des Bâtiments is in this entry for 13 May  1668: “13 may–3 décembre [1668]: A Gaspard Marsy, à compte d’une figure de Latone de marbre blanc qu’il fait pour une fontaine de Versailles (3p) . . . ​2000 livres.”1 This unassuming line, which in the lit­er­a­ture is often said to herald the birth of the fountain, has led to more confusion than any other piece of evidence. Thanks primarily to the inventories of Denis Jolly, the hydraulic engineer, we know with a high degree of probability that the sculptors w ­ ere already at work in the second half of 1666. The customary dating of the fountain, 1668–70, calls for an adjustment. The chronology begins with the construction in 1664 of the lead-­lined reservoirs in the north: the Tour d’Eau, not far from the Etang de Clagny (fig. 14); and the (­future) Grotto of Tethys, on the terrace to the north of the château (fig. 12). André Le Nôtre informed Jean-­Baptiste Colbert by memo in July 1664 that “le tuyau est posé dans le ciment” that lines the round basin at the end of the ­Grand Parterre (figs. 10, 11, showing the basin in 1666 and 1668).2 In 1665, Jolly conducted a long string of pipes from the upper reservoir to the round basin. According to his inventory for January–­ February 1665, the operation involved five sets of pipes attached end to end.3 The first set, commencing “au pied du réservoir et continuent le long de la terrasse,” consisted of 15 pipes, each of which was 11 feet in length and 8 pouces in dia­meter; joined to it was a set of 16 pipes, each 15 feet long and 7 pouces in dia­meter; next, a set of 10 pipes, each 11 feet long and 6 pouces in dia­meter; then, a set of 10 pipes, each 11 feet long and 5 pouces in dia­meter; and fi­nally, about 33 toises of pipes, each 4 pouces in dia­meter, “qui sont posés et attachés par un bout auxdits tuyaux de cinq pouces et par l’autre au tuyau [the embedded pipe] qui traverse le bassin dudit ­grand parterre.” Jolly laid more than 800 feet of pipe at a cost of 32,086 livres in lead and 1,098 livres in solder, pinching the w ­ ater into ever more narrow sets of pipes to increase the pressure and with it the height of the jet. With this enterprise, one of many on which he was si­mul­ta­neously engaged, we begin to appreciate the complexities of Jolly’s job.

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Appendix A

Jolly’s inventory for March–­June 1666 indicates that he laid long strings of pipe not only from the upper reservoir to basins on the upper level but also from ­there to basins on the lower level, in anticipation of l­ ater jets d’eau. He also installed an “aqueduc” between the round basin at the end of the G ­ rand Parterre and the oval basin be4 low it. And he was laying pipes from the oval basin to the borders of the round basins to the west.5 In our plan from 1666 (fig. 10), jets ascend from the round basin on top and from all three basins in the Parterre de Latone. In May 1666, according to a ­later memo in his hand, Charles Perrault traveled to Versailles on suspicion that Jolly had been misrepresenting the weights of the lead pipes.6 ­A fter testing a few, he discovered that they weighed less per toise than Jolly had recorded in his inventories. Confronted, Jolly said that he did not consider ­those par­tic­u­lar pipes as crucial as his ­earlier ones, and that, to reduce costs, he used a larger core in the casting pro­cess, resulting in pipes of the same dia­meter but thinner. Then and t­ here, Perrault recalls, he understood the extent of Jolly’s “tromperie.” He said nothing of it to Louis Petit, the contrôleur, but ordered an inventory of the pipes at the foundry. Perrault then wrote to Colbert, advising him to keep the affair to himself, fearing that “le bruit que cela feroit ne troublât le travail et les plaisirs du Roi dans un temps ou Sa Majesté souhaitait voir achever ses fontaines.” This episode had no immediate impact on Jolly, who returned to work without delay, as his next inventory testifies.7 September 1666 was a banner month in the chronology. Petit sent the following memo to Colbert on 18 September: “Monseigneur [Colbert] peut assurer le Roi que les jets d’eau autour du jet principal du bassin de l’ovale seront achevés lundi prochain et que j’en ferai faire l’essai le même jour. Je crois qu’il serait bon d’avertir Sa Majesté qu’au lieu de quatre jets, il y en a six, qui feront un plus bel effet, à cause de ladite forme ovale et de la grandeur dudit bassin.”8 This is breaking news of the first rank. The “jet principal” in the center was up and ­r unning, thanks to Jolly’s efforts a few months ­earlier. But the most stunning news ­here is that the number of satellite jets has been increased from four to six. That ­there ­were six such jets and not four on the surface of the oval basin is confirmed by an entry in the inventory of June–­December 1666: “Plus cent trente cinq toises de tuyaux sans soudures de six pouces de diamètre servant a prendre l’eau du réservoir de glaise [sic: plomb, the Grotto of Tethys] pour la porter aux deux couronnes du parterre de gazon [the ­future Parterre du Nord], aux vingt six jets des deux cerceaux de l’ovale [the f­ uture Latona], et aux deux aigrettes des deux bassins au dessous [the f­ uture Lizards].”9 Jolly reached a total of twenty-­six jets by adding the number of jets in two rings: an inner ring, which supplied six jets (the six announced by Petit in his memo, the six that ­will go to the adult Lyceans); and an outer ring, which fed twenty jets (the twenty that ­will go to the small frogs on the border).10 Also itemized t­ here is the pipe that conveyed w ­ ater “du réservoir de glaise [sic: plomb, the Grotto of Tethys] aux deux bassins du dessous de l’ovale.”11 This is another

Execution of the Fountain

reference to the aigrettes, the plumes of w ­ ater that rise from the centers of the Lizard basins. According to the same June–­December 1666 inventory, the discharge from the oval basin passed through a set of pipes, each 4 pouces in dia­meter, “qui fait jouer les vingt quatre jets d’eau d’autour des deux petits bassins au dessous [12 per basin].” This set was soon met by a second set, each 3 pouces in dia­meter, which ­later branched, “l’un à droit et l’autre à gauche faire les deux cerceaux des deux bassins au dessous [the basins of the Deux Bosquets].”12 The border of each round basin was equipped with twelve jets (the twelve that ­will go to the crocodiles, turtles, lizards, and frogs). Jolly’s scribe, I suspect, erred twice in his June–­December 1666 inventory, writing the words “réservoir de glaise” instead of “réservoir de plomb” (nn. 9, 11, above). I have entered “sic” at the points in question. With ­those corrections, the two entries are consistent with a bureaucratic memo in the hand of Charles Perrault from 26 November 1669, which reads, in part: La cinquième [valve at the “réservoir de plomb,” the Grotto of Tethys] pour les jets du bassin de l’ovale savoir les six qui sont autour de celui du milieu, lequel vient de la décharge du g­ rand parterre, ceux des grenouilles du même bassin et les aigrettes des bassins au dessous de celui de l’ovale. Les crocodiles et lézards de ces deux bassins vont de la décharge à celui de l’ovale. Est à noter que sur cette conduite qui fait jouer tant de jets il y a un tuyau qui fait jouer un des bassins où il y doit avoir une couronne et que lorsqu’il fait jouer cette couronne cela altère extrêmement le jet de l’ovale et les autres en sorte qu’il serait nécessaire de faire une conduite à part pour cette couronne.13 In summary, the jet in the center of the oval basin was fed by the discharge from the round basin at the end of the ­Grand Parterre on top—­the ­water that had come from the “réservoir de plomb,” the Grotto of Tethys. The six jets on the surface and the twenty on the border of the oval basin, together with the aigrettes in the centers of the round basins, ­were fed by the same “réservoir de plomb.” The twenty-­four jets on the borders of the round basins w ­ ere fed by the discharge from the oval basin. Up to now, the documents have said nothing of subject m ­ atter. Then, t­ oward the end of Jolly’s inventory of June–­December 1666, ­there appears this surprise: “Plus soixante huit petits ajutages dont il y en a vingt quatre aux deux couronnes des deux bassins du parterre de gazon [the ­future Parterre du Nord] à raison de quatre livres dix sols pièce sont ensemble. Vingt aux grenouilles de l’ovale et 24 aux deux bassins au dessous.”14 The sixty-­eight nozzles break down this way: twenty-­four to the “couronnes” in the two basins of the Parterre de Gazon (twelve per basin); twenty to the oval basin; and twenty-­four to the round basins (twelve per basin).

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Appendix A

This is the first time a member of the Lycean community is named in the documents. ­There is a wrinkle in the last line of the entry, which refers to the twenty nozzles at the oval basin and the twenty-­four at the round basins (fig. 16). It is written, not in the hand of Jolly’s scribe, but in that of Charles Perrault, during his audit of the inventory in the summer of 1667.15 Perrault’s pen left a lengthy trail of marginalia, most of which are ­simple confirmations of the scribe’s entries (or, as Perrault usually put it: “bon”); some are revisions to the monetary values of the entries (always reductions); ­others are clarifications of confusing entries by the scribe. In this case, Perrault seems to be accounting for the whereabouts of the sixty-­eight jets.16 The scribe had listed the twenty-­four jets at the Parterre de Gazon but failed to list the remaining forty-­four. So Perrault responded by filling in the blanks: twenty at the oval basin plus twenty-­ four at the two round basins, equaling forty-­four. The earliest dated clue to the ­labor of the Marsy ­brothers is this entry in the original registers of the Comptes des Bâtiments from 24 September 1666, six days ­after Petit told Colbert that the oval basin would have six satellite jets instead of four: “A Gaspard et Balthazar Marsy à compte des ouvrages de sculpture de plomb qu’ils font [for Versailles] . . . ​600 livres.”17 Elsewhere in this book, I have argued that a portion of the 600 livres went to the ­brothers for their work on the small creatures around the oval and round basins (Chapters 2, 7), while the rest was earmarked for the Dragon and Siren fountains, both of which w ­ ere in production in the second half of 1666. Unspecified parts of one or more of ­these programs ­were completed before the end of 1666.18 The Marsy ­brothers ­were paid on 31 December 1666 “à compte des figures qu’ils font pour les fontaines dudit lieu [Versailles].”19 That payment was followed in 1667 by another six.20 The gilding pro­cess began in the summer of 1667 and concluded in the fall.21 The time had arrived for Jolly to pose the small creatures on the nozzles. An entry in his inventory for 1667 addresses that procedure: “Plus pour avoir posé et enfilé dans les jets d’eau de tout l’ovale les vingt grenouilles de plomb bronzé, et à cette fin avoir coupé tous les ajutages et les [avoir] ressoudés affin de les faire rencontrer juste leur dans gueule, fourni les soudures et journées d’ouvriers.”22 The amphibians at the round basins are itemized in his next entry: “Plus pour avoir posé et enfilé les vingt quatre tortues [and o­ thers] dans les jets d’eau des deux petits bassins des côtés de l’ovale, avoir coupé et ressoudé les ajutages, fourni de soudure et journées d’ouvriers.”23 Notably, t­ hese two entries announce the arrival of the small creatures in 1667, another point in ­favor of 1666 as the year of their conception. During the festival of 18 July 1668, André Félibien witnessed “une infinité d’autres feux sortant de la gueule des lézards, des crocodiles, des grenouilles, et des autres animaux de bronze [sic] qui sont sur les bords des fontaines.”24 Pierre Patel’s painting of 1668 confirms that the small creatures w ­ ere the first to arrive (figs. 12, 13).

Execution of the Fountain

By the end of 1667 or the beginning of 1668, the Marsy brothers had advanced to the adult Lyceans. Jean de La Fontaine encountered five at least, well-­advanced, before 2 May 1668, the date of the privilège du roi of his Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon (Chapter 3). In claiming that the figures w ­ ere in situ, he was simply anticipating their arrival in 1670, two years l­ ater. On 21 May 1668, the Marsy ­brothers received the parfait paiement, that is, compensation for their work to date.25 No doubt included t­ here w ­ ere the preliminary models of their adult Lyceans. A related payment was sent on 13 August 1668.26 La Fontaine, familiar with the long-­range plans, dedicated a single line to Latona and her twins (Chapter 3). The figure of Latona herself is signaled for the first time on 13 May 1668, five days ­a fter the poet received his privilège du roi: “auxdits Marsy à compte d’une figure de marbre qu’ils font représentant la déesse Latone.”27 Two other installments ­were delivered to the Marsy b­ rothers in 1668.28 In 1669, the b­ rothers received five payments, one of which, dated 11 May, reads: “Audit Marsy à compte de la Latone et autres figures qu’il fait pour l’ornement des fontaines de Versailles.”29 The younger peasants ­were surely among the “autres figures.” A tradesman was compensated on 15 February 1669 “pour le fer qu’il a fourni pour les figures de Latone.”30 Another four installments ­were sent to the sculptors in 1670, including, on 24 December, the ­grand finale: “à Marsy [sic], sculpteurs pour leur parfait paiement du groupe d’une Latone de marbre blanc avec ses deux enfants, Apollon et Diane, et dix figures de paysans qui se changent en grenouilles qui ont été posés dans trois bassins de Versailles.”31 The Latona group and all ten Lycean figures took their assigned seats in 1670; the small creatures had been waiting patiently for them to arrive since 1667. Additional gilding took place in the fall of 1671.32 Four successive campaigns of work had stretched over four years, 1666–70: (1) the small creatures; (2) the adult peasants; (3) the Latona group; and (4) the young peasants. The third and fourth campaigns largely overlapped. The line separating the first two campaigns from the second two lies near the m ­ iddle of 1668. Three new reservoirs w ­ ere constructed u­ nder the G ­ rand Parterre in the early 1670s. The Parterre d’Eau replaced the Parterre de Broderie, and the round basin at the end was eliminated during the transition.33 Gaspard Marsy was twice compensated in the fall of 1679 for “les figures de grenouilles pour la fontaine de Latone.”34 A tradesman in tin was paid at the same time for the “roseaux de fer blanc qu’il fait pour les fontaines des Lézards et de Latone,” and, in 1680, another tradesman was rewarded “pour roseaux de cuivre et laiton et autres pour garnir les fontaines de Latone et du Marais.”35 The aquatic plants and flowers, lying along the borders of the basins, ­were painted in natu­ral colors. The next phase, fatal to Le Brun’s ­great tableau, involved the intervention of Jules Hardouin-­Mansart in 1687 (Appendix B).

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Mansart’s Marble Cone

Jules Hardouin-­Mansart reconfigured the main fountain in 1687 (fig. 1).1 The sculptures ­were lifted from the surfaces of the ­water and erected on a four-­tiered cone of reddish and greenish marbles. New pipes, “que S[a] M[ajesté] a ordonné,” ­were installed to accommodate the change.2 Claude Bertin added four frogs and, somewhat ­later, six lizards and frogs.3 The small creatures that circled the Lizard basins w ­ ere moved to the ­water at the base of the cone, leaving their original homes forever vacant. At first, a mock-up in painted stones (“les peintures en marbre”) was assembled in an effort to duplicate the look of veined marble.4 That rehearsal is what Nicodemus Tessin, the Swedish architect, saw during his visits in the fall of 1687: En descendant le Fer-­à-­Cheval on retrouve le bassin ovale de Latone, laquelle on a fort relevé et posé en haut de quatres nappes, qui se forment par degrés en ovale, le fond derrière est rougeâtre et vert, sur ces degrés on a planté les paysans phrygiens changés en grenouilles, qui jettent l’eau vers la Latone, à l’entour de laquelle on compte 76 différents jets d’eau formés en arcades, qui aboutissent vers le centre, au milieu comme aussi des deux côtés jouent des grosses gerbes de la hauteur presque du niveau de deux ­grands bassins surnommés. Dans les deux bassins au milieu des compartiments des gazons il y en a deux pareilles gerbes.5 Apparently, the small creatures had not yet been deposited on their nozzles. They w ­ ere put t­ here a year or two l­ ater, at which time the permanent materials replaced the painted stones.6 In the royal inventory of 1694, the Marsy b­ rothers are rightly credited with the following: the marble group; thirty lizards and turtles outside and around the base of the cone; six peasants and eigh­teen frogs on the first tier (three frogs between ­every two peasants); fourteen frogs on the second tier; and six frogs on the third tier. Benoît Massou is credited with two peasants in the oval basin and two in the round basins.7 The

Mansart’s Marble Cone

scribe was mistaken in assigning to Massou what belonged to the Marsy ­brothers: Massou died in 1684, and t­ here is no evidence that François-­Benoît, a son born in 1669, worked at Versailles in the years preceding the inventory.8 An inventory from 1707 of the bronzes in the Petit Parc corresponds to the ­earlier inventory, though the figures by the ­brothers are listed in a dif­fer­ent order.9 Latona was the victim of an inexorable pro­cess that began on 6 September 1683 with the death of Jean-­Baptiste Colbert and the ensuing ascendance of his archrival, François-­ Michel Le Tellier, the marquis de Louvois, to the surintendance of the Bâtiments du Roi. Overnight, Le Brun surrendered his powers in the gardens to Pierre Mignard, François Girardon, and Mansart.10 An early priority was the leveling of the Grotto of Tethys in 1684 to create room for the new northern wing. What to do with the g­ reat marbles inside? At one point, the Bâtiments du Roi considered a plan to separate the Apollo group from the equestrian groups. ­After several ­trials, the marbles ­were moved together to the Bosquet de la Renommée, a retreat in the north, henceforth called the Bosquet des Bains d’Apollon. The “sculptural triptych” along the western axis was ruptured beyond repair. In the eyes of the new leaders, Le Brun’s tableau was expendable. From what once had been the ideal viewing spot (fig. 2), the visitor now sees the backsides of Latona and her twins, who face the western horizon. Attempting to “read” Le Brun’s tableau, in a Poussinesque sense, is now a waste of time (Chapter 4); indeed, it is no longer a scenic fountain. Latona is no longer menaced by the Lyceans in their natu­ral habitat but kneels safely atop an artificial marble construction. The peasants, lower and lesser players in the revised script, no longer pose a threat to the deities. The narrative tensions are gone. Not only have the spouses been divorced, in some cases they reside on opposite sides of the cone, outside one another’s sight; their passions, so esteemed by Jean de La Fontaine and Dame Jourdain, lack meaning. Their beds of swamp grass are missing. The jets from the small creatures fly away from Latona, not ­toward her. It is unclear why the youngsters in the round basins are rushing about. Le Brun’s ideals have vanished. A sad truth, but he lived long enough to see the travesty. Now and then it is said that Mansart imparted “grandeur” to the Latona fountain. It could be said in rebuttal that he erected a tall pile of architecture without meaningful content. In the night of 2 March 1980, vandals entered the gardens and attacked the marble group with metal tools and black and red spray paint. Latona’s arms and fin­gers ­were cracked in several places and have since been restored. A cast in modern materials has replaced the marble, which remains safely inside the Pe­tite Ecurie. The irony is that the despicable act spared the group from the even more grievous injuries of time. Mansart’s fountain, including the complicated hydraulic system that feeds it, was thoroughly restored in 2014–15.11

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A PPE N DI X C

Marsy’s Lecture of 7 December 1669

Gaspard Marsy applied for membership in the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture in November 1655 and submitted his morceau de réception, a marble relief of the Ecce Homo, in August 1657.1 In July 1659, he was promoted from académicien to ancien, or professor, a position that included the duty of conducting life-­class for the students. Gaspard was less than an upstanding example, and, in July 1660, ­after several warnings, he was demoted to his former rank, académicien.2 No m ­ atter, his prospects brightened, and he and Balthazar, who entered the Académie in 1673, received their major commissions for the gardens of Versailles in this period. On 7 October 1669, Gaspard was reinstated as ancien. At that session he agreed to conduct a life-­class and to deliver a lecture in December.3 The event is not mentioned in the minutes of the 7 December meeting, but it undoubtedly took place then, since no other gathering was held that month. Gaspard lectured with the aid of plaster casts of the Belvedere Torso (fig. 54) and the Richelieu Torso (fig. 52), as well as one of the Laocoön (fig. 56, ­father only). He attributed the Belvedere Torso to Herodotus, an Athenian, even though the marble in Rome is signed by Apollonius.4 The autograph text of Gaspard’s lecture is preserved in the archives of the Ecole nationale supérieure des beaux arts in Paris.5 Written in the first person, it includes a number of “corrections” from members of the Académie during a rereading of the manuscript a quarter c­ entury ­later. The text was published by the pre­sent author in 1983.6 It appeared a second time, in 2006, in Jacqueline Lichtenstein and Christian Michel’s comprehensive edition of the academic lectures.7 I reprint the text as they published it. The corrections by the commentators are reviewed l­ ater in this appendix.

Gaspard’s Text (1669) J’eus l’honneur de vous dire, il y a huit jours, combien j’avais fait d’efforts pour me dispenser de me produire devant cette illustre Compagnie par la connaissance que j’avais

Marsy’s Lecture of 7 December 1669

de mon insuffisance. Cédant à mon devoir, je lui obéirai volontiers pourvu qu’au supplément de ma mémoire, elle m’accordât la grâce de lire le peu que j’ai réduit par écrit touchant le mérite du torse du Vatican dont voilà un plâtre devant vos yeux. Ayant cru qu’il suffisait de vous dire ici le rapport qu’il a avec les grandes manières des anciens Grecs, sans vous entretenir des proportions pour vous en avoir été parlé par fort amplement il y a un mois.8 Et puis, encore pour laisser quelque chose à dire de mieux après moi.9 Par la longue pratique que j’ai eue avec Messieurs Van Opstal, [François] Anguier et Sarazin, mes défunts maîtres, et du nombre des plus habiles sculpteurs de notre siècle par une longue étude qu’ils ont faite de ce g­ rand art à Rome, où les antiquités sont sur leur trône, j’ai appris qu’ils ont remarqué quatre grandes manières de sculpture pratiquées par les Grecs, auteurs de toutes les belles choses et surtout de l’architecture, sculpture, et peinture, qui sont trois sœurs. La première qui nous regarde touchant le dessing [sic] ou autrement la membrification, ainsi appelée par Léonard de Vinci, a de toutes les autres manières la science la plus ample et arrêtée de l’insertion des muscles et attachement des parties, que nous appelons vulgairement la chaîne, et c’est la manière d’Athènes que Michel-­A nge Buonarotti a tant caressée, ayant fait ses premières et plus belles études sur l’Hercule de Farnèse fait par Glycon Athénien, des proportions duquel on vous a entretenu ces jours passés.10 Mais il s’est depuis encore plus appliqué à la considération de notre admirable Torse fait par un Hérodote, aussi Athénien, ledit Michel-­A nge ayant avoué plusieurs fois que ce tronc sans tête, bras ni jambes, cette figure ruinée qui semble être d’un Hercule assis et filant, terrassait le ­grand Hercule de Glycon dans son esprit, comme il le doit faire dans celui de tous les savants, pour avoir ledit g­ rand Hercule les muscles sur le devant marqués avec par trop d’évidence et, comme on dit, trop ressentis. Ledit Michel-­A nge aurait voulu pour beaucoup avoir pu modérer cette rudesse de muscles en ses ouvrages qui sont tous pleins d’Hercule, non seulement dans le masculin, mais ce qui est de pis dans le féminin genre, et même dans le divin. Notre incomparable torse ayant toutes les perfections, proportions et exactitude de l’anatomie comme l’Hercule de Glycon, sans avoir les défauts, aussi ce chef-­d ’œuvre de Ciel plutôt que de la main d’un homme a quelque rapport avec la seconde manière que l’on appelle de Sicyone, pe­tite ville de Grèce près d’Athènes, que j’aurais dû mettre la première puisque notre divin Hérodote, tout Athénien qu’il était, pouvait avoir pris les perfections de ses voisins, et corrigé le vice de sa naissance, le croyant aussi auteur de ce morceau de corps de Vénus, plus beau que celui de la Vénus de Médicis pour la grande correction du dessing [sic] et douceur des muscles et contours. Cette manière de Sicyone est préférable à toutes les autres, par une beauté et une grâce particulière représentant une chair ferme d’un athlète ou lutteur ayant peu de muscles, mais ­g rands, coulants, naturels et faciles, comme vous pouvez voir dans les

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Appendix C

deux sujets et qui se remarquent dans les ouvrages de Phidias et de Praxitèle qui étaient disciples d’Apelle, le vrai génie du dessing [sic]. Raphaël a suivi ce goût, et ledit Michel-­A nge, les Carrache et toute l’école des Bolonais celui d’Athènes, dont nous avons parlé ci-­devant. Il y a le troisième goût que l’on appelle de Rhodes, qui a une tendresse particulière et des grâces pour les choses délicates et belles qui ne se trouvent pas ordinairement aux deux autres manières, bien que nous les remarquions en ces deux chefs-­d ’œuvre. Les médailles qui nous en restent nous témoignent cela évidemment aussi bien que ce fameux Laocoön du Belvédère fait par trois excellents sculpteurs rhodiens qui y ont travaillé tellement de concert qu’il semble être d’une même main, goût et manière. Notre ­g rand sculpteur, le sieur François le Flamand, a excellé en cette partie-­là par-­dessus Michel-­A nge. Il semble que le Titien, Corrège et toute l’Ecole des Lombards ait eu de grandes lumières en cette manière. La quatrième et dernière manière est de Corinthe qui, véritablement, est un peu faible, menue et mesquine, tirant à l’ouvrage d’orfèvrerie ou de broderie. Nous avons eu un maître Etienne Delaune sculpteur, et un Pilon [a marginal note by Gaspard reads: “Franqueville, sculpteur. Je crois aussi Jean de Boullongue du même goût”11], aussi sculpteur, qui ont donné dans cette manière, comme j’ai aussi remarqué dans les ouvrages d’Allemagne et de Flandre qui tiennent du gothique et, partant, à éviter. M’étant trouvé, Messieurs, sur la partie du dessing [sic] qui est commune aux sculpteurs et aux peintres, dont la meilleure partie de cette belle Compagnie est composée, ou de personnes vertueuses et éclairées dans leur art, j’ai pris des exemples parmi les unes et les autres comme mon petit génie, la doctrine acquise de mes illustres maîtres et la fréquentation honorable et fructueuse de cette fameuse Académie m’ont inspiré. Vous suppliant, Messieurs, de me pardonner ce qui serait glissé dans mon discours qui ne serait pas conforme à vos sentiments, auxquels je me soumettrai toujours, et dès à pre­sent avec la soumission respectueuse que je dois à vos suffisances et à vos grandes lumières.

Guillet’s Remarks (1689) Gaspard stood before his colleagues again in 1676 to deliver a lecture titled “Sur la pratique-­théorie et la théorie-­pratique des arts.”12 In his life of Gaspard Marsy, which he read on 3 September 1689, Guillet de Saint-­Georges, referred to both speeches: “Après son rétablissement [to ancien, 1669], il fit deux discours académiques, comme on le pratiquait alors dans les jours de conférences. Le premier discours, prononcé en décembre 1669, avait pour objet le torse d’Hercule que l’on croit être un ouvrage

Marsy’s Lecture of 7 December 1669

d’Hérodote, sculpteur athénien. Dans ce discours, M. Marsy reconnaît pour ses maîtres messieurs Van Opstal, Anguier et Sarazin. L’autre discours, qui regardait la théorie de l’art de peinture et de sculpture fut prononcé en décembre 1676.”13 Not only did Guillet confirm that the first discourse took place in December 1669,14 he accepted, without reservation, Gaspard’s attribution of the Belvedere Torso to Herodotus.

Testelin’s Paraphrase (1693 or 1694) Henri Testelin, the secrétaire of the Académie, presented his ­Table on proportions in October 1678, but it only was in 1693 or 1694, while living in The Hague, that he wrote a lengthy commentary on the subject for his Sentiments des plus habiles peintres du temps sur la pratique de la peinture et sculpture.15 It was in that book that he paraphrased Gaspard’s lecture. His distortions are serious, and they reflect not only his own objections to the contents but t­ hose of unidentified ­others in Gaspard’s audience of 7 December 1669 who took part in the ensuing discussion. The paraphrase reads: L’on peut, s’il vous plaît, Monseigneur, rapporter à ce propos ce qui a été dit sur la sculpture en d’autres occasions. On dit [Marsy], en parlant sur le ­grand Torse, qu’on avait remarqué entre les excellents sculpteurs quatre sortes de manières différentes. L’une que l’on nomma forte et ressentie, laquelle a été suivie de Michel-­A nge, de Carrache et de toute l’Ecole de Bologne, et que cette manière avait été attribuée à la ville d’Athènes. La seconde, un peu faible et efféminée, qu’ont tenue maître Etienne Delaune, Franqueville, Pilon et même Jean de Bologne, laquelle avait été estimée venir de Corinthe. La troisième, pleine de tendresse et de grâce, particulièrement pour les choses délicates, que l’on tenait qu’Apelles, Phidias et Praxitèle ont suivie pour le dessein. Cette manière avait été fort estimée, et l’on tenait qu’elle venait de Rhodes. Mais la quatrième est douce et correcte, qui marque les contours g­ rands, coulants, naturels et faciles, qu’elle était de Sicyone, ville du Péloponnèse, d’où était Hérodote, auteur de ce Torse, lequel s’est perfectionné en choisissant et joignant ensemble ce qu’il avait de plus parfait en chacune de toutes ces manières. Qu’on estimait aussi que ce rare sculpteur avait fait le petit Torse de femme qui est reconnu de tous les savants pour surpasser en beauté toutes les autres antiques. Mais si ces remarques sont curieuses, l’on peut dire que les suivantes, qui ont été faites en d’autres sujets, sont très utiles.16 Testelin still supports Gaspard’s attribution of the Belvedere Torso to Herodotus, and both he and “tous les savants” continue to agree with Gaspard on the supremacy of the Richelieu Torso. However, his inclusion of Apelles, Phidias, and Praxiteles in the

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Rhodian camp is at radical odds with Gaspard, who put all three together in the Sicyonian. Testelin says nothing of the Laocoön. Duquesnoy, for Gaspard a disciple of the Rhodian manner, is also missing in the paraphrase. For Gaspard, Herodotus was a native Athenian, but for Testelin, he hailed from Sicyon. Testelin reversed Gaspard’s second and fourth manners.

Guillet’s Rereading (1695) The subject of the Greek manners again resurfaced in 1695, not long ­after Testelin issued his Sentiments. On 2 July, Guillet reread Gaspard’s lecture aloud and, according to the minutes, “[the Académie] a faict quelques observations.”17 Guillet even altered Gaspard’s manuscript in places, striking out words, substituting ­others, and inserting marginalia. Where Gaspard had written “Hérodote,” Guillet crossed out the name and entered “Apollonius” instead, a revision of what he himself had said in 1689. It seems that at least one member of Guillet’s audience knew that the trunk u­ nder the Belvedere Torso in Rome is inscribed: ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝIΟΣ ΝΕΣΤΟΡΟΣ ΑΘΗΝΑIΟΣ ΕΠΟIΕI.18 The word “défauts,” directed by Gaspard at the Farnese Hercules, was scratched out by Guillet on the advice of some disapproving voices in the audience.19 Gaspard said that Sicyon was a village near Athens, but Guillet and ­others in the room knew it was closer to Corinth. Fi­nally, Gaspard was faulted for putting Giovanni da Bologna and Germain Pilon on equal footing with Pierre de Franqueville and Etienne Delaune: “La Compagnie n’a pas trouvé à propos la comparaison que M. Marsy a faite de Jean de Boullongne, de Franqueville, de Pilon et Delaune, parce que Jean de Boullongne a été plus habile que les trois autres, et Pilon beaucoup plus habile que les deux autres. A l’égard de la manière corinthienne, qu’il traite de mesquine, il faut dire qu’elle est délicate et svelte.” Gaspard’s conviction that the Richelieu Torso stood by itself at the top of the canon went unchallenged in 1695.

Caylus’s Abstract (ca. 1740) A folder protecting Gaspard’s autograph text is inscribed: “Consulter pour une correction que M. de Saint-­Georges dit être celle de l’Académie.” The words w ­ ere written in the m ­ iddle of the next c­ entury by the comte de Caylus, who also wrote an “extrait” now preserved in the same folder.20 Several sentences by Caylus are written in the first person. His extract is a faithful summary of the original text: Gaspard’s masters are named, and his four Greek manners are reviewed in the right order. As the folder indicates, Caylus was familiar with Guillet’s corrections of 1695, which, with one exception, he approved: While Guillet objected to Gaspard’s inclusion of Giovanni da

Marsy’s Lecture of 7 December 1669

Bologna and Franqueville in the Corinthian camp, Caylus was noncommital, writing in the margins: “Voyez si vous voulez suivre la correction de M. de Sr Georges qu’il dit être celle de l’Académie.” He accepted Gaspard’s argument that the Belvedere Torso and the Richelieu Torso ­were carved by the same hand, and that the latter was more beautiful than the Medici Venus. He skipped Gaspard’s last two paragraphs, ending instead: “Il [Gaspard] finit par le compliment d’un bon et galant homme.”

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Nathan Whitman’s “Fronde Thesis”

It has been common practice in recent years for historians of Versailles to interpret the Latona fountain as an allegory of the Fronde (1648–53), the uprisings that shook France during Louis XIV’s minority. The rustic Lyceans are said to be stand-­ins for the proletarian mobs of Paris that, in league with the princes and nobles, pursued a course of violent re­sis­tance to the growing authority of the Regency of Anne d’Autriche and Cardinal Mazarin. In 1969, Nathan Whitman, the most influential advocate, applied the thesis first to the Dragon, and then, by analogy, to Latona.1 Gerard Sabatier, in his book on Versailles from 1999, attacked the thesis on multiple fronts, inflicting heavy damage on it.2 In 2001, I attempted to poke holes in it myself.3 Whitman opens his essay with commentaries on Madeleine Scudéry’s Promenade de Versailles and Jean de La Fontaine’s Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, both published in 1669. The former “is essentially what it purports to be—­a l­ ittle tour of Versailles for the edification of a casual and presumably feminine public.” Offsetting her delight in the sights and sounds of the gardens, “she apparently knows nothing of any intention to alter the still basically verdant character of the domain.” La Fontaine, who for Whitman was more informed than Scudéry, was familiar with the “­great sculptural triptych” along the western axis ­because he had seen the models of the Soleil levant, the Latona, and the Soleil couchant in the sculptors’ workshops.4 Even so, La Fontaine “interprets the projected sculpture humanistically and aesthetically rather than po­liti­cally and didactically.” For Whitman, the sculptures w ­ ere “a graceful mythological explication of an enchanted realm, and the additional allusion to the King only adds another layer of meaning.” La Fontaine and Scudéry left us a pair of “subjective appreciations.” Their Versailles is essentially “a plea­sure garden wherein one could find refreshment and enhancement.” According to Whitman, not before Félibien’s Description sommaire from 1674 do we find the earliest statement in print of the “objective program that unifies and gives ce­re­bral meaning to the entire complex.” He quotes what we have been calling “Félibien’s law”: “It is good to note first that as the Sun is the devise of the King, and as the

Nathan Whitman’s “Fronde Thesis”

poets confuse the Sun and Apollo, so t­ here is nothing in this superb h ­ ouse that does not refer to this divinity: also, since all the figures and ornaments that one sees ­there are not placed haphazardly, they have a relation to the Sun or to the par­tic­u­lar locations in which they are set up.” Now Whitman takes a bold speculative step forward: “Unquestionably, the doctrine of art as propaganda, soon to be so clearly enunciated by Félibien, must have been much involved in the new embellishments of Versailles.” Neither Jean-­Baptiste Colbert nor Louis XIV would have shared La Fontaine’s “cultivated attitude,” he assumes, ­because following the French victories over the Hapsburgs they viewed the arts as “instruments of state policy.” The Treaty of Aix-­la-­Chapelle, ending the War of Devolution on 2 May 1668, points to that conclusion, he contends. Whitman put his faith in the standard starting date of Latona, 1668, too late a date (Appendix A). The error is unintentionally useful in two ways: First, it allows him to put the commission in the year of the Treaty of Aix-­la-­Chapelle. Not only had the arts by then become “instruments of state policy,” he assumes, but “the doctrine of art and propaganda” had taken hold in the fountains of the gardens. Second, it allows him to conclude that the sculptures of the Grotto of Tethys preceded the Apollo and Latona fountains by two full years. He states that the Soleil couchant at one end of the axis “engendered” the Soleil levant at the other, and on this point I agree; but Latona, he argues, is separate and apart from the other two, a point of sharp disagreement (Chapter 7).5 ­There is no room in Whitman’s thesis for a programmatically unified axis. Latona “loosely conforms” in subject to the framing scenes only b­ ecause Apollo is cast in all three; their affiliation ends ­there: “If the two extremes of the triptych are sufficiently general in theme to permit both a humanistic and po­liti­cal interpretation,” Latona “illustrates a story” in the Metamorphoses; it is “more specifically narrative.” In a stunning leap, it follows for Whitman that such a narrative has a “specifically didactic purpose” not found in the outer scenes. What he views as a stylistic divide—­the “idealism and rhe­toric” of the Latona group on one side, the “sinewy naturalism” and “spontaneity of gesture and movement” of the Lyceans on the other—is turned to his dubious advantage: “Both the particularity of the narrative and the harsh realism of the peasants point directly to a specific historical event, the Fronde, and even to t­ hose days of terrifying proletarian vio­lence that inaugurated it.”6 As the devise of Apollo is the exclusive property of Louis XIV, so, for Whitman, the Titaness becomes a proxy for the king’s ­mother, Anne d’Autriche, regent of France during the upheavals. Latona protects her ­children as she petitions the heavens to avenge the Lycean peasants, the Frondeurs. Apollo, a child in the fountain, becomes the king during the turbulent years. Diana is scarcely ever mentioned in lectures on the Fronde thesis, including Whitman’s, prob­ ably ­because Louis XIV had a b­ rother, Philippe, but no s­ ister—an incon­ve­nient fact. For his proposal to prevail, Whitman needs to demonstrate why or how a “specific narrative context” in Ovid leads without deviation to a “par­tic­u­lar event” in French history, the Fronde of 1648–53. To perform this feat, he introduces three ­factors of

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alleged importance: (1) the relative “obscurity” of the legend in the artistic traditions, (2) the “silence” with which the allegory was greeted by authors of the day, and (3) the “stylistic discrepancy” between the Latona group and the Lyceans. All three, to my understanding, are deeply flawed: The first two are e­ ither non­ex­is­tent or baseless, and the third is in open conflict with the traditions and conventions of con­temporary royal art. One by one, they are: 1. Of course, one is “constrained to uncover the motivation ­behind the choice of subject,” but not ­because it has “not been very common” in the arts of Italy and France. ­There is no shortage of examples. Whitman himself cites a number of outstanding pre­ ce­dents in the pictorial traditions of both countries.7 It is true, as he points out, that the subject seems to be unpre­ce­dented in the art of fountains, but does that warrant the following: “In lieu of significant visual sources the explanation for its sudden prominence must be sought within the French social and po­liti­cal environment itself.” If ­there is a direct path, from one to the other, it escapes me. A unique repre­sen­ta­tion of the legend adds nothing to the likelihood that a sociopo­liti­cal issue is involved. 2. Whitman argues that the allegory of the Fronde was met by a telling “silence” by contemporaries. H ­ ere he calls on the Dragon for help, though the early authors w ­ ere as reticent on it as on Latona. He uses their supposedly mute reception to his advantage in both cases. His inspiration is a passage in the Mercure Galant from September 1680, in which a vignette of the dead monster on the vault of the Escalier des Ambassadeurs is described: “[His Majesty] put an end to the civil wars and prevented the secret rebellions that enemies wanted to instigate in France. Th ­ ese rebellions are depicted by the serpent Python [the Dragon] . . . ​­because he takes his origin solely from the crude impurities of the earth, and was pierced virtually at birth by the arrows of Apollo, who in this subject represents the person of the King.”8 The vignette was painted in the latter half of the 1670s. B ­ ecause, for the advocates of the thesis, the appearance of the legend at any one time and place is enough to lend an identical allegorical value to all past and ­future editions of it, so then the Dragon fountain is merely one more visualization. No ­matter that the iconography of Versailles in the ­later 1670s took an entirely new direction from that of the Premier Versailles. André Félibien said in his chronicle of 18 July 1668 that the king and his guests “­stopped specifically to look at the one [fountain] that is at the bottom of the Petit Parc.” Why, for Whitman, did they hesitate ­there? “It is like a ritual. The victorious King, the living Apollo, stands silently with his court contemplating the d­ ying dragon? No elucidation is given beyond the dry description; none was needed.” But Félibien said nothing of the sort; indeed, he did not come remotely close to implying it.9 Picture the moment, the eve­ning of 18 July 1668, then attempt to defend the thesis. Six weeks ­earlier, the Treaty of Aix-­la-­Chapelle was signed to the exultation of the French nation. The king treats his court to a festival at Versailles. A contingent of foreign envoys and ambassadors is invited. Programmed, at enormous cost, are a colla-

Nathan Whitman’s “Fronde Thesis”

tion, a comic ballet, a dinner, a ball, and fireworks. The gala begins with a promenade around the terraces, the king the cicerone. Now the revelers descend into the northern zone, pausing at the Rondeau. ­There they supposedly “stand silently” in contemplation of the d­ ying monster, well aware that they are pondering themselves in personified form if history repeats itself. How long the courtiers are held hostage by the dreary warning we are not told by Whitman. Arguing that the court stood petrified in front of the Dragon on the eve­ning of 18 July 1668 is a stretch of the modern imagination. Would it not have been more in tune with the euphoria of the moment for the royal party to “stop specifically” to consider the ironies of the fountain and the comical interactions of the statues of the Pe­tite Commande all around? From his purely imaginary scenario at the Dragon fountain, Whitman transports his thesis across the Petit Parc, “by analogy,” to Latona: “I believe the same—­for contemporaries—­self-­evident significance informs the fountain of Latona, only t­ here is the explicit visual reference to proletarian revolution, the deep-­seated fear of any aristocratic society, was too terrifying to permit any verbal comment whatsoever, direct or indirect.” The Fronde thesis wants us to believe that neither the king nor his court can enter the northern or western axes, two-­thirds of the Petit Parc, without the gloomy reminder. 3. The Marsy b­ rothers w ­ ere working in two opposing styles, claims Whitman, one for the Titaness and her twins, another for the peasants, and the gap separating the two would have been “intuitively comprehended and entirely approved” by seventeenth-­ century viewers. Latona, he notes, obeys the rules of classical composition; her body generally conforms to the plane; and she was designed to be seen primarily from the front. By contrast, the Lyceans, the work of two sculptors from Cambrai, belong to the “northern tradition.” They are “all the more disturbing—­even frightening—­for being so unexpected in this harmonious setting.” I cannot concur. Certainly, the age-­old strategies of visual narration are employed to rank the divine above the batrachian: the materials (marble vs. lead); the hieratic conventions (centrality, frontality, elevation vs. angularity, outlying positions); and the contours and proportions, the formal means by which character is defined (soft, graceful, disciplined vs. abrupt, lumpy, capricious). The princi­ple of costume insists on it—­the appropriate, the becoming, the essential nature. Far from “disturbing” or “frightening,” farther still from “grotesque,” the Lycean peasants w ­ ere indeed “beautiful” to the discerning eye. We recall the familiar words of Henri Testelin, who wrote of the adversaries in Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il that “each is very beautiful in and of itself ” (fig. 69) (Chapter 6). The rustics are no less “classical” than their divine superiors; the entire cast belongs to one and the same tradition. The Fronde thesis splinters each axis apart, disconnecting the Dragon from the Pe­tite Commande and the joyous fountains in the north, and Latona from the uplifting

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solar panels to the east and west. As such, the fountains could go anywhere in the Petit Parc and still issue the same dread message. Whitman, apparently wary of a lurking prob­lem, wanders around the question of the Dragon’s site: “The immemorial association of the north with ­water and darkness, with evil and irrationality, still prevailed at Versailles, albeit, I suspect, somewhat tongue in cheek. Hence the presence ­here of the dragon, along with the grotto of Thetis, the famous relief of the bathing nymphs . . . ​, and vari­ous statues of naiads and tritons.”10 Whitman’s thesis is indifferent to the princi­ple of costume as it bears upon a work’s “par­tic­u­lar location.” He talks of viewing Latona frontally and the twins laterally and of standing above the Fer-­à-­Cheval, from where “a long planar sheet of w ­ ater [the ­Grand Canal] literally swept the eye to the limits of the horizon.” Was it from that viewpoint that the courtiers “contemplated” the punishment of the Lyceans? If so, then their passions w ­ ere in a state of warfare when they stood t­ here: a reverent pride in the king’s grandeur and magnificence on one side, a smoldering anxiety over the threat of the king’s retributive power on the other. The Fronde thesis has attracted more than a few adherents, including, for a regrettable spell, the pre­sent author.11 Caution in accepting it has been advised by some recent authors.12 Most accept the thesis at face value.13 ­Others find not only a past memory of the Fronde but a murmur of ­future hostilities with the Dutch, a ­people who ­were commonly maligned as frogs.14

A PPE N DI X E

Translations of Ovid

1 Nicolas Renouard, Les Métamorphoses d’Ovide. Traduites en prose française, et de nouveau soigneusement revues, corrigées en infinis endroits, et enrichies de figures à chacune fable . . . ​avec XV discours contenants l’explication morale et historique . . . ​Paris: Veuve Langelier, 1619, pp. 164–66. The engraving by Jean Matheus of Latona and the Lyceans (our fig. 40) appears on p. 164. The book was republished in 1637 and again in 1651. Depuis toute la Thébaïde fut en crainte d’encourir la haine, et d’échauffer le courroux d’une déesse si prompte à se venger; chacun apprit à l’honorer aux dépens de la Reine, dont la misérable fin éveilla dans les compagnies, le souvenir de plusieurs pareilles vengeances auparavant advenues. Il y eut quelqu’un entr’autres qui dit à ce propos: La déesse Latone n’a pas accoutumé de laisser vivre impunis ceux qui l’offensent; les anciens habitants de la Lycie l’ont éprouvé il y a fort longtemps, comme vous entendrez au discours que je vous en ferai, admirable à la verité, sans être autrement célèbre, pour-ce que c’est chose arrivée à personnes de basse condition. J’ai été sur les lieux, et vu l’étang où la merveille advint: car mon père déjà caduc, et assez mal disposé pour marcher, me fit faire autrefois un voyage en ce quartier-­là, afin d’en amener des boeufs gras. Il me donna pour guide un homme du pays, avec lequel je visitai les plus beaux pâturages; et d’aventure en passant sur la chaussée d’un étang, j’aperçus au milieu de l’eau un vieil autel, noirci du feu des sacrifices qu’autrefois on y avoit faits, le pied duquel était entouré de roseaux. Celui qui me conduisait s’arrêta vis à vis, et faisant une révérence pria la puissance, qui s’était là fait adorer, de lui être favorable. Il fit sa prière en deux mots, qu’il prononça d’une voix assez basse, et moi fis comme lui; puis m’enquis si c’était un autel dressé aux naïades, aux faunes, ou à quelque autre dieu de la province. Sur quoi il me repondit: non mon ami, ce n’est point à une divinité montaignière, que ce lieu-­là est consacré; c’est à cette déesse que Junon autrefois bannit de

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tout le monde, à Latone qui courut tant sur terre, et ne put trouver lieu pour se délivrer des deux enfants, desquels elle était enceinte, sinon l’Ile vagabonde de Delos, qui flottait lors sur l’eau, et toute errante arrêta ses pénibles courses. L’Ile reçut la déesse sous une palme et un olivier, qui lui servirent d’ombrage et d’appui au mal de l’accouchement des jumeaux, qu’elle enfanta malgré les injustes rigueurs de leur marâtre Junon. Mais incontinent après être accouchée, elle fut contrainte d’en partir, à ce que l’on dit, et charger ses bras du petit dieu, et de la déesse, desquels Jupiter l’avait fait mère. Elle avait longtemps couru çà et là, toujours ainsi chargée, lorsque lassée du travail du chemin, un jour d’été au ­grand chaud du midi, elle se trouva en Lycie, travaillée d’une soif extrême, que l’ardeur du Soleil et ses enfants aussi avaient causée, en lui tirant l’humeur par les mamelles. D’en haut elle vit d’aventure au fond de la vallée, un étang, duquel l’eau était assez basse; il y avait des paysans dedans qui coupaient les joncs et les autres méchantes herbes, que les lieux marécageux portent. Elle y descendit, et déjà avait mis le genou en terre pour s’y désalterer, quand cette canaille de paysans la repoussa indignement. Hélas! leur dit-­elle, pourquoi m’empêchez-­vous de boire? Les eaux sont-­elles pas pour servir au public? La nature ne les a point données aux particuliers, elles sont communes à toutes personnes, aussi bien que l’air et la lumière du Soleil, chacun en doit avoir la jouissance libre: mais encore que ce soit un bien qui ne puisse être refusé, j’emploie pourtant des prières afin de l’obtenir; je vous supplie de me le donner, et la nécessité vous en conjure par ma bouche. Ce n’est pas mon dessein de me baigner ici; tout ce que je désire est d’éteindre le feu de la soif qui me tue, j’ai la bouche si sèche, et la gorge si aride qu’à peine puis-je parler. Une goutte d’eau maintenant me sera du nectar; si vous me permettez d’en prendre, je croirai vous être obligée de la vie; et l’air que je respirerai désormais j’avouerai le tenir de votre faveur. Mais si vous n’avez pitié de moi, prenez au moins compassion des petits que je porte, ils vous tendent les bras, et semblent vous prier de donner de l’eau à leur mère. Qui est le barbare? qui est le cœur si endurci? qui est le rocher qui pourrait entendre de si douces paroles sans être amolli? ces rudes villageois ne le furent pas pourtant; ils continuèrent toujours à repousser Latone, quelque prière qu’elle leur fit, ils la menacèrent même de la frapper, si elle ne se retirait, et n’eurent point honte de lui dire plusieurs injures. Mais quoi? leur malice ne se contenta pas encore d’une telle inhumanité, ils troublèrent l’eau tant qu’ils peuvent, et brouillant des pieds et des mains la boue qui était au fond la firent monter dessus pour empêcher la déesse de boire; et la colère alors lui fit oublier la soif. Elle ne pensa plus à importuner ces vilains, son généreux courage trop offensé ne sut plus inspirer de douces paroles à sa bouche, et son juste courroux la poussant à la vengeance, lui fit lever les mains au Ciel pour presenter requête à Jupiter, afin que ces inhumains paysans de Lycie, ne sortissent jamais de l’étang où ils étaient. Ses voeux furent autorisés des Cieux; car aussitôt ces paysans se plurent à se cacher, tantôt au fond de l’eau, tantôt monter au haut, et ne faire paraître que le bout du nez

Translations of Ovid

dehors, tantôt venir prendre la chaleur du Soleil sur la rive, et tantôt ressauter dedans le lac, où ils continuent toujours tâcher à quereller, et sans honte, bien qu’ils soient sous les eaux, ne laissent pas de toujours à médire. Dès lors ils commencèrent d’avoir une voix enrouée, leur col s’enfla, et leur bouche pleine d’injures s’ouvrit plus qu’auparavant. Leurs cuisses par derrière couvrant leur col se vinrent joindre à leurs têtes, leur dos prit une couleur verte, et leur ventre, qui est presque tout leur corps, devint blanc: bref d’hommes ils furent faits grenouilles, afin que toujours ils demeurassent là, sautant dans la boue et dans l’eau. Renouard’s “explication” of the fable appears in the second part of the volume, pp. 87–88, but now u­ nder the publication date of 1618. Niobé nous a représenté les défauts de ceux, qui flattés de la fortune ont le pied sur le haut de sa roue, et se font admirer comme petits dieux de la terre: voici des Lyciens, qui nous seront un crayon dans lequel nous pourrons voir le vice le plus ordinaire de ceux qu’elle gourmande, et tient toujours attachés à la terre, sans les élever aux honneurs. C’est la grossière malice des paysans, lesquels presque partout sont si cruels, et sous les visages d’hommes qu’ils portent, ont si peu d’humanité, qu’ils se penseraient punissables s’ils avaient usé de courtoisie, surtout envers un étranger. Et en cela la fable représente fort bien leurs coeurs impitoyables, qu’elle les faits roidir plus opiniâtrement contre Latone, plus l’objet de sa nécessité, et la douce vio­lence de ses prières paraît forte pour les fléchir; car de tels vilains on ne reçoit jamais au lieu d’aide et de faveur, qu’un croassement de grenouilles, une bourasque d’injures, et mille sortes paroles. C’est un beau naturel, dit Ariste, que le peuple d’Angleterre entr’autres chérit, comme la plus signalée vertu dont il soit doué. Aussi s’il ne vit dans l’eau comme les grenouilles, il en est entouré de tous côtés, et plusieurs d’entr’eux n’ont plus agréable, ni profitable exercice que les courses qu’ils font sur mer. Tournons le feuillet, je vous prie; nous avons prophané les mystères que nous traitons, d’y avoir mêlé ce vulgaire grossier, trop vil excrément de la terre. Nos discours n’ont pas le pouvoir de lui faire dépouiller son vicieux naturel. Quand on l’écorcherait comme Marsyas, il ne changerait que de peau, sans changer de nature.

2 Pierre Du Ryer, Les Métamorphoses d’Ovide, devisées en XV livres. Avec de nouvelles explications historiques, morales et politiques sur toutes les fables, chacune selon son sujet. Enrichies de figures. Paris: Antoine de Sommaville, 1660, pp. 255–58. The engraved image, an unsigned variation of Matheus’s (our fig. 40), appears on p. 255. A new edition, with fewer illustrations, was issued in 1666.

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Alors tout le monde appréhenda la colère, et les vengeances de cette déesse, et chacun plus zélé qu’auparavant, adora sa divinité. Enfin comme il arrive ordinairement qu’une dernière action fait ressouvenir de premières, quelqu’un en fit le discours. Les anciens habitants de la Lycie éprouvèrent aussi autrefois qu’on ne méprise pas impunément la grandeur de cette déesse. A la verité cette aventure est en quelque sorte inconnue par la bassesse de ceux qui en ressentirent les effets, et néanmoins elle est merveilleuse. J’ai vu l’étang et le lieu qui est connu par ce prodige; car mon père étant déjà vieux, et ne pouvant plus voyager, m’envoya autrefois en cet endroit pour en amener du bétail, et me donna pour guide un homme du pays. Or comme je visitais avec ce guide les lieux et les pâturages où je pouvais trouver ce que je cherchais, et que je passais sur le bord d’un lac, je pris garde qu’il y avait au milieu de l’eau un vieil autel environné de roseaux; et noirci par la flamme des sacrifices. Mon guide s’arrêta en le voyant; il salua cet autel, et je le saluai comme lui; il pria en peu de paroles, et avec une voix tremblante et respectueuse, la divinité de ce lieu, de lui être favorable, et je fis la même chose. Lors que nous fûmes passés, je lui demandai si cet autel était consacré, ou aux naïades, ou aux faunes, ou à quelque dieu du pays, et il me fit cette réponse. Cet autel n’est point consacré aux divinités des montagnes; mais il a été dressé en l’honneur de cette déesse, que Junon voulut autrefois bannir de tout l’univers, et que reçut à peine l’Ile de Delos qui flottait en ce temps-­là comme un ­grand vaisseau sur la mer. Enfin Latone y fut reçue sous un olivier, et sous un arbre qui porte des palmes; et malgré la haine de Junon, elle y est accouchée de deux enfants. Mais on dit qu’elle ne fut pas si tôt accouchée, qu’elle fut contrainte de fuir, et d’emporter entre ses bras les deux nouvelles divinités, qui venaient de naître d’elle. Ainsi après avoir longtemps marché, pendant les grandes chaleurs, enfin elle arriva dans la Lycie, avec une soif et une lassitude extrême, qui luy venaient du travail et du ­grand chaud, outre que ses deux enfants lui avaient épuisé les mamelles. En cet état désespérant presque de toutes choses, elle aperçut par hasard dans le fond de quelques vallées un étang dont l’eau était assez basse, et dont quelques paysans coupaient les joncs, et les autres herbes qui croissent ordinairement dans les lieux marécageux. Elles en approcha en même temps; mais comme elle y pensait prendre de l’eau, ces paysans ne le voulurent pas permettre, et la déesse leur parla en cette manière: Pourquoi voulez-­vous m’empêcher de boire? L’usage de l’eau est commun à tout le monde; et la nature n’a pas fait l’eau pour quelques-­uns seulement, non plus que l’air et la lumière. Je viens prendre part à un bien public, qui m’appartient aussi bien qu’aux autres, et néanmoins je vous conjure de l’accorder à mes prières. Je ne veux point me baigner dans cet étang, je veux seulement étancher ma soif; j’ai la gorge et la bouche si sèches, qu’à peine vous puis-je parler, pour vous faire cette prière; une goutte d’eau me tiendra lieu de nectar, et je confesserai que vous m’aurez donné la vie. Que si la nécessité où je me vois maintenant réduite, n’est pas capable de vous toucher, ayez au moins quelque pitié de ces deux petits enfants, qui vous tendent les bras, comme pour vous prier de faire cette grâce à leur mère; et en effet ils tendaient alors les

Translations of Ovid

bras. Qui n’aurait pas été touché des paroles pitoyables de cette déesse affigée; néanmoins ces paysans n’en perdirent rien de leur dureté, et quelques prières qu’elle leur fit, elle n’en put rien obtenir. Ils lui firent même des menaces, si elle ne se retirait de leur présence, et y ajoutèrent des injures. Mais ils ne se contentèrent pas de cela; ils troublèrent l’eau de l’étang avec les pieds et les mains; et par une malice qui meritait d’être punie, ils firent venir au dessus de l’eau, la fange qui était au fond. La déesse s’en irrita, et la colère lui fit oublier sa soif. De sorte que sans s’amuser davantage à prier des gens qui ne meritaient pas d’être priés, elle se souvint qu’elle était déesse; et en levant les mains au Ciel: infâmes, dit-­elle à ces paysans, demeurez éternellement dans les eaux et dans la boue. A peine eut-­elle parlé qu’on vit des effets de sa parole et de ces désirs. Ces paysans se jetèrent aussitôt dans l’eau; et vous eussiez dit qu’ils prenaient plaisir tantôt à s’y cacher entièrement tantôt à n’en faire sortir que la tête, et nager au dessus. Quelquefois ils se tenaient sur le bord, et quelquefois ils sautaient dedans; mais ils ne laissaient pas d’exercer leur langue; et bien qu’ils fussent au fond de l’eau, ils faisaient encore des efforts pour outrager par leurs paroles la déesse qui les punissait. En même temps leur voix devint enrouée, leur gorge grossit et s’enfla, et leur bouche s’élargit à force de vomir des injures. Enfin leur dos vint se joindre avec leur tête, et se revêtit d’une couleur verte. Leur ventre qui fit presque tout leur corps, devint blanc, et au lieu de ces paysans, on vit des grenouilles parmi la fange de cet étang. Du Ryer explained the legend in ­these words . . . Des villageois métamorphosés en grenouilles. Rustica progenies nescit habere modum Ne cherche point d’ honneur ny de civilité Parmi les paysans et la rusticité. Voilà ce me semble en deux mots l’explication de cette fable. Car on y depeint l’esprit et l’humeur des villageois qui sont ordinairement malicieux et mé­ chants. Et certes ils sont composés de telle sorte que plus vous les priez comme on le voit dans cette fable, plus ils vous montrent d’impudence et d’opiniâtreté. Ovide en fait donc un portrait en faisant voir des villageois Lyciens qui ne peuvent se laisser fléchir, ni par les prières d’une mère affligée, ni par la pitié d’un enfant qui semblait leur tendre les bras. Au reste on a feint qu’ils furent convertis en grenouilles, parce que comme les grenouilles se plaisent dans les marécages et dans la fange, ainsi les villageois n’ont rien de plus cher que les tavernes, où ils se divertissent à crier et à chanter; et croiraient mourir de soif s’ils n’habitaient pour ainsi dire dans des muids de vin. Après tout je crois qu’on a voulu montrer par cette métamorphose qui suit celle de Niobé, que Dieu punit aussi bien les

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petits que les g­ rands; et que l’injure qu’on fait à l’humanité affligée ne lui est pas moins désagréable que l’orgueil qui l’attaque et qui s’élève contre lui.

3 Ovid, Metamorphoses. Trans. Frank Justus Miller. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Loeb Classical Library. 3rd ed., 1977, I, pp. 309–15. Then truly do all men and ­women fear the wrath of the goddess so openly displayed; and all more zealously than ever worship the dread divinity of the twin gods’ m ­ other. And, as usual, stirred by the ­later, they tell over former tales. Then one of them begins: “So also in the fertile fields of Lycia, peasants of olden times scorned the goddess and suffered for it. The story is l­ ittle known ­because of the h ­ umble estate of the men concerned, but it is remarkable. I myself saw the pool and the place made famous by the won­der. For my ­father, who at that time was getting on in years and too weak to travel far, had bidden me go and drive down from that country some choice steers which ­were grazing t­ here, and had given me a man of that nation to serve as guide. While I fared through the grassy glades with him, ­there, in the midst of the lake, an ancient altar was standing, black with the fires of many sacrifices, surrounded with shivering reeds. My guide halted and said with awe-­struck whisper: ‘Be merciful to me!’ and in like whisper I said: ‘Be merciful!’ Then I asked my guide ­whether this was an altar to the Naiads, or Faunus, or some deity of the place, and he replied: ‘No, young man; no mountain deity dwells in this altar. She claims its worship, whom the queen of heaven once shut out from all the world, whom wandering Delos would scarce, accept at her prayer, when it was an island, lightly floating on the sea. Th ­ ere, reclining on the palm and Pallas’ tree, in spite of their stepmother, she brought forth her twin babes. Even thence the new-­made ­mother is said to have fled from Juno, carry­ing in her bosom her infant ­children, both divine. And now, having reached the borders of Lycea, home of the Chimaera, when the hot sun beat fiercely upon the fields, the goddess, weary of her long strug­gle, was faint by reason of the sun’s heat and parched with thirst; and the hungry ­children had drained her breasts dry of milk. She chanced to see a lake of no ­great size down in a deep vale; some rustics ­were t­ here gathering bushy osiers, with fine swamp-­g rass and rushes of the marsh. Latona came to the ­water’s edge and kneeled on the ground to quench her thirst with a cooling draught. But the rustic rabble would not let her drink. Then she besought them: “Why do you deny me w ­ ater? The enjoyment of w ­ ater is a common right. Nature has not made the sun private to any, nor the air, nor soft ­water. This common

Translations of Ovid

right I seek; and yet I beg you to give it to me as a f­ avor. I am not preparing to bathe my limbs or my weary body h ­ ere in your pool, but only to quench my thirst. Even as I speak, my mouth is dry of moisture, my throat is parched, and my voice can scarce find utterance. A drink of ­water ­will be nectar to me, and I ­shall confess that I have received life with it; yes, life you w ­ ill be giving me if you let me drink. ­These ­children too, let them touch your hearts, who from my bosom stretch out their ­little arms.” And it chanced that the ­children did stretch out their arms. Who would not have been touched by the goddess’ gentle words? Yet for all her prayers they persisted in denying with threats if she did not go away; they even added insulting words. Not content with that, they soiled the pool itself with their feet and hands, and stirred up the soft mud from the bottom, leaping about, all for pure meanness. Then wrath postponed thirst; for Coeus’ d­ aughter could neither ­humble herself longer to ­those unruly fellows, nor could she endure to speak with less power than a goddess; but stretching up her hands to heaven, she cried: “Live then for ever in that pool.” It fell out as the goddess prayed. It is their delight to live in the w ­ ater; now to plunge their bodies quite beneath the enveloping pool, now to thrust forth their heads, now to swim upon the surface. Often they sit upon the sedgy bank and often leap back into the cool lake. But even now, as of old, they exercise their foul tongues in quarrel, and all shameless, though they may be ­under w ­ ater, even u­ nder the ­water they try to utter maledictions. Now also their voices are hoarse, their inflated throats swell up, and their constant quarreling distends their wide jaws; their shoulders meet their heads, the necks seem to have dis­appeared. Their backs are green; their bellies, the largest part of the body, are white; and as new-­ made frogs they leap in the muddy pool.’ ”

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Elaborations of the Western Axis, Briefly

André Félibien issued his “law” near the beginning of his Description sommaire (Chapter 2, for his sacred text). He was discussing the statues of the Ele­ments that stood above the wings of the château on the eastern side. Why the Ele­ments? ­Because the wings are “particulièrement destinées aux offices de la bouche, du gobelet, de la paneterie, de la fruiterie, et des autres offices de Sa Majesté,” and each of the Ele­ments contributes to “la nourriture des hommes.”1 The under­lying concept is that nothing was ever introduced to the h ­ ouse or grounds of Versailles without full consideration by the Bâtiments du Roi of the “relation to the Sun” or the “par­tic­u­lar location” of the addition, including what was already in place t­ here. If Latona was a suitable panel for the ­middle of the solar triptych, for reasons including costume, so all ­later arrivals on the axis ­were likewise obliged to honor the integrity of the existing conceit. The following is a sketch of the additions to the axis (and, in one case, to the axes that parallel it to the north and south).2 Some of the most ambitious ideas died on the planning boards. Each to one degree or another is an elaboration of the legend of Apollo, the god of universal harmony, of time and the cycles of nature, and of inspiration, art, and culture.

Siren Fountain The oblong basin that lay on the terrace on the northern side was supplied with w ­ ater by Denis Jolly in the third quarter of 1665, but it remained figureless u­ ntil the Marsy ­brothers went to work on their figurative fountain in the fall of 1666 (fig. 74).3 As I read the chronology, it was programmed in coordination with the Soleil levant (fig. 4) (Chapter 7). With her upraised arm, her skyward focus, and her loud-­sounding conch, Siren welcomes Apollo as he nears the Grotto of Tethys; on the facade, her aquatic relatives prepare for the god’s arrival (fig. 5). The basin lies slightly off axis ­because the Grotto itself lies that way (fig. 12).

Elaborations of the Western Axis, Briefly

Terms In July 1667, the sculptor Jacques Houzeau received two payments of 500 livres for an undisclosed number of terms “qu’il fait pour poser autour du bassin en ovale dans le jardin de Versailles.”4 ­There was only one “bassin en ovale” in the gardens, Latona’s. Confirmation that Houzeau’s suite was originally intended for the vicinity of our fountain is found in the m ­ iddle part of Jean de La Fontaine’s r­ unning account of the Lycean peasants (Chapter 3, for the passage in context): Surrounding this place, to even further this beauty, A troupe, immobile and without feet, reposes. Nymphs, heroes and gods of the metamorphosis, Statues whose fate would seem dull ­Were they not delighted by the beauty of the place. La Fontaine wrote t­ hose lines in anticipation of the arrival of Houzeau’s terms (Chapter 3, for the time lag between his verses and the installations of sculptures). ­There is no supplementary evidence that they ever stood in an area “surrounding this place.” The wording of subsequent payments to Houzeau becomes progressively vague with each entry. Only three months ­later, in October 1667, he was paid for “des termes de pierre qu’il fait pour poser dans le petit parc,” and, in December of the same year, for “des termes qu’il fait à Versailles.5 Then, remarkably, in February 1668, he was remunerated for “des termes qu’il fait pour poser en divers endroits de Versailles.6 By that date, his receipts had reached 4,000 livres. Before 1668 was out, Houzeau had received three additional installments for his production of terms “au château de Versailles” or simply “pour Versailles.”7 He was still actively engaged in April 1669 and even as late as May 1670.8 His ­grand total by this time, for terms alone, was 6,600 livres. Nowhere is it stated how many terms ­were involved.9 The most mystifying reference is to “divers endroits” at Versailles, and questions arise from it. Had the Bâtiments du Roi de­cided to revise the original plan, to scatter Houzeau’s original suite about the gardens? Alternatively, was Houzeau, a specialist in the art of term sculpture, engaged on multiple suites at once, for two or more destinations at Versailles? To my mind t­ here is no way of knowing with certainty, though the large sums seem to point to more than a single campaign. Did Houzeau’s original assignment call for an even or an odd number of terms? If the former, then his cast of “nymphs, heroes and gods of the metamorphosis” could plausibly have consisted of legendary c­ ouples, male and female, such as ­those that populate the pages of Ovid’s narrative poem.

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The small creatures that circled the basins of the Parterre de Latone ­were already in place when Houzeau was paid for the first time, in the m ­ iddle of 1667. Was his suite conceived in response to Latona, and somehow tied to it contextually? The terms at issue have left no reliable trace of themselves, not even in the form of tiny marks, signifying pedestals, on the plans (e.g., fig. 11).10

Grande Allée The ave­nue separating Latona and the Soleil levant was widened beginning in 1667 (figs. 10, 11, showing it before and ­after).11 Pierre Patel shows the extra dimension in 1668, along with the earliest phase of the excavation of the G ­ rand Canal (figs. 12, 13).12 In 1680, a blanket of grass was laid along the ave­nue, which was thereafter sometimes known as the Tapis Vert. T ­ oday it is usually called the Allée Royale. The inspiring perspective is cited repeatedly by Madeleine de Scudéry in her Promenade de Versailles of 1669. The Apollonian purity of the axis was diluted following Jean-­Baptiste Colbert’s death in 1683 and the destruction of the Grotto of Tethys in 1684. The ave­nue was soon thereafter lined on both sides with vases, copies of ancient statues, and original statues of moral and mythological subjects carved on the designs of Pierre Mignard and François Girardon.13

Sphinx aux Enfants According to a 1694 inventory of the bronzes in the Petit Parc, one of ­these companion pieces was “fait par [Jacques] Sarazin en 1660” and the other “a été fait pareillement par Sarazin en 1660.”14 The original registers of the Comptes des Bâtiments, however, prove that Louis Lerambert and Jacques Houzeau, working in the l­ater 1660s, made sizable contributions to the bronze amours and the marble sphinxes, as did the caster Ambroise Duval.15 Sarazin’s intentions at the outset are unknown, but Versailles as a site can be ruled out; not before 1660 did the king take an active interest t­ here. On arrival in the gardens, e­ ither late in 1667 or early in 1668, the groups ­were erected on pedestals above the Fer-­à-­Cheval, precisely where Patel pictured them in 1668 (figs. 12, 13). In 1686, they ­were moved to the entrance to the Parterre du Midi, still ­today their home.16 ­There is no truth to the repeated claim in the lit­er­a­ture that they w ­ ere somehow associated with the Grotto of Tethys, or spent time t­ here at some point. Why the Sphinx aux Enfants ­were honored with such prized positions along the axis is unclear. For the mythographers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, who

Elaborations of the Western Axis, Briefly

scoured the ancient sources for clues, the emblematic range of the sphinx was wide enough to include such alien or contrary concepts as profound intelligence; voluptuousness; ignorance; and secret, mysterious knowledge.17 ­Here are a few local and regional appearances by the sphinx in our period. For Félibien, reporting on a painting at Vaux-­le-­Vicomte from 1660 or 1661, the tripartite creature is emblematic of science: the leonine features refer to the strug­gles facing t­ hose who seek scientific knowledge; the wings allude to t­ hose who have attained such knowledge and are now elevated above ordinary men; and the female visage refers to the beauty and grace that accrues with a mastery of science.18 At Fontainebleau, two pairs of sphinxes guarded the ­Grand Parterre, along the borders of which stood a suite of statues of the Months, from 1664–65.19 In this case, the sphinxes are possibly emblematic of Apollo’s power to regulate the cosmic cycles. In 1684, the Bâtiments du Roi weighed the merits of a plan to arrange a pair of sphinxes at the entrance to a new bosquet in the northern half of the gardens of Versailles. The plan, which eventually fell through, called for an enormous cascade at the far end.20 Since a Parnassus was envisioned for the summit, the sphinxes ­here seem to proclaim Apollo’s power to inspire the creative efforts of man. Aerial, angular views from the south by Jean-­Baptiste Martin and Etienne Allegrain show a pair of sphinxes at the bottom of each of the Cent Marches, which frame the garden of the Orangerie.21 Facing south, they greet the visitor who enters on this side. For Sieur Combes, the guidebook author of 1681, the Sphinx aux Enfants represent the loving fealty of the king’s subjects. But, as Combes himself admits, he is simply “explicating,” inventing an “answer” to a self-­styled “enigma.” For example, he pretends that the features of the hybrids are canine when they are clearly leonine. We learn much about the whimsical, self-­indulgent Combes, and nothing about the sculptures.22 ­Because the Sphinx aux Enfants ­were latecomers on the scene, the western axis having already been assigned several years e­ arlier to the legend of Apollo, their mission above the Fer-­à-­Cheval was improvised, makeshift. Perhaps, like the sphinxes for the new bosquet at Versailles or ­those in the gardens of Fontainebleau, they served as gatekeepers or guardians, welcoming the visitor to the sacred precincts of Apollo.

Facade The imagery of the southern facade of the Enveloppe was drawn from two related sources: the natu­ral world of flowers and fruit, b­ ecause it overlooks the Orangerie; and the art of comedy, ­because a theater was planned for this side. The northern facade was loaded with aquatic imagery b­ ecause it overlooked the Tour d’Eau, the Grotto of Tethys, the three auxiliary reservoirs, and the natu­ral presence of the Etang de Clagny.23

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The western facade was the recipient of four programs of sculpture, likewise beginning in 1670 (fig. 3): trophies along the balustrade; statues of the Months at attic level, four on each wing and four on the terrace; reliefs of c­ hildren, who busy themselves in their monthly or seasonal pastimes, on the premier étage; and ­human f­ aces, which alternate in sex and increase in age from twelve to a hundred, in the keystones on the ground level.24 Apollo, the arbiter of time, presides over the hours, the days, the months, the seasons, the years, and the cycles of h ­ uman life. The imagery is taken from the powers of the Sun, the king’s devise. With the construction of the ­Grande Galerie at the end of the 1670s, the four Months that stood against the inner wall of the terrace w ­ ere brought forward and aligned for the first time with their eight partners, and new statues of Apollo and Diana ­were erected in the ­middle. Appropriately, new statues of Art and Nature ­were inserted in the niches outside the Galerie.25

Fountains of the Seasons The basins at the western ends of the ave­nues that frame the main axis already appear on the “Institut plan” of 1663 (fig. 9), but their two partners at the eastern ends w ­ ere not introduced u­ ntil the end of the de­cade. By 1672, a series of figurative fountains of the Seasons was underway.26 Viewed from the top of the Fer-­à-­Cheval, they advance clockwise, two on each side of the axis, starting in the northwest: Spring (Flora), Summer (Ceres), Fall (Bacchus), Winter (Saturn). They revolve around the daily path of Apollo, the governor of time.

Parterre d’Eau The Parterre d’Eau, a square puzzle of basins, superseded the Parterre de Broderie on the G ­ rand Parterre in the early 1670s. Three new reservoirs w ­ ere constructed u­ nder it, transforming the hydraulic system. Projets for the decoration of the new basins ­were introduced.27 Le Brun designed a vast cosmological program of sculpture, which is known t­ oday as the Grande Commande of 1674. For the meandering borders of the puzzle, he designed twenty-­four marble statues, six quartets: the Ele­ments, the Seasons, the Parts of the World, the Temperaments of Man, the Parts of the Day, and the Poems. Claude Nivelon said in his biography of the artist that the two dozen units constituted “the ­union or forces of that which the universe is made.” For the basins in the corners, Le Brun designed a suite of mythological groups representing “the mutations of the Ele­ments.” For the outer corners of the puzzle, he designed yet another suite of legendary groups

Elaborations of the Western Axis, Briefly

of the Ele­ments. For the round basin in the center, he designed a two-­sided, thirty-­foot mountain with open sides: facing the château, Apollo presides over the Muses (fig. 76); fronting the gardens and presiding over the Arts and Sciences, a rearing Pegasus ­causes the Hippocrene to issue a thick tower of ­water, which then descends in a transparent veil to reveal the River Helicon and a gathering of nymphs and ­children (fig. 77). For Nivelon, the mountain was “a symbol or body of the effects and virtues of the Sun,” and the ensemble “a repre­sen­ta­tion of the ­whole mass or components of the Universe.”28 Posted between the basins on the western side of the parterre was a large terrestrial globe. When the Parterre d’Eau was reconfigured in the early 1680s, the two dozen statues of the Grande Commande w ­ ere distributed about the Petit Parc in no par­tic­u­lar order. Three of the four “mutations of the Ele­ments” ­were eventually completed, but they too ­were dispersed. The rest of Le Brun’s program was abandoned.

Fer-­à-­Cheval Though, in the end, nothing came of it, ­there was a time at the outset of the 1670s when Le Brun put serious thought into embellishing the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval with fountains. His intention was to pierce the wall with niches and fill them with characters from the legend of Latona, the same Latona kneeling in front of it. Two projets are well known from drawings by Le Brun or his atelier, from engravings, and from writings. One, confined to the wall’s central niche, shows a winged Python rising over a chaotic mass of dead and ­dying bodies; for Nivelon, working from a Louis de Chastillon engraving (fig. 78), this is the Deluge in which the monster was born.29 The other projet features a smaller, winged Python, flanked by the menacing figures of Rage and Jealousy, who was dispatched by Juno to hinder Latona’s search for a secure place to give birth to Apollo and Diana (fig. 79); the lateral niches ­were filled with figures who ­either persecuted Latona (Juno) or assisted her (Neptune, Cybele, Saturn) during her journeys, and with fluvial deities representing the waterways that stood in her way (fig. 3).30 Neptune ordered Delos to rise to the surface in time for Latona’s delivery. Saturn (her f­ ather) and Cybele (the ­mother of the gods) offered their prayers on her behalf. The French edition of Conti’s Mythologie des Dieux, 1627, was rich in ­these extra-­Ovidian details.31 If e­ ither of the projets had an allegorical message, writers of the period say nothing of it, but some recent historians see the Fronde in disguise.32 A more acceptable alternative, in my view, is that the second scheme refers to the obstacles that Apollo overcame en route to his destiny: Rage and Jealousy, rather than personifying the subversive forces of France, are simply Juno’s heated passions, driving her to persecute Latona before she reached Delos and a­ fter she left it for Lycea. Like the Lycean peasants, Juno

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and her allies, Rage, Jealousy, and Python, represent the forces that impede the divine missions of Apollo. In a drawing for the manuscript of Charles Perrault’s Recueil, Le Brun included a third, far less ambitious projet for the retaining wall (fig. 80) (Epilogue).33 The ­middle niche is filled with three s­ imple buffets d’eau. It is misleading to speak of Le Brun’s projets for the wall without factoring in his con­temporary projet for a 30-­foot mountain in the center of the Parterre d’Eau. Viewed from the west, Pegasus and his Fontaine des Arts (fig. 77) would rise triumphantly over Python (in one case) (fig. 78), and over Python, Rage, and Jealousy (in the other) (fig. 79). From the east, Apollo presides over his Fontaine des Muses (fig. 76).34 Le Brun’s projets ­were cut short by the economic strains of war, and, furthermore, the Parterre d’Eau was said by Nivelon to be too restricted to accommodate so much sculpture. In this light, stacking a Parnassus on top of a loaded niche was both spatially and aesthetically awkward. A curious version of the retaining wall is represented in a fan painting, in gouache, by an anonymous artist, from about 1675.35 The view, from the west, shows a cavalcade, the Latona fountain, and the château in receding planes. Standing against the concave wall are ten white terms, five on e­ ither side of the axis. A group of three gilded figures rises up above and beyond Latona. The leading figure, right arm raised, is framed by reclining figures, no doubt river gods. Mere speculation, but is this Neptune, who assisted Latona during her ordeal? Gilded terms flank the group. A rounded basin lies on the ground ­under the m ­ iddle group, ­water gushing up from it. A thin veil of ­water, emerging through a slot along the bottom edge of a wide horizontal strip, seems to descend over the m ­ iddle bay of the wall.

Abbreviations

AAF AN AN, MC BnF BnF, Est. BnF, Mss. BSHAF CBR CDAFR

Conférences

ENSBA GBA Iconologie

P-­V

Archives de l’art français Archives nationales, Paris Archives nationales, Minutier central des notaires parisiens Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cabinet des Estampes Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Manuscrits Bulletin de la Société de l’ histoire de l’art français Comptes des Bâtiments du Roi sous le règne de Louis XIV. Ed. Jules Guiffrey. 5 vols. Paris, l881–1901 Correspondance des directeurs de l’Académie de France à Rome. Ed. Anatole de Montaiglon and Jules Guiffrey. 18 vols. Paris, 1857–1908 Conférences de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture. Ed. Jacqueline Lichtenstein and Christian Michel. 3 tomes (5 vols.). Paris, 2006–9 Ecole nationale supérieure des beaux-­arts, Paris Gazette des Beaux-­Arts Ripa, Cesare. Iconologie, ou explication nouvelle de plusieurs images, emblèmes, et autres figures. Ed. and trans. Jean Baudouin. 2 vols. in 1. Paris, 1644. Repr. ed., New York, 1976 Procès-­verbaux de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture: 1648–1792. Ed. Anatole de Montaiglon. 10 vols. Paris, 1875–92

Notes

Chapter 1 1. For 1666, see AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, nos. 10, 15, and unnumbered entry, fol. 12v; for 1667, cahier 8, no. 140; for 1668, cahier 9, unnumbered entry, fol. 5v. No such aggression is recorded in cahier 10, which covers the installations of 1669. 2. Musée de Versailles, inv. no. 765. 3. In 1666, the first year of the assault by the living toads and frogs, all three basins of the Parterre de Latone ­were barren, but when the batrachians renewed their attack in 1667 and 1668, their sculptural counter­parts ­were in place along the grassy borders. Patel, when picturing the l­ ittle creatures in place in 1668, was caught in the ­middle of the rapid developments (figs. 12, 13). The life-­ size figures did not arrive u­ ntil 1670. 4. Latona was the only fountain in the gardens in which the materials of lead and marble w ­ ere united. The metallic material, a mixture of lead and tin, was gilded to resemble gilt bronze. When authors of the period speak of “bronze doré,” ­either they are mistaken or they refer to the color. ­Today, the group consists of three blocks of marble: the figure of Diana; Latona’s right arm; and the rest. For Latona’s arm, which is clamped to her torso, see Chapter 5 (final paragraph). The ground ­under the ensemble is composed of several chunks of marble (figs. 20, 21). 5. For an engaging, wide-­reaching history of the early period, see Thompson, 2006, esp. chaps. IV–­V I. 6. For the document, see Le Guillou, 2000, pp. 89–91; 2011, pp. 101–4, 343 n. 4. My remarks on the “prehistory” of Versailles are deeply indebted to his research. 7. Le Guillou, 2000, p. 93, fig. 6. 8. For a reconstruction of the ten-­unit grid, see Le Guillou, 2000, p. 96, fig. 8; 2011, unnumbered illus. in color. 9. For the fourteen-­unit grid, see the reconstruction by Le Guillou, 2000, p. 105, fig. 12; 2011, unnumbered illus. in color. The Bassin des Cygnes was originally called the “canal” and ­later the “rondeau,” identical in name to the round body of ­water that was placed at the foot of the northern axis in 1664–65 (our fig. 15). For the origins of this vast basin, which date to the early 1630s, see ibid., p. 102; 2011, pp. 206–7. Fréart de Chambray identified it in 1650 as “un rondeau [basin] de soixante toises de diamètre” (2005 ed., p. 46). 10. BnF, Cartes et Plans, Ge DD 2987, no. 833 (a drawing). It is also known as the “d’Anville plan.” Vegetable gardens and an orchard had been planted to the south of the château as early as 1631, but they are missing in the plan. Also missing is the Bois Vert, a bosquet of labyrinthine allées adjacent to the flower garden, for which see Le Guillou, 2002, p. 66. The essentials if not the details of the château, as represented in the “Du Bus plan,” appear on an engraved view by Gomboust from 1652. 11. Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Institut, Ms. 1307, fol. 68 (a drawing, falsely inscribed). Marie, who published the plan (1945–46, pp. 8–15), argued that it represents the Petit Parc before André Le

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Notes to Pages 3–5 Nôtre arrived, but Gerold Weber, in a persuasive rebuttal, concluded that it rec­ords the gardener’s début (1969, pp. 208–10); see also the review by Weber of Marie’s book of 1968 (1970, pp. 254–55). 12. The lit­er­a­ture on Le Nôtre is huge and expanding by the day. A fraction of it includes Hazlehurst, 1980; Weber, 1985; Mariage, 1999; Baridon, 2008; Bouchenot-­Déchin and Farhat, 2013; and Bouchenot-­Déchin, 2013. 13. See Weber, 1969, pp. 208–10, for Le Nôtre’s “compartment thinking” at this transitional point in time. 14. Weber, 1985, p. 99 n. 113, points out that one of the two round (marble) basins that appears at the northern end of the lawns was excavated in 1699 and transported to Marly. 15. See BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 122, fol. 579, publ. by Marie, 1947, pp. 23–24, for a memo of 17 July 1664 in which Le Nôtre states that the round basin and the balustrades on the sloping ground have been installed. More than a year e­ arlier, on 15 January 1663, François Le Vau (the b­ rother of Louis and an architect in his own right) vented his thoughts on the still undecided fate of the landscape at the end of the ­Grand Parterre. Included in his elliptical memo is the first known reference to the westward view from an axial point on top; for Le Vau’s memo, see BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 114, fols. 678–79; publ. by Marie, 1945–46, p. 13. The issue was soon settled, for by 17 February 1663 an elite crew of landscapers began the pro­cess of leveling the ground at the end of the ­Grand Parterre and clear-­cutting the trees on the sides. 16. The events of the first three days of the Plaisirs de l’ île enchantée, 7–9 May 1664, w ­ ere held at the round basin, the square intersection, and the Bassin des Cygnes (respectively). 17. The ­f uture Bosquet de la Girandole (south) and Bosquet du Dauphin (north). To be more accurate, the quinconces took over the eastern half of the Saint Andrew’s Cross. 18. For our plan of 1666 (fig. 10, an engraving), see BnF, Est., Va 422, t. 4. For variations, see ibid., Va 448B (a watercolor, falsely inscribed “1664”), and AN, N.II., Seine-­et-­Oise, no. 108 (a drawing). 19. For our plan of 1668 (fig. 11, a drawing, falsely inscribed “1664”), see BnF, Est., Va 78f, t. 1. For variations, see ibid., Va 422 (a watercolor), and Va 78f, t. 1 (an engraving). The artist of all three versions was François de La Pointe. 20. The term appears in a document from 8 June 1665, for which see Marie, 1945–46, p. 13. According to the same source, the landscapers w ­ ere working “fortement” on the terraces and steps. 21. Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., p. 277. Patel painted his pa­norama (fig. 12) five years before Félibien wrote his guide. The affinities are so striking that I won­der if the author was indebted as much or more to the painter as to the a­ ctual topography. 22. See Barbet, 1907, p. 24. The location is cited in a report of repairs to the pump in 1639. 23. Ibid., pp. 24–25, for Denis’s contract of May 1664. Denis also designed the piston pump for the Ménagerie, to the southwest of the Petit Parc. Louis XIV paid a visit in August 1664 and, according to a report, was disappointed by what he saw: “Elle [Sa Majesté] s’approacha ensuite des bassins pour considérer lesdits jets d’eau, qui lui semblèrent trop petits, ainsi que les jets d’eau dans leur hauteur, moins agréables qu’un petit bouillon de quatre à cinq pieds de haut” (ibid., p. 27). We ­will encounter Claude I Denis again, not for his ­labors in the gardens but for his poetic description of the fountains from 1674 or 1675. 24. See figs. 10 and 11, which show the barbell shape of the tower and the pavilions at ­either end. 25. See Barbet, 1907, pp. 28–29. Jolly’s contract includes a description of this “grande machine de nouvelle construction.” A drawing of the complex operation is published by Barbet. 26. In a sequel from December 1664, Jolly agreed to seal the tank so that “il puisse tenir eau comme en verre” (ibid., pp. 29–30). He laid his lead sheets over an impermeable layer of mastic and linen, a secret formula of François Francine. Le Vau was already at work on the subterranean sections of the Tour d’Eau near the end of 1663, a foreshadowing of the king’s passion for ­water in his gardens. 27. Ibid., p. 29.

Notes to Pages 5–6 28. The compliment was paid by Perrault in his Mémoires (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., p. 214. He goes on to fault Jolly for his miscalculation of the relative heights of the ends of the G ­ rand Canal. 29. For this document, see Barbet, 1907, pp. 29–30 (italics mine). 30. For a listing of his twelve inventories, see Hedin, 2012, annexe 1, p. 194. Jolly was often the subject of memos by Louis Petit, the contrôleur des Bâtiments at Versailles. Petit signed off at the end of each inventory, attesting to its accuracy. It says in his inventory for the second half of 1666 that, aside from his primary duties, Jolly was responsible for the conduct of four underlings who trailed the king whenever he toured the gardens “pour ouvrir et fermer toutes les fontaines, changer les ajutages et généralement tout ce qui a été nécessaire pour le plaisir de Sa Maj[esté]” (AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, no. 86). 31. The foremost studies of the Grotto are Lange, 1961, pp. 133–48; Weber, 1985, pp. 100– 106; Petzet, 2000, pp. 503–30; Maral, 2015, pp. 77–92; and Berger, 2016, pp. 89–103. Jolly completed the lining of the tank in the first half of 1666. 32. See CBR, I, col. 85, for the rental of portable pumps to fill the Rondeau in 1665. 33. I was mistaken in 2012, p. 179, in stating that the auxiliaries went into construction in 1666. 34. See Barbet, 1907, pp. 33–35. The three windmills ­were arranged one above the other on a hillside. W ­ ater from the puits of the lowest one was sent upward to the puits of the ­middle one, which in turn passed it upward to the puits of the highest. The level of this highest puits equaled that of the auxiliaries, permitting the transfer by siphons. Their yield varied according to the caprice of the winds. A branch in the largest pipe traveling from the Tour d’Eau to the Grotto of Tethys, which could be opened on demand, was a third supplier of the auxiliaries. 35. Ibid., p. 43, for a map of the canalization of the pipes exiting the Grotto and the auxiliaries. Most of the major lines included branches that sent w ­ ater at a­ ngles to other basins, then to still o­ thers. 36. Ibid., p. 35. The Etang de Clagny lay about six feet above the Bassin des Cygnes, thus the windmill and reservoir. Scudéry alludes to this installation in 1669 (n. 48, below). 37. See the recent study by Siaud, 2012, pp. 89–98 (Denis dynasty), 99–103 (Jolly), and 104– 17 (Francine dynasty). For François Francine at Versailles, see also Mousset, 1930, esp. pp. 73–93. Barbet, 1907, p. 29 n. 1, assumes that François and his ­brother Pierre “furent consultés pour les eaux de Versailles, mais beaucoup moins qu’on ne l’a dit généralement.” The extent of their work t­ here widened with time (n. 39, below). 38. For this unsigned, undated memo, see AN, O1 1598, pièce 204; publ. in part by Lange, 1961, p. 146 (with a proposed date of 1667–68); and, more fully, by Hedin, 2012, p. 194, annexe 1 (with a proposed date of late 1669). The year 1667 appears in an unrelated part of the memo, but internal clues point in my view to a ­later date for the section on Versailles. 39. The Denis and the Francine families w ­ ere praised in the Mercure Galant for April 1672, by which time new bosquets had been introduced to the northern gardens: “Je n’aurais jamais fait, si je voulais vous parler des merveilles que les eaux produisent dans ce lieu délicieux. Le Sieur Denys [Claude II] les y fait venir par des pompes et des aqueducs admirables; et Monsieur [François] de Francine leur fait faire des choses qui surpassent l’imagination; témoins le Marais, l’Arbre [sic; the Marais again], et le Mont d’eau [the Montagne d’Eau], sans oublier le Théâtre [d’Eau], où les changements de décoration d’eau y sont aussi fréquents que ceux des pièces de machines, qui en sont les plus remplies” (pp. 250–51). 40. Félibien (1668b), 1689 repr. p. 198. 41. See Colbert, 1868, V, p. 526, doc. XXXIX, a letter of 4 October 1670 from Horatius Ondedei. 42. For the tour of George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, see the Gazette de France for Sept. 1670, no. 112; and Berger and Hedin, 2008, pp. 20–21, 78–82. The hyperbole reached new extremes with the commentaries on the tours of the Duchess of Modena (1673); the Rus­sian ambassador (1681); the Moroccan ambassador (1682); and the Algerian ambassadors (1684). See Berger and Hedin, 2008, pp. 22, 26–28. The refrain is even inscribed on a ground plan from 1693.

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Notes to Pages 7–11 43. The term appears on a map from 1675 of the ­waters in the vicinity of Versailles, illus. by Barbet, 1907, p. 41. Jean-­Baptiste Primi Visconti, a chronicler of life at the royal court, remarked as late as 1680: “Du reste ce pays est ingrat, il n’y a que des sables et des marais malsains, et le Roi, on peut le dire, y a fait venir les éléments qui d’abord n’y étaient pas, en y faisant transporter, planter ou venir bois, arbres et eau” (2015 ed., pp. 222–23). 44. The squarish block of land through which it passed en route to the Bassin des Cygnes was ­later occupied by the Bosquet de l’Isle Royale, and the smaller, triangular block became the Galerie d’Eau (Galerie des Antiques). The Bosquet des Sources and the Galerie d’Eau w ­ ere laid out diagonally by Le Nôtre in the late 1670s to follow the stream’s northwesterly course. 45. Courtilz, 1695, pp. 84–85. 46. The king abandoned Saint-­Germain-­en-­L aye for Versailles, wrote Saint-­Simon, “le plus triste et le plus ingrat de tous les lieux, sans vue, sans bois, sans eau, sans terre, parce que tout y est sable mouvant ou marécage, sans air par conséquent, qui n’y peut être bon. Il se plus à tyranniser la nature, à la dompter à force d’art et de trésors. . . . ​L a recoupe y brûle les pieds; mais, sans cette recoupe, on y enfoncerait ici dans les sables, et là dans la plus noire fange. La vio­lence qui y a été faite partout à la nature repousse et dégoûte malgré soi. L’abondance des eaux forcées et ramassées de toutes parts les rend vertes, épaisses, bourbeuses; elles répandent une humidité malsaine et sensible, une odeur qui l’est encore plus. Leurs effets, qu’il faut pourtant beaucoup ménager, sont incomparables; mais de ce tout il résulte qu’on admire et qu’on fuit” (1916 ed., XXVIII, pp. 159–62). 47. Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., pp. 301–2. A document from the late 1660s says the same (n. 38, above). We need to remind ourselves of our bound­aries: the Premier Versailles of the 1660s. In 1671, three reservoirs ­were constructed ­under the ­Grand Parterre, altering the hydraulic network. Ambitious plans to divert the Loire and Eure to the Petit Parc ­were abandoned when the members of the Académie royale des sciences concluded that the levels of w ­ ater w ­ ere incompatible, or when the workforces ­were decimated by war or disease. The most celebrated invention of all, the Machine de Marly, delivered ­water from the Seine to Versailles and Marly, a retreat nearby, but for that success story we jump forward to the 1680s. 48. Scudéry (1669), 2002 ed., pp. 63, 91–92. Christian Huygens, during a visit to the gardens with Charles Perrault, observed that the w ­ ater could be sent by pumps directly to the upper reservoirs, and that the Tour d’Eau was a useless intermediate stage. See Perrault (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., pp. 213–14. 49. The central jet remained in place ­until 1670, at which time the marble group took over. 50. His employment a few years e­ arlier for Nicolas Fouquet at Vaux-­le-­Vicomte had prepared him to expect such a development. According to Scudéry, a figure of Galatea, accompanied by Cyclops and tritons, was considered for the canal in front of the Grotte ­there (1660, X, p. 1135). An alternative scheme, known from an engraving by Israël Silvestre, called for a figure of Neptune surrounded by tritons. 51. The same is true, I believe, of Le Nôtre’s material contributions to the hydraulics of the northern axis (Hedin 2017, p. 29). 52. Perrault, “Le Labyrinthe de Versailles,” in Recueil, 1675, pp. 234–37. For the entire set-­piece, see our Epilogue. 53. The term was applied by Mariage, 1999, p. 94. Included in a list of the agencies u­ nder his protection are the Académie royale des sciences, the Gobelins, the Académie royale d’architecture, the Bibliothèque du roi, the Imprimerie royale, the Cabinet des médailles, the Cabinet du roi, the Jardin royal, and the Observatoire, along with our special interest, the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture. 54. For the vast range of promotional devices, see Apostolidès, 1981; and Burke, 1992. 55. For the early strug­g les, see Thuillier, 1964, pp. 181–209; Olivier, 1979, pp. 377–88; and Schnapper, 1990, pp. 27–36.

Notes to Pages 11–14 56. See the first part of Conférences, the series by Lichtenstein and Michel. ­There had been academic lectures before 1667, but ­under Colbert they became a regular monthly exercise, Le Brun in the lead. 57. Not far off ­were the connoisseurs and savants, the refined few, who followed the course of the academic lectures and ­were well-­schooled in the history of ancient and Italian art. For the formidable erudition of the preferred audience, see, for example, Lamoignon de Basville’s plaidoyer of 1667 on behalf of the arts of painting and sculpture, in Conférences, I (1), pp. 207–28; and Roget de Piles’s extensive reading lists for the edification of the aspiring history painter, in Dufresnoy, 1668, pp. 79–83.

Chapter 2 1. For his first visit, in October 1641, see Le Guillou, 2011, p. 228. It was on the order of his f­ ather, on campaign in the north, that the f­ uture king and his one-­year-­old ­brother Philippe w ­ ere sent ­there in the com­pany of their governesses and other attendants. 2. For a helpful guide to the king’s day-­by-­day activities, see Levantal, 2009. His lists often include the testimony of the Gazette de France, the most useful source of information. Almost all of the quoted passages in this chapter ­were drawn from that court journal. 3. The view is by Israël Silvestre, a royal engraver. 4. The term has variable applications. For Le Guillou, among ­others, it signals the period before Louis XIV took a serious interest in Versailles in 1660–61. My range includes the works of art and architecture that ­were in pro­g ress or on the planning boards at the end of the 1660s. 5. Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., pp. 273–74. 6. Le Guillou, 2002, p. 51; 2011, pp. 296–97. The king and queen w ­ ere married on 9 June 1660. It was on the fateful day of 25 October that she visited Versailles for the first time. 7. Le Guillou, 2002, pp. 52–53, 56–57, 62–63, 63–64; 2011, pp. 300–302, 312–15, 317–19. 8. Charles Perrault, 1693 ms. (dest.), as transcribed by Clément, in Colbert, 1868 ed., V, p. 266, doc. 23, n. 1. Clément spent time with Perrault’s manuscript at the Tuileries before it was consumed by the fires of the Commune of 1871. The Petit Parc in 1660 closely resembled what we see in the “Du Bus plan” (fig. 8). 9. In two stages, the first instigated by the Parliamentarians, the second by the Nobles, the uprisings ­were an attempt to disrupt the Regency and to reduce the powers of the monarchy, not to topple it. The revolts w ­ ere put down, with concessions by the crown. 10. Scudéry (1669), 2002 ed., p. 95. 11. Ibid., p. 85. One of Scudéry’s friends was struck above all by the gardens, the forests, and the fountains—­that is, the natu­ral features of a true “palais de la campagne” (p. 64). 12. See Saule, 1992, for the renovations. 13. “Le Roi, le Daufin et les Reines, / Dés Lundy quitérent Vinceines, / Pour Versaille, autre charmant lieu, / (Qui me plaît bien, ma foy-­de-­Dieu) / Où les chasses, les exercises, / Qui de pluzieurs sont les délices, / Les concerts, les banquets friands, / Les jeux et spectacles riants, / Comme passe-­temps nécessaires, / Succédent aux soins des afaires; / Toutes ces chozes, tour-­à-­tour, / Ocupans aujourd’huy la Cour.” See Loret (1663), 1878 ed., IV, p. 115 (a letter of 13 October 1663). 14. “Mercredy, le Roi nôtre Sire, / A qui de longs jours je dézire, / Dans Versaille traita la Cour; / Et quoy que ce fût un beau jour, / On n’y fit point, dit-on, de chasse, / Mais le plaizir de la Ramasse, / Plus rapide que hazardeux, / Les divertit une heure, ou deux” (ibid., p. 160, a letter of 9 February 1664). The ramasse, also called the roulette, was mentioned by Scudéry in 1669 (2002 ed., p. 99). In a plan of 1666, preserved ­today in BnF, Est., Va 448b, the course of the ramasse is indicated by a line ­running between the parallel rows of trees in the upper left corner. My thanks to Jean-­Claude Le Guillou for identifying the site of the downhill track.

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Notes to Pages 14–19 15. For Colbert’s famous letter, see n. 51, below. Clément, editor of Colbert’s papers, erred in dating it to 1665. 16. Les plaisirs de l’ île enchantée (1664), in Œuvres de Molière, V, pp. 107–8. It was written ­either by Charles Perrault or by André Félibien. The Mercure Galant for August 1679, pp. 104–5, attributed the text to Félibien. 17. Magnier made good on his offer and, in March 1667, he donated his relief (P-­V, I, pp. 271, 287, 314). For an illustration, see Souchal, 1987, III, p. 6, no. 16. It hangs ­today in the Louvre. 18. Guillet de Saint-­Georges (1686), in Conférences, II (1), pp. 147–48. He goes on to offer an allegorical “explication” of the relief. Years ­later, an alternate reading of Magnier’s relief was offered by Nicolas Guérin (1715, pp.  109–11). Michel Anguier read a two-­p art lecture on ­“L’­u nion de l’Art et de la Nature” in July and August 1671 (Conférences, I (1), pp. 410–30, esp. pp. 410–11). 19. To be specific, the suite of Olympian terms was already in the works at the end of 1663. They ­were planned for the flower garden, to the south of the château, but ­there is no proof that they ever reached it; their fate is mysterious. A third set of terms, portraying the gods and goddesses, was ordered by the Bâtiments du Roi in 1664 for an unknown part or parts of the gardens. 20. See Hedin, 2001, 2004. 21. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 130, fol. 123; publ. by Nolhac, 1901, p. 214 n. 6. 22. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 130, fol. 133; publ. by Nolhac, 1901, p. 42. 23. A set of bronze vases was ordered for the gardens in 1665 (App. F, n. 2). 24. For the remarkable events of 27 April 1666, see Hedin, 2012, annexe 2, pp. 194–95. 25. Pierre de La Haye was paid on 24 April 1666 for a figure of an amour sur swan. For his unsung but highly consequential work, see Chapter 7 of this book. 26. See Hedin, 2016, as well as Chapter 7 of this book. 27. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 8, no. 104. 28. See Hedin, 2012. Still another suite of terms, of which we know precious l­ ittle, was erected in the vicinity of Latona at the same time (App. F). 29. Félibien (1668b), 1689 repr., p. 198. 30. See Hedin, 2017. 31. At one point, a second round of competitions was held among the architects, delaying the pro­cess. See Berger, 1985b, chap. II, pp. 5–22. 32. Chigi read a letter of apology to Louis XIV at Fontainebleau at the end of July, thus ending the Affair of the Corsican Guards. See Berger and Hedin, 2008, pp. 19–20, 75, nos. 1a, 1b, for this first diplomatic tour during the reign. 33. Ibid., pp. 20, 76–78, nos. 2a, 2b. 34. Ibid., pp. 20–21, 78, nos. 3, 4. 35. For example, during the festival of 18 July 1668, the King escorted his court to the Couronnes in the Parterre du Nord, then along the eastern edge of the Petit Parc en route to the Rondeau. He avoided the region around the Pyramid and the Bain de Diane ­because Jolly was just then in the complicated pro­cess of embedding his pipes t­ here. See Hedin, 2017. 36. By contrast, a painting by Adam-­François Van der Meulen, now in the collection of Queen Elizabeth II, shows the chaotic construction of the Ecuries and the Ailes des Ministres on the eastern side. ­There is no shortage of images of weeders, rakers, tree trimmers, haulers with wheelbarrows, and the like, but none of the garden-­wide mayhem that accompanied Le Nôtre’s radical redesign of the axes. For vignettes of laborers at work, see Bouchenot-­Déchin, 2001, 37. Félibien (1674), in 1689 repr., p. 279. 38. Hedin, 2016, p. 311 ff. For the many ­later applications of the “law” along the western axis, see Appendix F. 39. For the fountain, by Louis Lerambert, see Maral, 2012a; and Hedin, 2012, pp. 180–81, 188–90.

Notes to Pages 19–20 40. Mars and Venus, together holding a miniature of the king riding in a carousel, levitate on a cloud in the center of the image. For “les mystères cachés sous ces figures,” see Félibien (1667), in 1689 repr., pp. 147–60. 41. For the northern axis, see Hedin, 2001, 2016, 2017. For Pierre Francastel, 1930, pp. 19–35, the axis is governed by a “sentiment décoratif.” The ensemble is held tightly together by what he calls “le style rocaille.” He admires the shimmering effects of the gilded and bronzed figures, seeing in them “l’art du décorateur,” namely Pietro da Cortona’s stucchi on the ceilings of the Palazzo Pitti, Florence. If we ­factor in the exciting forms of discovery that await the visitor, including the Pe­tite Commande, which was unknown to Francastel, then our conclusions are in accord with his overview. The axis is ruled by both a “sentiment décoratif ” and a “sentiment ludique.” 42. For Francastel, 1930, p. 35 ff, the western axis is governed by the “légende du Soleil.” This is the realm of Apollo, the Sun, and Louis XIV, and our book is addressed to it. 43. For the Pe­tite Académie, see Jacquiot, 1968, I, pp. i–­l xxiii. The members at the time of Latona ­were Jean Chapelain, the Abbé de Cassagnes, the Abbé de Bourzeis, François Charpentier, and Charles Perrault. 44. See Perrault (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., pp. 233–34, where he recalled a memo he had written in 1683 in defense of the Pe­tite Académie. Charles elsewhere referred to his committee as “une espèce de petit conseil pour toutes les choses dépendantes des belles lettres” (ibid., p. 126), and as “une espèce de petit conseil qu’il [Colbert] pût consulter sur toutes les choses qui regardent les bâtiments et où il peut entrer de l’esprit et de l’érudition” (ibid., p. 130). With minor variations, I owe my translations of his Mémoires to Zarucchi, 1989. 45. For this anonymous report, see Jacquiot, 1968, p. xcl. An ­earlier passage reads: “Et comme Monsieur Colbert jugea que dans les Bâtiments, on avait continuellement besoin de desseins pour tous les ornements qu’on y emploie, pour les plafonds, tableaux, statues, fontaines, tapisseries, ­etc. . . . ​Et qu’il était bon que ces desseins fussent corrects, fussent convenables, même pensés avec ordre et avec esprit, il songea de faire une pe­tite assemblée de personnes choisies qui fussent instruits de toutes les magnificences de la Grèce et de Rome, et qui mêlant le goût et le génie avec l’étude, fussent capables de donner des lumières pour la perfection de tous les arts.” Another insider, Gros de Boze, said of Colbert that he “y faisait continuellement inventer ou examiner les différents desseins de peinture et de sculpture dont on voulait embellir Versailles. On y réglait le choix et l’ordre des statues. On y consultait les ornements des fontaines et des bosquets, et tout ce que l’on proposait pour la décoration des appartements et pour l’embellissement des jardins” (1718, I, p.  3). It is likely that t­hese reminiscences ­were exaggerated, to some degree, for self-­ promotional reasons. 46. Perrault, recalling their first meeting, wrote: “Dès le même jour il voulut qu’on commençât à travailler devant lui, et ce fut à mettre par écrit ce qu’il venait de nous dire. Je fus choisi pour tenir la plume, qui m’est toujours demeurée. Il [Colbert] nous quitta pour aller chez le Roi et à son retour, nous ayant trouvés chez lui, il approuva ce que nous avions rédigé par écrit et m’ordonna d’avoir un registre pour l’y mettre et tout ce qui serait fait et résolu à l’avenir” (1993 ed., pp. 130–31). 47. Ibid., p. 134. 48. “Ce que j’appelle ici du nom de gloire, est une espèce de joie; fondée sur l’amour qu’on a pour soi-­même, et qui vient de l’opinion ou de l’espérance qu’on a d’être loué par quelques autres. Ainsi elle est différente de la satisfaction intérieure, qui vient de l’opinion qu’on a d’avoir fait quelque bonne action. Car on est quelques fois loué pour des choses qu’on ne croit point être bonnes, et blâmé pour celles qu’on croit être meilleures. Mais elles sont l’une et l’autre des espèces de l’estime qu’on fait de soi-­même, aussi bien que des espèces de joie. Car c’est un sujet pour s’estimer, que de voir qu’on est estimé par les autres.” See Descartes (1649), 1650 ed., pp. 273–74, art. CCIV. 49. Le ­g rand dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise (1694), 1695 ed., I, p. 316. 50. See Chapelain, 1883 ed., II, p. 272, no. CLV, a letter of 18 November 1662. Chapelain advised Colbert that pyramids, columns, equestrian statues, triumphal arches, busts in marble and

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Notes to Pages 20–24 bronze, relief sculptures, and other forms of historical monuments ­were likely to survive longer than tapestries, frescoes, or engravings, though they too are worthy. 51. For his letter of 28 September 1663, see Colbert, 1868 ed., V, pp. 268–70, doc. 24. 52. See Weber, 1969, for a brilliant overview. 53. The quotation is taken from Nathan Whitman’s essay on the Fronde thesis (Appendix D). 54. Combes, 1681, p. 4.

Chapter 3 1. Gaspard Marsy left a folder full of impor­tant papers at his death in December 1681, but the notaries who drew up his inventory a month ­later failed to rec­ord the contents. This is as close as we are likely to come to finding the contract: “Item une liasse de quatorze pièces qui sont mémoires des ouvrages faits par ledit défunt pour Sa Majesté partie desquels sont arrêtés par Mr [Charles] Perrault, contrôleur des Bâtiments paraphé par première et dernière par ledit Denotz [notary] et sur le premier et dernier pour tout” (AN, MC, CXII, 385a). 2. Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., p. 422. It was in his account of two projets in the 1670s to embellish the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval with figures from the legend of Latona that he came close to identifying Le Brun (App. F). 3. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 311 (1664), 312 (1665), 313 (1666), 315 (1667). An alternate set is preserved in the same archive, Mss. fr. 14108 (1664), 14109 (1665), 14110 (1666–67). The cycle resumes in AN, O1 2129 (1668), 2130 (1669), 2131 (1670). 4. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 313, fol. 59r. 5. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, unnumbered entry, fol. 11r. Jolly installed nozzles, or ajutages, but for con­ve­nience I have ­adopted the term “jets.” 6. ­Were the nozzles cast and installed for a still undecided purpose? ­Were the nozzles intended for s­ imple, unaccompanied jets? W ­ ere they intended for vases, or for some other non-­Lycean objects? Such scenarios, in my view, are extremely remote possibilities. 7. ­There is solid proof in Jolly’s inventory that the amphibians ­were in their proper places and linked to the pipes in 1667 (App. A). Th ­ ose pipes had to be lying in the trenches and prepared to greet the small creatures when they arrived. None of this, the planning, the modeling, the casting, or the digging of the trenches, took place overnight. It was a pro­cess, difficult, tedious, time-­ consuming. 8. Revising the accepted birth date of a work, even by one year, can yield unexpected dividends. To cite a personal case: From the testimony of Guillet de Saint-­Georges (1690, 1693) and the publication of the Comptes des Bâtiments by Jules Guiffrey (1881), it had long been assumed that the Pe­tite Commande was conceived in 1665. But a close reading of the original ledgers revealed that it was conceived in the fall of 1664 at the latest. This seemingly mild adjustment in date has major consequences, for it means that the Pe­tite Commande, a suite of parodies of the ancient and Italian canons, preceded by one year the first public demonstrations of the art of caricature in Paris in 1665. Charles and Claude Perrault, the programmers of the statues, ­were already practicing an offhand form of caricature. The revised date puts the Pe­tite Commande in the immediate wake of the Plaisirs de l’ île enchantée (May 1664), which featured, among other productions by Molière, the first, far more satirical version of Tartuffe. See Hedin, 2001, pp. 673–74, 678 (App. 1); 2004, pp. 98–99, 103–4 (App. I). 9. For Le Brun’s life to the early 1660s, see the masterful study by Gady, 2010. 10. See the recent discussions by Bresc-­Bautier, 2004, pp. 99–108; and Maral, 2015, pp. 28–35. 11. See Souchal, 1981, II, p. 402, no. 8; and Maral, 2015, pp. 36–38. 12. Or so Gaspard said in 1669 in his first academic lecture (App. C). Guillet de Saint-­Georges said in his eulogy that, in addition to Van Opstal, Anguier, and Sarazin, the Marsy ­brothers trained

Notes to Pages 24–26 ­under Philippe de Buyster (Conférences, II (1), p. 197). For the apparent contradiction, see Hedin, 1983, p. 18. 13. Unlike Girardon (1668–69) and Regnaudin (1669–70), who traveled to Italy at royal expense, the Marsy ­brothers stayed in France. Perhaps the Bâtiments du Roi chose not to finance their travel abroad. Perhaps the ­brothers saw no need to travel ­because sufficient numbers of Italian and ancient works w ­ ere accessible for study at home. For the methods by which artists w ­ ere able to finance their studies in Rome before the founding of the Académie de France à Rome in 1666, see Gady, 2010, pp. 127–28. 14. AN, O1 1669 8. The contract is dated 3 May 1663. Louis Le Vau played a supervisory role. 15. On this point, it is instructive to compare Le Brun’s drawing of Morning and Gaspard Marsy’s marble statue of that Time of Day (1674–80), a member of the Grande Commande. Le Brun, following Ripa’s Iconologie (II, pp. 176–77), included Pegasus at the foot of his figure, but Gaspard replaced him with a heap of fallen drapery and a more proportional rooster. But not at the outset: The mass ­behind his marble figure is triangular in outline, the same outline that surrounds Pegasus in Le Brun’s drawing. The implication is that Gaspard started to carve Pegasus and only l­ater compensated for the expansive rooster tail, which is composed of two pieces of marble clamped together. I am assuming that he consulted Le Brun before making the substitution. See Hedin, 1983, pp. 75–76; figs. 25, 26, 40–42. 16. For ­these overlapping works, see Hedin, 1983, esp. pp. 127–40, nos. 14–18; and Souchal, 1987, III, pp. 41–44, nos. 14–18. 17. In June 1671, one year a­ fter the completion of their Latona, they testified in a l­egal document that “they have always lived together as partners and in common; that ­until Gaspard’s marriage [in 1664], . . . ​they ­were equal in property, having ­until then shared their profits and losses” (AN, MC, XLI, 242). For an idea of the equity of their partnership, see the inventory in Balthazar’s possession at the time of his marriage in 1669 (AN, MC, VIII, 727). See Hedin, 1983, esp. pp. 227– 31, for their many collaborations, artistic and commercial. 18. See Hedin, 1983, esp. pp. 8–11, 229. 19. Guillet de Saint-­Georges (1689), in Conférences, II (1), p. 199. It was Guillet’s custom to name the sculptors but not the designers. Le Brun goes uncredited by Guillet even in ­those cases in which his creative role is firmly documented. 20. For example, Balthazar’s name appears alone at the foot of two other­wise trustworthy engravings (figs. 2, 18). Assigning the entire fountain to Balthazar is preposterous. I attribute the ­mistake to an unidentified, in this case ill-­informed member of the Pe­tite Académie who coined the inscriptions in Latin and French. 21. Combes, 1681, p. 110. His book appeared in the year of Gaspard’s death, 1681, but it bears a privilège du roi of 7 November 1680. Combes is often wildly off-­base on iconographic issues, but consistently reliable in identifying the artists by name. See Hedin, 2014/15. 22. “Le groupe qui est de marbre blanc et fait par Gaspard de Mercy, passe au jugement des connaisseurs pour un chef d’œuvre de l’art, tant à cause de la noblesse des expressions que de la correction du dessin, et de la beauté du travail; les autres figures sont de métal et conduites par la même personne [sic]” (1695, fols. 84–86). For Jourdain, see Chapter 5, n. 89, and Chapter 6, n. 31. Florent Lecomte (1700, III, pp. 138–39) and Jean-Aimar Piganiol de la Force (1701, pp. 162–63) assign the fountain to the Marsy ­brothers without attempting to partition it. 23. Poultier, 1718, pp. 64–65 (my italics). He ends: “Mais, regardez cette Vénus [i.e., Noon, a member of the Grande Commande]; elle est encore de Gaspard de Mercy, et ne cède point à Latone: Il y règne une si belle correction, un travail si surprenant, un art si merveilleux, un air de jeunesse et de douceur si séduisant, que Vénus n’était pas plus belle à Paphos qu’elle l’est à Versailles.” That Gaspard alone carved the Noon is another accurate detail. For the proposal that Poultier spent time in Gaspard’s atelier, see Hedin, 1981, p. 113 n. 2. 24. In an inventory of the sculptures in the gardens from 1686, the marble group is said to have been “faite par le sr Gaspard de Mercy.” See Maral, 2012b, pp. 96–97.

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Notes to Pages 26–30 25. I base this conclusion not only on the contents of his lecture but also on his large collection of casts and copies of ancient sculptures, for which see Hedin, 1983, pp. 232–33; and Souchal, 1987, III, pp. 69–70. By contrast, Balthazar owned no more than a handful of sculptures, and none a­ fter the antique. Balthazar, who entered the Académie in 1673, one year before his death, delivered no lectures ­there. 26. Perrault was in frequent communication with Louis Petit, the contrôleur, who, from 1664 to 1672, was paid annually “pour avoir conduit et pris le soin des bâtiments de Versailles.” Petit was assigned to Fontainebleau in 1673 and replaced at Versailles by Philippe Lefebvre “comme il a plus d’action que le sieur Petit” (Colbert, 1868 ed., V, p. 324, doc. 82, a letter of 4 May 1672). See Bouchenot-­Déchin, 2018, pp. 89–106. 27. See Charles’s letter of 8 March 1673 to Alexandre Bontemps, premier valet de chambre du roy, publ. in his Recueil, 1675, pp. 6–8. 28. Charles said that Claude designed some large vases for the gardens. He designed the Bain de Diane, according to Charles, who concedes that Girardon’s relief is superior to the design. The design of the Allée d’Eau, the slope with two rows of fountains of ­children, is attributed by Charles to Claude. To Claude he likewise assigned the Arc de Triomphe, a bosquet to the east of the Allée d’Eau. The Pyramid is quite likely another of Claude’s designs. The Pe­tite Commande is incontestably a member of Claude’s (and Charles’s) œuvre, and, in my view, the founding conceit of the Dragon fountain is theirs as well. See Hedin, 2016, 2017. 29. Perrault (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., p. 210. 30. Blondel, 1756, IV, p. 103 n. n. 31. See the letter of 12 March 1664 to Colbert from the Abbé de Cassagnes, another founding member, in Colbert, 1868 ed., V, pp. 499–500, doc. XII. Cassagnes said near the end that “ça donc été un des sujets de notre entretien dans la dernière assemblée, et nous sommes demeurés d’accord.” In attendance in Colbert’s library was Charles Perrault, the secrétaire, who authored most of the devises. See Berger, 1985a, p. 76 n. 13. 32. Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris, Ms. N.A. 181; publ. by Bresc-­Bautier, 1987, pp. 31–38. The document survives in the form of a copy. 33. See Sainte Fare Garnot, 1988, pp. 55–56, 91–92. Their private conferral took place at Saint-­ Germain-­en-­Laye. 34. A terracotta model of their Horses of Apollo does exist (Louvre, RF 2578). I have argued the case that Gaspard modeled the tritons and Balthazar the ­horses, and that they divided the marble figures accordingly (Hedin, 1983, pp. 41–52, 133–39, figs. 17–4, 17–5, 17–6). 35. For a sampling, see BnF, Est., Va 78f, vol. II. Two examples: In one, the six adults reside on the surface of the ­water, but they surround Mansart’s cone; in the other, the courtiers who converse over a scroll in Le Pautre’s print (fig. 2) have been replaced by a group of hooded clerics. The number of frogs on the border varies widely and arbitrarily in the commercial prints. 36. Patel was paid for his views of the royal h ­ ouses in 1666, 1667, 1668, and 1669 (Robert, 1876, p. 42, no LXXVII; CBR, I, cols. 194, 209, 276, 358). The original state also appears in the background of Pierre Mignard’s equestrian portrait of the Duchesse d’Aumont (Skokloster, Museum Skokloster, no. 3144) (illus. in Bouchenot-­Déchin and Farhat, 2013, p. 217). 37. By including a projet for the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval, Silvestre reminds us that Le Brun was contemplating such a scenario at that ­later date (App. F). 38. Parts of the engraving are based on Le Pautre’s view of 1678. See Joulie, 2010, p. 79, for an elevated view, from the other side, by one of the Pérelles, perhaps Gabriel. 39. It was published in 1669. Although 2 May 1668 is usually said to represent his terminus ad quem, La Fontaine seems to have penned at least some of his lines ­a fter that date. 40. “Au bas de ce degré, Latone et ses gémeaux / De gens durs et grossiers font de vils animaux, / Les changent avec l’eau que sur eux ils répandent: / Déjà les doigts de l’un en nageoires s’étendent; / L’autre en le regardant est métamorphosé; / De l’insecte et de l’homme un autre est composé;

Notes to Pages 31–36 / Son épouse le plaint d’une voix de grenouille; / Le corps est femme encor. Tel lui-­même se mouille, / Se lave, et plus il croit effacer tous ces traits, / Plus l’onde contribue à les rendre parfaits. / La scène est un bassin d’une vaste étendue; / Sur les bords, cette engeance, insecte devenue, / Tâche de lancer l’eau contre les déités. / A l’entour de ce lieu, pour comble de beautés, / Une troupe immobile et sans pieds se repose, / Nymphes, héros, et dieux de la métamorphose, / Termes de qui le sort sembleroit ennuyeux / S’ils n’étoient enchantés par l’aspect de ces lieux. / Deux parterres ensuite entretiennent la vue: / Tous deux ont leurs fleurons d’herbe tendre et menue, / Tous deux ont un bassin qui lance ses trésors, / Dans le centre en aigrette, en arcs le long des bords: / L’onde sort du gosier de différents reptiles; / Là sifflent les lézards, germains des crocodiles; / Et là mainte tortue, apportant sa maison, / Allonge en vain le col pour sortir de prison.” See La Fontaine (1669), 1892 ed., pp. 121–22. 41. “Cette dernière [his description] n’est pas tout à fait conforme à l’état présent des lieux; je les ai décrits en celui où dans deux ans on les pourra voir” (ibid., p. 24). 42. Scudéry (1669), 2002 ed., pp. 99–100. 43. Ibid., pp. 94–95. 44. Félibien (1668b), 1689 repr., pp. 264–65. 45. Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., pp. 321–22. See also Silvestre’s view of the same year (fig. 3). 46. Denis (1674–75), 1969 ed., no. 37, p. 56. We have already met Denis in Chapter 1. For the narratives by Scudéry and La Fontaine and the verse by Denis, see Berger, 2008, pp. 456–87. 47. “Il faut être en effet bien paysan, pour ne pas respecter la beauté, sur tout celle qui est chérie et bien aimée du Souverain; et c’est être bien disposé à devinir grenouille, que de s’oublier jusques à ce point” (Combes, 1681, pp. 121–22). For an analy­sis of Combes’s self-­indulgent treatment of the older sculptures at Versailles, including his “answer” to the “enigma” of Latona, see Hedin, 2014/15, pp. 84–144 (pp. 85, 129–32 for the fountain); and Appendix D, n. 13, and Appendix F, n. 22 of this book.

Chapter 4 1. Renouard, 1619 ed., pp. 164–66 (legend), 87–88 (explanation) (new pagination). He published the work in two small volumes in 1617. Folio editions ­were reissued in 1637 and again in 1651. 2. Du Ryer, 1660 ed., pp. 255–57 (legend), 258 (explanation). Included in de Piles’s reading list is “Les Metamorphoses d’Ovide traduites par du Rier” (in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 80). De Piles seems to refer h ­ ere to the deluxe edition of 1660, not to the smaller, less-­illustrated edition of 1666. Both editions ­were posthumous, Du Ryer having died in 1658. 3. For his 1660 edition, Du Ryer deleted the natal scene in the background of Matheus’s print and much of the right margin, but he left the rest intact. 4. The painting was destroyed in 1810, but not before Charles Percier traced it; see Sabatier, 1999, pp. 92–93, for a discussion. Bernard Palissy’s grotto in the gardens of the Tuileries of Catherine de Médici included a fountain with ceramic frogs and lizards spitting ­water (ca. 1567 ff); see Dufay et al., 1987, pp. 42–45. 5. See Weigert, 1950, pp. 193–95; for the Ashmolean’s tapestry, see his figure 8. The set exists in several variations. 6. See Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance, exh. cat., 2002, esp. p. 464. The set was likely designed by Jean Cousin I. The Lycean tapestry was destroyed by fire in 1997, shortly before Hartkamp-­Jonxis illustrated it (2009, p. 58, fig. 23). For the Dutch tradition, in paintings, tapestries, and prints, see ibid., pp. 53–60. 7. See Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 156–74. 8. Félibien used the expression twice to drive home the point (ibid., pp. 160, 168). 9. Ibid., p. 161. Disposition was a wide-­reaching concept. Félibien said at the beginning of his paraphrase that “il [Le Brun] parlera de la disposition en général, et de chaque figure en particulier. . . . ​

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Notes to Pages 36–38 Que la disposition en général contient trois choses qui sont aussi générales en elles-­mêmes, savoir la composition du lieu, la disposition des figures, et la couleur de l’air. Que la disposition des figures qui comprend le sujet doit être composée de parties, de groupes et de contrastes. Les parties partagent la vue, les groupes l’arrêtent et lient le sujet. Et pour le contraste, c’est lui qui donne le mouvement au sujet” (ibid., p. 159). Disposition was treated by Testelin in his ­Table on ordinance from 5 November 1678 (ibid., I (2), p. 679) and ­later in his book of 1693–94: “Quant à la disposition des figures, divers groupes détachés les uns des autres composaient de grandes parties si distinctes que la vue s’y peut promener sans peine, et pourtant si bien liés l’un à l’autre qu’ils s’unissent pour faire un beau tout ensemble. On remarqua particulièrement en chaque groupe un judicieux contraste et, nonobstant la diversité des mouvements, un concours admirable à l’expression du sujet” (ibid., p. 733). 10. Félibien (1668a), in ibid., I (1), p. 160. 11. Thuillier, 1967, p. 199 n. 31, won­ders if the dissenter was Jean-­Baptiste de Champaigne, nephew of Philippe de Champaigne. The editors of the Conférences, I (1), p. 171 n. 17, have nominated Philippe de Champaigne himself, a frequent rival of Le Brun in the debates. The episode is told in Exodus 16.4–15, and by Josephus, Antiquities, III, 1, 5–6. 12. Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 171–72. 13. Ibid., pp. 172–73. The quails did arrive ­earlier, Le Brun conceded, but this blessing was confined to one night and prob­ably failed to reach all ­those in extreme need. It is unlikely that all the Israelites w ­ ere aware of God’s promise of food; ­others, no doubt, ­were incredulous. 14. Ibid., pp. 173–74. See also Testelin’s ­Table on expression from 6 July 1675 (ibid., I (2), pp. 566–68), and his book of 1693–94 (ibid., pp. 715–16). It is pos­si­ble, from what Testelin said of “des amateurs qui contredirent ces maximes,” that Le Brun’s critic was not a practicing artist such as Jean-­Baptiste or Philippe de Champaigne but instead a collector or savant or member of the Pe­ tite Académie. 15. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., p. 52. Thuillier contends that the unidentified speaker who followed Le Brun to the podium was Félibien, their arguments having no differences (1967, p. 200). 16. Thuillier evaluates the extremes in this way: “A la limite, la représentation exacte du fait conduit à une évocation instantanée; elle tend—­qu’on nous pardonne ce terme anachronique—­à donner une vue ‘photographique’ de l’événement. Au contraire l’analyse psychologique mène à la synthèse artificielle des divers moments du récit” (Thuillier, 1967, p. 195). For a theory that they misread Poussin’s intentions, and for a new reading of the picture, see Dowley, 1998, pp. 329–48. 17. For Poussin’s letter of about 1637 to Stella, see Jouanny, 1911, pp. 4–5. I have borrowed Blunt’s translation (1967, I, p. 223) (italics mine). 18. Champaigne (1668), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 196–205. 19. See, for example, Thuillier, 1964, pp. 181–209; Olivier, 1979, pp. 377–88; Schnapper, 1990, pp. 27–36; and Posner, 1993, esp. pp. 584–90. 20. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., pp. 49–50. 21. See Lichtenstein, 2008, esp. pp. 16–54. 22. The high-­profile case was argued before the Parlement on 1 December 1667 by Nicolas de Lamoignon de Basville. Van Opstal was trying to collect payment for reliefs he carved in the late 1650s. His patron’s ­widow argued that no artisan could collect his fee if more than one year had elapsed ­a fter the work’s completion. Basville opened his plaidoyer with a bold rhetorical claim elevating the art of sculpture: “Messieurs, si la sculpture et tous les autres arts libéraux . . .” (Conférences, I (1), p. 209). In a clever inversion, he at one point referred to the “Académie royale des sculpteurs et des peintres” (p. 210)! As early as May 1661, the sculptor Jacques Buirette was at work on his morceau de réception, a relief representing the ­union of painting and sculpture. See P-­V, I, pp. 179, 184, 228; and, for an illustration, Souchal, 1977, I, p. 70, no. 2. 23. Jean Nocret, in a lecture from 6 April 1669, admired Raphael for the way in which he sliced the background of his La Belle Jardinière (La Vierge à l’Enfant et Saint Jean) (fig. 49) into horizontal strips and placed the figures on a terrace-­like stage in front (Conférences, I (1), p. 313). The figure

Notes to Pages 39–42 of Latona is similarly subdivided by the horizontal lines of the landscape. Since Le Nôtre had designed the ramps and terraces several years e­ arlier, it was for Le Brun a m ­ atter of adjusting the heights of his figures to the preexisting features. 24. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., p. 51. For ­these two essentials in opposiution, see the remarkable study by Posner, 1993, pp. 583–98. 25. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., pp. 53–54. 26. See Sahlins, 2017, for the current fascination with animals both exotic and natu­ral. Images of lizards and crocodiles ­were carved into the Grotto of Vaux-­le-­Vicomte in 1659. 27. De Piles addressed the idea of artistic liberty: “Il faut prendre garde que les licences des peintres soient plutôt pour orner l’histoire que pour la corrompre” (in Dufresnoy, 1668, pp. 85–86). 28. Le Brun, in my firm opinion, was among t­ hose at the Bâtiments du Roi who de­cided to raise the number of jets. It is entirely pos­si­ble that he was the instigator of the revision. See also Chapter 1. 29. Of the Manna, Félibien said that “on discerne Moïse entre tous les autres, tant par le lieu où il est placé, par sa mine, par ses vêtements, et par un air qui donne une idée de ce qu’on en a ouï dire, que par les actions de ceux qui sont autour de lui. Que si l’on veut varier son sujet par quelques actions particulières, il faut prendre garde que ces actions ne soient pas en trop g­ rand nombre ou trop basses, quoi qu’elles aient quelque rapport à l’histoire qu’on peint” (1668a), 1996 ed., p. 53. 30. Testelin (1693/94), in Conférences, II (2), p. 718. ­These words are again based on his ­Table on expression from 6 July 1675 (ibid., pp. 567–68). Testelin got his ideas on this issue from Bourdon’s lecture of December 1667, which Félibien summarized as follows: “Que M. Poussin était assez savant dans la disposition d’un ouvrage pour ne pas cacher les figures principales de son tableau parmi une plus grande quantité de personnes qu’il aurait representées, n’étant pas difficile à cet excellent homme de faire en sorte qu’il parût beaucoup de monde à la suite du Messie sans gâter son sujet, dont la multitude même doit faire partie aussi bien que dans celui de la Manne, qu’il a si dignement traité” (Conférences, I (1), p. 189). Already in November 1667, Le Brun had commended Poussin for organ­izing a large crowd in such a small space. Félibien paraphrased the idea: “Ce qui donne plus de jeu et de variété à la disposition entière de toutes les personnes qui composent son ouvrage. Et même cela lui a servi à faire voir une plus grande multitude de monde dans un petit espace et à poser avantageusement les figures de Moïse et d’Aaron qui sont comme les deux héros de son sujet” (ibid., p. 170). 31. Da Vinci, 1651 ed., p. 82. 32. Francastel, 1930, p. 41. 33. See L’Abane, exh. cat., 2000–2001, p. 51, no. 4, with bibliography. 34. CBR, I, col. 553; Brejon de Lavergnée, 1987, pp. 70, 332, no. 313; Vittet, 2004, pp. 59–60. The purchase is signaled in the ledgers for 16 March 1671. The tondo was squared off in 1709. 35. Brejon de Lavergnée, 1987, p. 70. 36. Berger, 1992, pp. 145–46, questions w ­ hether La Feuille kept his collection in Paris, and argues that the tondo was inaccessible in the king’s collection ­until 1671. Pierre Mignard certainly had access to it in 1680 when he painted the subject for the Galerie d’Apollon of Saint-­Cloud, and it seems to me that his decision to cast a single Lycean with a batrachian head, and to ­couple him with a concerned onlooker, à la Albani, points to an influence. The Mercure Galant for June 1680 reads: “Pour ne pas rendre le sujet hideux, le peintre ne montre qu’un des paysans changé. On ne voit de lui que sa tête de grenouille; mais ce qui passe pour l’expression la plus vigoureuse, c’est la surprise d’un autre, de voir son camarade métamorphosé” (pp. 157–60). Was Le Brun’s fountain, in Mignard’s eyes, “hideous,” or at least offensive, in that all six peasants are distorted? Was his painting a form of criticism? The artists’ long-­standing dislike of one another is amply documented. Mignard’s painting was destroyed with the rest of Saint-­Cloud, but the image is preserved in a Gobelins tapestry. 37. See Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 274, no. 66. It had been standing ­there since the 1590s.

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Notes to Pages 42–44 38. The drawing is preserved in the Uffizi, no. 14810. For the print, see Perrier, 1638, no. 87 (the direction of it varies from edition to edition). 39. Guillet said in his 1692 eulogy of Perrier that “une de ses plus grandes occupations à Rome [during his first trip] était de dessiner les statues antiques et les bas-­reliefs, comme il y aura occasion de le remarquer plus distinctement ci-­après” (Conférences, II (2), p. 470). De Piles seems to include the Segmenta in his list of invaluable books for an artist’s edification: “Les bas-­reliefs de Perrier, et autres, avec leur explication qui est au bas, et qui en donne toute l’intelligence” (in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 81). 40. Guillet (1692a), in Conférences, II (2), p. 477. 41. See Thuillier, 1993, pp. 9–28, for revisions in Perrier’s chronology. 42. Perrier engraved some of his own paintings, Guillet said, but “il y en a un bien plus g­ rand nombre d’après les meilleurs ouvrages de peinture et de sculpture qui se voient à Rome, et qu’il dessina sur les lieux. Entre les dernières, on remarque particulièrement cent des plus belles statues antiques, comme le Laocoön, le Faune, la Vénus, l’Antinous, le Gladiateur, l’Hercule et les autres plus remarquables” (Conférences, II (2), p. 477). 43. The Niobides was erected in the colonnade shortly ­a fter its discovery in 1583. For a complete set of photo­g raphs, together with a full discussion, see Colton, 1979, p. 116 ff. 44. He owes some of his h ­ andling of t­ hese gods to Matheus’s image (Renouard, 1619 ed., illus. p. 158); t­ here can be no doubt that Matheus was familiar with the Niobides in situ. Perrier was also grateful to Matheus’s depiction of the death of Cione, where a much older and more mature Diana wears a distinctive style of clothing and takes resolute aim at her target from close range (ibid., illus. p. 314). 45. Jonathan Richardson, the eighteenth-­century painter, connoisseur, and traveler, was dissatisfied with the arrangement: “The Figures are placed upon a vast Rock-­like Heap of Stone, about the bigness of an ordinary Room, and not Group’d at all; ­every one is detach’d from the other, but nevertheless by Three, of which t­ here is Five; they form a sort of a Square, three Figures on each Side, and three in the ­Middle, in all Fifteen, comprehending the Horse. This Injudicious way of setting them is very Offensive to the Eye at first View” (1754 ed., pp. 124–25, 354). 46. Félibien faulted Perrier for his inability to represent space coherently: “Il ignorait la perspective et l’architecture; ce qui cause beaucoup d’irrégularités dans le plan de ses figures” (1688, V, p. 46). 47. For attributions to Perrier, see Schleier, 1972, pp. 41–42, pls. 6, 7, where the latter work is called a Moses and the Brazen Serpent; and Thuillier, 1972, p. 312, pls. 6, 7. Schleier speculates that the canvasses are pendants and members of a larger series of Old Testament pictures now dispersed or lost. 48. For example, Poussin’s own scenes of the history of Moses: the Crossing of the Red Sea (Melbourne, National Gallery of Victoria); the Israelites Gathering the Manna (Louvre) (our fig. 42); the Striking the Rock (Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland); and the Adoration of the Golden Calf (London, National Gallery). See Blunt, 1966, pp. 17, no. 20; 18, no. 21; 19, no. 22; 22, no. 26 (respectively). 49. Attributed by Schleier, 1972, p. 41, pl. 5. The painter of this canvas seems to have been familiar with Matheus’s engraving from 1619 of the same subject. 50. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., p. 53. Testelin confronted the issue in his ­Table on ordinance on 5 November 1678, and again in his book from 1693–94 (Conférences 1 (2), pp. 677–79, 733). 51. In many editions of the Segmenta, the image is reversed on the sheet but the inscription remains in the proper direction. When, in such cases, the leftmost inch is folded u­ nder, the girl with her raised arm and lifted dress dis­appears, along with the word “Par.” Perrier’s inscription varies slightly from the words of Pliny (Natu­ral History, XXXVI, 28). 52. The sexes are cast in equal numbers in Niobe’s legend, and the same distribution is found in the fountains at Versailles. It is reasonable to assume that Le Brun visited the Niobides in Perrier’s com­pany during their three years of mutual residence in Rome.

Notes to Pages 44–48 53. Piganiol de la Force, writing l­ater, put his fin­ger on the core issue: “Le sculpteur a pris le moment que Latone semble se plaindre à Jupiter de la dureté des paysans de Lycie, qui l’avaient empêchée de prendre des rafraîchissements. Les paysans sont métamorphosés en grenouilles et jettent une grande quantité d’eau sur le groupe” (1701, pp. 162–63). 54. See Habert and Milovanovic, 2004, pp. 63–72; and Milovanovic, 2005, pp. 166–78. For a fine commentary, not only on the Tent of Darius but also on the Gathering of the Manna, see Burchard, 2016, pp. 93–104. 55. Félibien (1663), 1689 repr., pp. 32–33 (emphasis mine). 56. Quintus Curtius, The History of Alexander, 2 vols., trans. by John R. Rolfe, Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, Mass., 1946, I, p. 142. 57. Félibien (1663), 1689 repr., pp. 30–31. Betsy Rosasco, 1991, esp. pp. 8–15, has proposed that Apollo’s self-­control inside the Grotto of Tethys (fig. 7) is modeled in part on the temperance and tolerance of Alexander inside the tent of Darius, and that the ancient episode was aimed at moderating the impulses of the young and indulgent Louis XIV.

Chapter 5 1. See Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., p. 119. In March 1643, he secured permits to work in St. Peter’s and the Medici palace, and he gained admission to the Farnese palace. According to a letter of July 1643, the Palazzo Rospigliosi was accessible to him. He complained to Séguier that “il me serait inutile de demeurer davantage ici, joint que les trou­bles de ce pays ont apporté des difficultés si grandes pour l’entrée des palais, que l’on ne permet que de voir ce qui y est, mais non pas de le copier.” Even the Palazzo Farnese was off limits at a certain point, u­ ntil one of the Barberini intervened. Le Brun told Séguier that he had prepared “un recueil des plus rares antiquités, et fait amas de plusieurs desseins d’après Raphael” (ibid.), and that he wished to return home, a request denied. For his correspondence, see Jouin, 1889, pp. 45–46, 395 (doc. I), 396 (doc. II). For his sketchbook, several folios of which relate to our study, see Loire, 2000, pp. 73–102. For his fruitful years in Rome, see Gady, 2010, pp. 127–70. 2. He told Séguier in December 1644 that fees to enter the Roman palaces ­were prohibitively high, and in a follow-up from 1645 he asked for help in securing a licence to the Vatican. Again he pleaded to return home, “pour la difficulté qu’il y a à pre­sent d’entrer dans les palais où sont les belles ouvrages, mais aussi pour le danger où se trouvent ici maintenant les Français” (Jouin, 1889, p. 398, doc. V). 3. Pizzorusso, 1985, pp. 22–24, pinned down the date and intended destination of the work. It resides ­today at the foot of the main staircase of the palace. For Pieratti’s con­temporary fame, see ibid., pp. 25–29. 4. Ubaldini carved a Latona group for the Boboli gardens in the early 1620s, but sometime between 1635 and 1642 the work was transformed into an allegory of Charity and moved to the Grotto of Moses in the central court of the Palazzo Pitti (Pizzorusso, 1991). Pieratti knew the group first as a Latona and ­later as a Charity; for Le Brun it was always a Charity. My thanks to Claudio Pizzorusso for sending a copy of his speech (see Bibliography). 5. Berger, 1992, pp. 145–48. No graphic rec­ord of the group by a French artist is known to exist. 6. Pizzorusso, 1985, p. 23, points out that Pieratti’s hysterical drama has been confused at times with Medea and her c­ hildren. Latona’s head in profile resembles that of the so-­called ­Dying Alexander (Uffizi). Pieratti’s group, like Ubaldini’s, was ­later mistaken for a Charity. Le Brun understood Pieratti’s work as a repre­sen­ta­tion of Latona and her ­children. 7. Pieratti put a lyre in Apollo’s hand, but Diana is without an attribute. Ubaldini had given a lyre to his Apollo, but it vanished with the change in iconography; his Diana has no attribute. 8. Mignard (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 137. The words are from Félibien’s summary.

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Notes to Pages 48–50 9. Ibid., pp. 145–46. For Testelin’s 1693–94 review of the lecture, see ibid., I (2), p. 730. 10. Nocret (1669), in Conférences, I (1), p. 314. 11. Marsy’s love of Raphael is well-­documented. At his death in 1681 he owned copies of six Raphaels (AN, MC, CXII, 385a), for which see Hedin, 1983, pp. 233–35. For accessible paintings by Raphael and his followers, see Raphaël dans les collections françaises, exh. cat., 1983–84, pp. 56–63. 12. Félibien, 1677, I, p. 13, no. III. 13. The sources are, respectively: Perrier, 1638, pls. 81–83; Bosse, 1656, pls. 13–18; Félibien (1666), 1987 ed., p. 170; Le Brun (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 166; and Bourdon (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 183. Four mea­sured drawings of the figure w ­ ere published by Audran, 1683, pls. 15, 16. See Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 325, no. 88, for the afterlife of the statue. 14. Regnaudin (1676), in Conférences, I (2), p. 577. His source for Cleopatra’s earrings is Pliny, Natu­ral History, IX, 119–21. 15. Regnaudin lectured with a plaster cast that the king had given to the Académie in November 1671 (P-­V, I, p. 366.). In his lecture from1676, he said: “Vous savez, Messieurs, que la figure de Vénus du palais de Médicis à Rome est la plus belle des antiques que l’Eu­rope possède et que la magnificence de notre incomparable monarque a fait mouler et en a gratifié notre Académie dont elle est redevable à notre illustre protecteur” (Conférences, I (2), p. 577). One of his themes was that the statue had inspired so many worthy contemporaries, including Poussin (ibid., p. 579). 16. Monconys, 1665–66, II, p. 478. For the Celestial Venus, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 320, no. 85. 17. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. MR 385, now on deposit at the Musée des Beaux-­Arts, Orléans. For the unresolved history of the Torso, see Schloder, 1988, p. 173, no. 10; Gasparro, 2003, pp. 59–66; Schnapper, 2005 ed., pp. 139–40; and esp. Richelieu à Richelieu, exh. cat., 2011, pp. 188–90, no. 53. 18. In a letter of 12 September 1663 to his wife, La Fontaine wrote: “Et puisque nous sommes sur le chapître de Vénus, il y en a quatre de bon compte dans Richelieu, une entre autres divinement belle, et dont M. de Maucroix dit que le Poussin lui a fort parlé, jusqu’à la mettre au-­dessus de celle de Médicis” (1892 ed., IX, p. 263). Maucroix, who had been sent to Rome by Nicolas Fouquet, was acquainted with Poussin in the ­earlier 1660s. My belief that La Fontaine had the Richelieu Venus in mind is based on his cross-­reference to the Medici Venus, a common practice in French circles in the 1660s, as we ­will see shortly. 19. In fact the work had already been restored and equipped with appendages before 1633, so it is known from a drawing by Giovanni Angelo Cannini (illus. in Schloder, 1988, p. 262, no. 59, and in Richelieu à Richelieu, exh. cat., 2011, p. 188). 20. Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., pp. 176–77: “J’ai dit au Cavalier [Bernini] que nous avons en France une figure, laquelle est à Richelieu, qui est d’une beauté admirable; que c’est une Vénus dont le torse seulement est antique. Il m’a réparti aussitôt qu’il l’avait vue, avant qu’elle vînt en France, que l’on l’avait trouvée de ce temps-ci à Puzzolo; qu’elle était plus belle que la Vénus de Médicis.” On 25 September, Bernini told Chantelou that he had seen the marble on multiple occasions (ibid., p. 200). 21. Ibid., p. 203 (italics mine). Th ­ ere was no love lost between the Fréart and Perrault families. Paul Fréart de Chantelou was the b­ rother of Roland Fréart de Chambray. Chantelou acquired his cast of the Richelieu Torso during his years as a French envoy in Rome. 22. Ibid., pp. 217–18. Bernini had e­ arlier criticized this aspect of Michelangelo’s art on 25 June (ibid., p. 64). 23. “Sur cela j’ai fait apporter à M. Colbert le torse en plâtre de cette Vénus et lui ai dit que le marbre en était singulier et était estimé plus beau que la Vénus de Médicis” (ibid., pp. 220–21). Bernini’s departure for Rome on 20 October put an end to Chantelou’s dream of restoring the fragment. 24. See “Inventaire des ouvrages de sculpture et en plâtre appartenants à l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture” (ENSBA, Ms. 36, no. 1, a document from 13 November 1682).

Notes to Pages 50–53 25. P-­V, I, p. 293. A month ­later, in December 1665, Gaspard Marsy conducted life-­drawing classes at the Académie (ibid.). The duplication of Chantelou’s cast was delayed, and the minutes for the session of 8 January 1667 read: “A été aussi arrêté que Monsieur Lerambert exécutera au premier jour l’arrêté du . . . ​touchant le torse de Vénus, qui lui a été mis en main” (ibid., pp. 312–13). 26. See Richelieu à Richelieu, exh. cat., 2011, pp. 188–90, no. 53. 27. For Le Gros’s efforts, beginning at the end of 1685, see CBR, II, cols. 626, 993, 1179; III, cols. 98, 853, 855; IV, cols. 10, 64. Thomassin drew the finished figure in 1689 (1694, pl. 43). For Nicolas Bertin’s drawing of it, inscribed “Vénus sortant du bain par Le Gros d’après le Torse,” see BnF, Est., Fb 25, p. 4 (illustrated. in Marie, 1968, I, pl. LXXVIII). A drawing by Louis-­Claude Vassé, ­today in Berlin, is inscribed “Vénus sortant du bain par Le Gros d’après le torse qui est à Richelieu” (Berckenhagen, 1970, p. 274, no. 11). Two marginal notes, one from an inventory of 1694 (AN, Ol 1790, liasse 1, fol. 7), the other from a description of 1695 (Jourdain, 1695, pp. 21–22), indicate that Le Gros’s statue replaced an ancient Juno then standing on the southern side of the Allée Royale. That is where Piganiol saw it: “Vénus sortant du bain, sous la figure d’une femme qui soutient une draperie qui lui couvre la moitié du corps, e­ tc. Elle a été faite par Le Gros, d’après le torse qui est à Richelieu” (1701, p. 219). It now resides in the Pe­tite Ecurie. 28. For the prob­lem of the draped legs of Le Gros’s Venus, which closely resemble ­those represented in Cannini’s early drawing, again see Richelieu à Richelieu, exh. cat., 2011, p. 188. 29. See P-­V, II, p. 682, for the date of his lecture. It is more than likely that Van Opstal, who moved to Paris from Antwerp at the invitation of Cardinal Richelieu, was equally familiar with the ancient fragment. Bué-­A kar, 1975, p. 139, estimates on good evidence that Van Opstal settled in Paris at the end of 1642 or in 1643. The cardinal died on 4 December 1642. See also Basville (1668), in Conférences, I (1), p. 310; and Guillet (1692a), in ibid., II (2), p. 455. 30. See the manuscript by Caylus (1750), in Conférences, I (1), p. 207. For Van Opstal’s deep and abiding gratitude to the king for his patronage, see Basville (1668), in Conférences, I (1), p. 210. 31. Conférences, I (1), pp. 196–206, esp. pp. 201–2. 32. Félibien (1672), in 1689 repr., pp. 370–81. See nn. 84, 85, below, for partial translations. 33. ­There is no more eloquent defense of the value of studying the nude than Michel Anguier’s lecture from 2 August 1670 on the Laocoön, in Conférences, I (1), pp. 379–80. 34. It is highly likely that La Fontaine, who learned of Poussin’s high regard for the piece as early as 1663, visited the Marsy ­brothers in their studio while they tended to their fountain (Chapter 3). Gaspard met Bernini at least three times in 1665, twice while at work on the Grande Galerie of the Louvre, and once at a reception at the Académie. See Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., pp. 77–78, 95, 155–57; and P-­V, I, p. 290. 35. No doubt a reference to the 1651 edition of da Vinci’s treatise. Da Vinci returned repeatedly to the “membres” of the ­human body, but I have not found the word “membrification” in the book. Michel Anguier had membrification in mind when he said of the figure of Laocoön in August 1670 that he possessed “le bel assemblage des muscles qui se connaissent par toutes les parties de ce corps” (Conférences, I (1), p. 384). In the academic parlance of the day, the “chain” had two applications: (1) It referred to the disposition of the muscles and the parts of the body, each articulated in tight coordination—­that is, ordinance on a ­human scale; that was the way Gaspard viewed it; and (2) Testelin, in his ­Table on ordinance, applied the same meta­phor to “la proximité des figures que l’on peut nommer la chaîne, parce qu’elle tient les choses attachées l’une à l’autre et les attroupe” (2.1.2). It is preceded in the ­Table by a related meta­phor, “la conjonction des figures que l’on peut appeler le nœud, parce que c’est ce qui lie et assem­ble le groupe qui est aussi un mot dérivé de l’italien qui veut dire assemblage de plusieurs corps” (2.1.1) (Conférences, I, (2), pp. 677, 679). See also Magnien, 2006, p. 26. 36. Gaspard assumed that the Torso was carved by Herodotus, but l­ater readers of his lecture replaced each such reference to him with Apollonius (App. C). I ­will retain Gaspard’s original wording. For the Belvedere Torso, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 311, no. 80.

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Notes to Pages 53–56 37. Félibien said of Apelles that he surpassed his rivals in “la beauté et dans la grâce de ses figures” (1668a), 1996 ed., pp. 54–55. ­Here he drew on Pliny, Natu­ral History, XXXV, 79. 38. His turn of phrase, “ce fameux Laocoön,” suggests that Gaspard was referring to a cast or copy of Laocoön, alone, unaccompanied by his sons. 39. P-­V, I, p. 346. 40. Dempsey, 1988, pp. xxxvii–­l xv. Dempsey was working from Testelin’s paraphrase, which was based on Gaspard Marsy’s lecture on the Greek manners. 41. For Duquesnoy, see Boudon-­Machuel, 2005; and Lingo, 2007. 42. Félibien, 1688, V, pp. 277–86, says that Dufresnoy often read his text to his friends. 43. The Latin edition was published by Pierre Mignard to protect the integrity of his friend’s poem. See Allen, 1997, pp. 119–58. Dufresnoy died on 16 January 1668. 44. See Dufresnoy (1649), as publ. by Thuillier, 1965, pp. 193–209. 45. Ibid., pp. 202–3. 46. De Piles, in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 159. Helsdingen, 1970, pp. 109–14, has shown that Félibien borrowed freely from Dufresnoy’s Observations for his Des principes de l’architecture, de la sculpture, de la peinture (1676), always without acknowl­edgment. Another example of Félibien’s uncredited debt to Dufresnoy is located in the third chapter of his Des principes (pp. 390–91), where he repeats what Dufresnoy said of the Sicyonians, the Rhodians, and the Athenians, but he is ­silent on the Corinthians, who w ­ ere brought into the conversation by de Piles in his Sentimens (1668, p. 159). So reliant on the Observations was Félibien that he ignored the Sentimens altogether, and to that extent his book was out of date when it appeared in 1676. 47. Lines 97–102 of the Latin verse. The editors of 1668 differ widely in their orthography and punctuation. 48. De Piles, in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 12. 49. This begs the question: Why, if he owed such a sizable debt to Dufresnoy, did Gaspard fail to acknowledge him in his lecture of 1669? The answer seems to lie in the dynamics between Dufresnoy and Le Brun in the 1660s. A portrait of Dufresnoy by Le Brun goes some way t­ oward proving that the two w ­ ere on amicable terms a­ fter the former’s return to Paris in 1656 (see Thuillier, in Charles Le Brun, exh. cat., 1963, p. 19, no. 7). At some point, a rift developed, for mysterious reasons, but Dufresnoy’s anger with Le Brun for gathering too much power at the Académie only widened it. In 1663, Dufresnoy and Mignard snubbed Le Brun’s invitation to join the Académie on his terms (see Montaiglon, 1851–52, pp. 267–68). At no time, though, was Dufresnoy persona non grata in the ateliers of Paris or in the offices of the Bâtiments du Roi. Dufresnoy dedicated his De arte graphica to Colbert. Félibien wrote with both admiration and fondness of Dufresnoy, whom he had known since their years together in Italy in the late 1640s; while t­ here, Dufresnoy copied one of Titian’s Bacchanals for Félibien (1688, V, p. 281). De Piles admired Félibien’s book on the Tent of Darius (in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 83), which surely means that Dufresnoy shared his views. Michel Anguier was a friend of Dufresnoy and Mignard, but in duty to Colbert he joined the Académie in 1668 and proceeded to read fourteen lectures without once uttering ­either name. It was prudent to speak of Dufresnoy in whispers in the Académie, even a­ fter his death in 1668. In this light, Gaspard’s failure to credit Dufresnoy was less a m ­ atter of ingratitude than one of discretion and propriety. 50. According to de Piles’s Remarques (in Dufresnoy, 1668, p. 88), Dufresnoy was thinking of Michelangelo and “some other capable sculptors of that time” when he argued that a few exceptional artists of the modern era had come close to equaling the science and fa­cil­i­t y of the Greeks. 51. See Guillet (1689b), in Conférences, II (1), pp. 214–15; and La Moureyre, in Jacques Sarazin, exh. cat., 1992, pp. 14–21. 52. See La Moureyre, 2002, p. 94. D’Argenville, 1787, II, p. 169, said that François spent two years in Rome and that he had “intimes amis” in Poussin, Mignard, Dufresnoy, and Stella; about Stella, whose studies in Rome ended in 1634, he was mistaken. Bernini greeted François Anguier at

Notes to Pages 57–60 least twice in Paris in 1665, always in cordial, complimentary, and seemingly familiar terms. Michel Anguier sided with Bernini in his ­battles against a cabal of architects bent on sabotaging his mission to France, and no doubt François stood by his b­ rother. See Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., pp. 113 (August 10), 250 (October 11), 256 (October 13). Michel had worked ­under Bernini at St. Peter’s in 1648. 53. See Chantelou’s entry for 14 October 1665 (2001 ed., p. 301). For ­later compliments by Bernini, see pp. 315 (19 October) and 333 (30 November). Van Opstal managed to patch up his differences with Le Brun by July 1667, the month of his lecture on the Laocoön. Le Brun designed the frontispiece for Van Opstal’s plaidoyer of 1668 and collected a large number of his works. Van Opstal did impor­tant work at the Grotto of Tethys starting in 1666. Regnaudin, in his 1673 lecture on bas-­reliefs, twice praised Van Opstal (Conférences, I (2), pp. 527, 528). He was well-­represented in Girardon’s private gallery. 54. Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), p. 130. 55. Basville (1668), in Conférences, I (1), p. 210. See also Guillet (1692a), in Conférences, II (2), p. 455. 56. Caylus (1750), in Mémoires inédits sur la vie et les ouvrages des membres de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture, ed. L. Dussieux et al., Paris, 1854, I, p. 174 n. 1, a quotation from his manuscript life of Gérard Van Opstal. For evocations of Rubens and Duquesnoy in Van Opstal’s art, see Boudon-­Machuel, 2005, pp. 103–12. 57. Musée de Versailles, inv. no. 8930, a painting by Lucas Franchoys. The sculptor is holding the model of an ivory mug now preserved in the Louvre, illustrated in Bué-­A kar, 1975, p. 142, pl. 2. 58. Though Michel Anguier was not among the Marsy’s masters, ­there is a better than even chance that he employed them as stucateurs at the Appartement d’été in the Louvre in the second half of the 1650s (Hedin, 1983, pp. 25–31). One of Anguier’s motivations in joining the Académie in 1668 was to participate in the new round of theoretical lectures, which had begun the previous year. He paid tribute to Le Brun during his first lecture in November 1669 (Conférences, I (1), p. 336). He did not join Mignard and Dufresnoy in their rejection of Le Brun’s invitation to join the Académie in 1663 (n. 49, above). 59. Anguier (1670), in Conférences, I (1), p. 384. Anguier lectured in the presence of his own model of the Laocoön. For his conversation with Poussin on the study of nature, see ibid., I (2), pp. 636, 638, and that with Duquesnoy on bas-­reliefs, I (1), p. 426. 60. Ibid., I (1), pp. 323–39. 61. Gaspard owned “deux pe­tites figures de plâtre appellées Adonis de François Flamand, prisées ensemble trente livres” at the time of his death (AN, MC, CXII, 385A). It is highly unlikely that t­ hese figurines ­were by the master’s own hand. 62. ­There is, as far as I know, no evidence that Gaspard Marsy was ever tied professionally to ­either Dufresnoy or Mignard, though his lecture of 1669 proves that he kept abreast of their theoretical views. 63. Passeri (1679), 1934 ed., p. 112; trans. by Dempsey, 1988, p. xl. Despite his pledge, Passeri failed to write a life of Poussin. 64. Boselli (ca. 1657–61), 1978 ed., fol. 10v; trans. by Dempsey, 1988, p. li (italics mine). On Boselli, see also Fortunati, 2014, with bibliography. Mignard, a friend of Boselli’s, tried valiantly to convince Louis Fouquet (­brother of Nicolas) to bring the sculptor to France in 1655. See Lépinois, 1862, pp. 292–95; and Dent Weil, in Boselli, 1978 ed. pp. xiv–­x vii, 25. No doubt Boselli was acquainted with both Anguier and Dufresnoy. He was an impor­tant agent in the transmission of Duquesnoy’s ideas to France. 65. Boselli (ca. 1657–61), 1978 ed., fol. 11r; trans. by Dempsey, 1988, pp. li–­lii (italics mine). 66. See Thuillier, 1957, pp. 353–91. 67. See Bottari and Ticozzi, 1822, vi, pp. 135–36; trans. by Dempsey, 1988, p. xlv. It was undoubtedly for this lifelike illusion that Louis XIV expressed an interest in buying the Meleager for

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Notes to Pages 60–65 his collection in 1665 (Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., pp. 137, 220). For the Meleager, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 263, no. 60. 68. See n. 22, above. Bernini was polishing the face of his bust of Louis XIV when his conversation with Chantelou turned to the Richelieu Torso and then to the relative hardness of Michelangelo’s figures. To Bernini, then, Michelangelo was unable to impart to his figures the illusion of flesh-­like softness of the Richelieu Torso and, by extension, his own Louis XIV. 69. Boselli (ca. 1657–61), 1978 ed., fols. 3r–3v; trans. Dempsey, l988, p. li. Boselli included a small sampling of ancient Roman sculptures in his inventory, as well as a few modern paintings, but most of his case studies are statues that ­were thought in his day to be Greek. 70. See Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 162–66. 71. Ibid., p. 162. 72. Ibid., pp. 316–22. 73. Ibid., pp. 335 (Anguier), 376 (Bourdon). 74. Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., p. 375. 75. His ­Tables are illustrated in Conférences, I (2), pp. 562, 567, 668, 672, 677, 682 (respectively). 76. The edition of 1693–94 was published in The Hague and reissued in Paris in 1696. 77. As remembered by Testelin in 1693–94 (Conférences, I (1), pp. 319–21; I (2), pp. 713–15). ­Here was his attempt to distinguish the property of contour from that of proportion: “L’on représenta que toutes les différences remarquées dans les proportions se doivent aussi observer à l’égard des contours, puisque c’est par leur moyen que l’on peut former leur diversité” (ibid., I (2), p. 713). 78. Ibid., I (2), pp. 713–14. 79. Ibid., I (1), p. 320; I (2), p. 714. 80. Ibid., I (2), p. 714. 81. Ibid. 82. Félibien (1674), in 1689 repr., pp. 300–301. 83. In the same vein, though slightly l­ater, ­there was Charles Perrault’s Labyrinthe de Ver­ ere the “festival books” of 1664, 1668, sailles of 1677. Apart from the “feature books,” t­ here w and 1674. 84. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., pp. 375–77 (my italics). The translation is taken from Berger, 2016, pp. 116–17. 85. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., pp. 377–78. Berger, 2016, p. 117, for the translation. 86. Charles Errard, director of the Académie de France à Rome during Girardon’s visit ­there, told Colbert by letter in April 1669: “Je lui [Girardon] ai conseillé de remarquer, dans ces fragments antiques, que le tout et les parties sont grandes et ­simples, et que ces beaux esprits ont fuit la confusion des choses pe­tites et tristes, tant dans leurs ouvrages d’architecture que de sculpture, ce qui leur donne la grandeur, netteté et harmonie, avec la résistance aux injures du temps, et qui diminue beaucoup de la dépense, ces g­ rands génies n’ayant mis les ornaments que dans les lieux propres à les recevoir, ne s’étant servis de cette délicatesse que pour faire paraître leurs ouvrages plus ­g rands et magnifiques” (CDAFR, I, p. 19, doc. 35). Girardon was back in Paris by May 1669, six months before Gaspard delivered his lecture. It is tempting to add Girardon’s name to Gaspard’s list of the “plus habiles sculpteurs de notre siècle” who contributed to his development. 87. The Soleil couchant (fig. 7) has fared far better, thanks in part to vari­ous forms of shelter in the gardens ­until 2008, at which time it was brought indoors. 88. See nn. 64, 65, above. See also the remarks by Van Opstal (n. 54) and Anguier (n. 59) on the Laocoön. 89. Jourdain, 1695, fols. 84–86. For Jourdain, see Chapters 3, n. 22, and 6, n. 31. The first appreciation of the group by a practicing artist was written by Jean-­Baptiste Poultier, a leading sculptor of the next generation. For his application of the new criteria, see Chapter 3, n. 17. 90. See, for example, the synopsis by Félibien of Van Opstal’s lecture on the Laocoön in 1667, in Conférences, I (1), pp. 130–31.

Notes to Pages 65–68 91. As for an ancient pre­ce­dent, Félibien observed that the hair of the Versailles Diana (fig. 60) is “ramassés, et noués d’une bandelette, font une coiffure négligée, et découvrent un beau front” (1677, I, p. 13, no. I). 92. See Chapter 4, n. 23, for related observations by Nocret in 1669 on Raphael’s La Belle Jardinière (fig. 49). 93. ­Here are La Fontaine’s lines introducing Girardon’s nymphs inside the Grotto (fig. 7): “Toutes sont des Vénus, de qui l’air gracieux / N’entre point dans son cœur, et s’arrête à ses yeux” (1892 ed., p. 37). Listed in Gaspard’s inventaire après décès, 1681, are plaster casts of the Borghese Gladiator, the Wrestlers, and o­ thers of Bacchus, Apollo, and Diana. No subject was represented more than once, with the lone exception of Venus: “Item vingt modèles de Vénus de plâtre monté sur l’antique, prisé six livres” (AN, MC., CXII, 385a). See Hedin, 1983, pp. 232–33; and Souchal, 1987, III, pp. 69–70. 94. Schnapper postulates that Le Gros had the Celestial Venus in mind when he raised the arm of his restored figure above her head (2005 ed., p. 140). Another descendant of the Richelieu Torso is Le Gros’s ­Water, a member of the Grande Commande of 1674. Le Brun, who designed the suite of statues, turned in most cases to Baudouin’s edition of the Ripa’s Iconologie (1644) for his attributes. Interestingly, Baudouin’s ­recipe for the aquatic ele­ment does not include a dolphin (II, p. 4, along with Jacques de Bie’s woodcut, sans dolphin), yet the figure at Versailles is joined by one. The Venusian tradition provided Le Gros with the proportions and contours in addition to the attribute. Félibien said in 1677 that statues of Venus emerging from the sea are almost always accompanied by dolphins, to reference her birthplace (I, p. 13, no. III). For Regnaudin, a year ­earlier, “l’antique n’a pas manqué de mettre au pied de Vénus un dauphin et des petits enfants dessus, pour faire voir qu’elle a pris son origine de la mer et qu’elle est mère de la génération” (Conférences, I (2), p. 578). For Le Gros’s marble statue, see Souchal, 1981, II, p. 254, no. 22. 95. For Poussin’s reply, in a letter of 24 November 1647, see Jouanny, 1911, pp. 370–75. 96. See Montagu, 1992, pp. 233–48. 97. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., p. 53. 98. Dempsey, 1995, p. 11. 99. See Colontuono, 1989, for the distinction between the putto antico and the putto moderno types. The former is associated with the Ancients and Raphael, the latter with Titian, Duquesnoy, and Poussin. 100. In their maturity, which allows them to perform their natu­ral actions, they belong to the putto antico type. The putto moderno is an infant who performs in the ways of older c­ hildren. See Colontuono, 1989, for the differing “affective powers” of the two types. 101. Montagu, 1994b, pp. 9–30. 102. Lichtenstein and Michel, in their Conférences, I (1), pp. 233–38, reconstruct the first lecture from two sources: the introduction that Félibien wrote for his own Conférences of 1668; and the text of Testelin’s Sentiments of 1693–94, in ibid., I (2), pp. 715–26. For the second lecture, see Conférences, I (1), pp. 260–83. 103. Huret, 1670, p. 103: “et particulièrement aux extrêmes des mauvaises, comme le désespoir et la rage, lesquelles aussi on ne doit jamais représenter sur les tableaux, e­ tc., puisque cela ne peut qu’offenser la santé des regardants.” See Helsdingen, 1978–79, pp. 127–30; and Montagu, 1994b, pp. 78–79. 104. Félibien (1663), in 1689 repr., pp. 35–36, from Pliny, Natu­ral History, XXXIV, 77. 105. See, respectively, Le Brun (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 115; Champagne (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 124; and Mignard (1667), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 145–47. 106. It is his mortal nature that separates Laocoön from, on the one hand, the Hercules of the ­ abors, and, on the Farnese Hercules, who is unique in temperament and has performed his painful L other, the Apollo of the Belvedere Apollo, whose grace, majesty, and beauty are divine. Laocoön is neither as muscular as the former nor as slight as the latter. The statue fits him and him alone, the

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Notes to Pages 69–72 admirable mortal who was Laocoön. It was agreed that variations in bodily cast, especially t­ hose in proportions and contours, are brought about by differences in character. 107. Conférences, I (1), p. 133. 108. Bourdon (1667), in ibid., pp. 193–95. 109. I investigate the passion of “terror” in greater detail in my discussion of the two Lycean girls (figs. 36, 38) in Chapter 6. Shielding the eyes and retreating from the source of the terror are among the most outward signs of the passion. Both actions are taken by Apollo. 110. Latona’s fin­gers are disproportionately too long for her hands and the rest of her body. My sense is that Marsy was highlighting their expressive power, in par­tic­u­lar to viewers at long distances. 111. Mignard (1667), according to Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), p. 140. 112. Le Brun (1667), in ibid., pp. 169–70. 113. Bourdon (1667), in ibid., p. 183. 114. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., pp. 374–75. 115. Testelin, writing in the early 1690s, recapped some fifty years of academic practice in France: “Quand à la manière de drapper les figures, tout ce qui en fut dit se réduisit à deux ou trois observations, l’une de suivre le mode ou costume et, à l’exemple des auteurs des antiques, modeler les figures nues soit de terre ou de cire, et poser dessus les draperies pour en étudier les plis suivant l’idée qu’on en aura projeté. Pour la manière des étoffes, soit brocart ou broderie, dont quelques peintres modernes ont affecté de revêtir des anges pour exprimer leurs différents degrés de charges et d’honneur dans le Ciel, l’Académie en a désapprouvé l’usage, et fit observer en second lieu la qualité des figures pour leur approprier des vêtements convenables à l’expression des sujets; et enfin à l’égard des figures allégoriques où l’on n’est point assujetti à aucune mode, qu’il suffit d’ajuster les draperies d’une manière agréable pour cacher les parties déshonnêtes ou déplaisantes à la vue et conserver soigneusement ce qui marque la proportion, évitant de traverser l’étendue par des petits ­ ese plis enfoncés que l’on doit ranger à l’endroit des jointures” (Conférences, I (2), pp. 699–700). Th ideas are consistent with Duquesnoy’s belief that drapery must be both historically accurate and anatomically expressive, as well as with his advice to students to avoid an excess of chiaroscuro, which only tends to conceal the body or create rich but superficial effects. See Dempsey, 1988, pp. lii–­liii; and Lingo, 2002, p. 76 ff (with references to Boselli’s treatise). 116. Félibien, 1677, I, p. 13, no. 1. We are reminded that a none-­too-­subtle suite of erotic statuary, the Pe­tite Commande, had already been introduced to the gardens in 1664–66. It was rumored in 1677 that the Medici Venus would be moved from Rome to Florence b­ ecause young ­people from foreign countries w ­ ere continually touching the marble and d­ oing other untoward ­things to it. See Boyer, 1932, pp. 211–12. 117. See Conférences, I (1), p. 133. 118. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., p. 381. To Alexandre Maral, for his confirmation that the nymphs are each cut from a solid block, my gratitude (private communication). A receiving basin in Girardon’s Pyramid was an unpre­ce­dented twelve feet in dia­meter and thought to have been cut from a single piece of marble (Mercure Galant, Nov. 1686, pt. II, pp. 201–3). 119. Blondel, 1756, IV, p. 107 n. x. For this episode, see Chapter 7, n. 8. 120. Conférences, I (2), p. 622. 121. Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., p. 53 (my italics). See also the Marquis de Seignelay’s report from 1671  in GBA 18 (1865): 364. For the ancient group, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, pp. 165–67. 122. Pliny, Natu­ral History, XXXVI, 37. 123. CBR, I, col. 277. 124. My gratitude to Cyril Pasquier for his thoughts on the origins of the marble (private communication). 125. Since the Marsy b­ rother had already blocked out their Horses of Apollo in 1667 (fig. 6, right), the five pieces of marble that arrived at their studio in 1668 w ­ ere destined for another proj­ect, quite

Notes to Pages 72–76 possibly Latona. It was not unusual for payments to wagoners and other laborers to be delayed. Diana was carved from a separate block. 126. In this endeavor, he was thrust into direct competition with Girardon. See n. 118, above. 127. Cyril Pasquier informs me that the break in Latona’s right arm is cited in a 1707 inventory (private communication). The break occurs along the upper edge of Latona’s bracelet, and several cracks in the marble run in unbroken lines through the bracelet and into her shoulder (front and back) (figs. 23, 24).

Chapter 6 1. Félibien (1668a), 1996 ed., pp. 53–54. For the quotation, see Chapter 4, n. 25. 2. Félibien (1668a), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 113, 120. Among his divine properties, Le Brun added, Raphael’s archangel possesses the contours of the Belvedere Apollo (fig. 61) (ibid., p. 114). For Le Brun’s many debts to this painting, see Montagu, 1958, pp. 91–96. 3. P-­V, I, p. 319. 4. Testelin (1693–94), in Conférences, I (2), p. 715. Testelin addressed the issue of proportions for the first time on 2 October 1678, the day in which he presented his ­Table on that subject (P-­V, II, p. 138), but nowhere in his chart is Raphael’s painting cited by name (Conférences, I (2), p. 668). 5. Testelin (1693–94), in Conférences, I (2), p. 728 (my italics). Testelin presented his ­Table on ­ ere too the Saint Michael and the Dev­il goes ordinance on 5 November 1678 (P-­V, II, p. 139), but h unmentioned (Conférences, I (2), p. 677). The editors of the Conférences speculate that some of Testelin’s remarks are embellishments (ibid., I (1), p. 111). 6. Testelin (1693–94), in Conférences, I (2), p. 728–30. Among the “preceding discourses” to which he refers ­were ­those by Buyster (May 1670) and Regnaudin (February 1677), both of which focused on the contrapposti of the Borghese Gladiator. 7. Testelin, in Conférences, I (1), p. 319; I (2), p. 706. 8. Félibien, 1677, I, p. 17, no. XIV. For Félibien, the proportions of fauns and country folk are more akin to t­ hose of “des hommes rustiques et champêtres, que non pas de celles des héros.” Some of his report was based on Michel Anguier’s lecture from 1676 on the repre­sen­ta­tion of the deities according to their temperaments. Anguier’s tenth, and last, specimen was Faun, the son of Pie, the king of the Latins. Since Faun’s paternity was ­human, the Ancients thought of him as rough and earthy. For teaching his ­people to cultivate the earth for survival, he was revered as the god of peasants. The ancient masters gave to him “l’air des plus grossiers, chargé d’une chair grasse et humide, à demi couché pour faire connaître que sa divinité ne provient que des choses terrestres” (Conférences, I (2), pp. 593–605, esp. p. 605). For Anguier’s emphasis on “the critical role of humoral physiology in expressing character through corporal form, based on a study of the ancients,” see the studies by Dabbs, 1999, 2002, and 2014. For the ancient statues of Faun in the royal collection, see Versailles et l’Antique, exh. cat., 2012, p. 38. 9. For the quotation, drawn from Testelin’s ­Table on proportions, see Conférences, I (2), p. 668. Some of his material is a reworking of Anguier’s lecture on the divine temperaments. For the statue, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 205, no. 34. 10. “La figure communément appelée le petit faune n’a en sa partie d’en haut que quatre mesures de face, le bas étant de même proportion que les autres figures, ses contours sont nommés, ondoyants, grossiers, et incertains” (Conférences, I (1), p. 318). 11. Testelin (1693–94), in ibid., I (2), pp. 713–14. Testelin said that Raphael studied the Belvedere Apollo and the Faun while working on his Saint Michael and the Dev­il: “Toutes ces observations furent démontrées et autorisées par l’exemple de cet admirable tableau de Raphael, ou l’on remarqua de deux sortes ce contours. La première, en celle de la figure de l’ange qui paraît comme d’un jeune héros, dont les contours sont d’une manière noble et coulante; les muscles n’y sont

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Notes to Pages 76–79 apparents que pour faire connaître la beauté de la forme corporelle, car encore que son action semble être de vouloir frapper un g­ rand coup, c’est sans donner aucune marque d’émotion, paraissant dans une parfaite tranquillité, ce qui a beaucoup de rapport à la figure antique de l’Apollon. La seconde, plus grossière, que ce g­ rand peintre a judicieusement appliquée à la figure monstrueuse du démon, dont les contours paraissent plus incertains, les muscles plus gonflés et ondoyants, semblables à la figure antique appelée le petit Faune” (ibid., p. 705). 12. La Fontaine: “De gens durs et grossiers font de vils animaux” (Chapter 3, n. 40). Testelin argued that “pour des sujets s­ imples et des gens grossiers,” unruly anatomies are required (Conférences, II (2), p. 714). 13. See Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 221, no. 43. 14. For Marsy’s collection of copies, see AN, MC, CXIIa; Hedin, 1983, pp. 232–33; and Souchal, 1987, III, pp. 69–70. 15. Musée du Louvre, inv. no. 5661. 16. Buyster (1670), in Conférences, I (1), p. 369. For Guillet’s claim that Buyster was one of the early masters of the Marsy in Paris, see ibid., II (1), p. 197; and Hedin, 1983, p. 18. 17. Buyster, addressing his audience, spoke of “la figure du Gladiateur qui est une des plus belles qui soit entre les antiques, soit en proportion, soit en attitude comme l’on peult voir.” ­Later he mentioned “les muscles et les bons contours qui sont marqués dans la figure que vous voyez, et qui passe pour une merveille de l’art, comme l’on peut remarquer dans le visage” (Conférences, I (1), p. 369) (my italics in both instances). For the academic practice of posing the model on a revolving t­ able, see Guérin, 1715, pp. 257–60. 18. In February 1670, the académiciens ordered their secrétaire to preserve the manuscripts of the lectures (P-­V, I, p. 347). Buyster lectured on the Gladiator three months ­later. 19. Regnaudin (1677), in Conférences, I (2), pp. 619–20. In 1693–94, Testelin reviewed the speech, adding a few nuances in the pro­cess (ibid., p. 710) 20. Ibid., in Conférences, I (2), pp. 617–19. Testelin, writing in 1693–94, recapped the ­earlier debates at the Académie on the issue of proportions (ibid., p. 710). L ­ ater, he again grouped the Gladiator, the Laocoön, and the Antinous in his list of “hommes mortels” (ibid., p. 714). In his lecture from 5 January 1674 on an ancient Bacchus, Regnaudin drew a distinction between mortal and immortal types (ibid., p. 538). 21. Van Opstal (1667), in ibid., I (1), pp. 131–32. One expert who ruminated over the mortal nature of the Gladiator was Félibien, in 1672: ­There is in Girardon’s Apollo (fig. 7), he wrote, a grandeur and majesty befitting the god of light, and it is only suitable that his body is less material than ­those of “hommes ordinaires,” such as the Farnese Hercules, the Gladiator, and the Wrestlers: “On ne voit point dans cette statue comme dans celle d’Hercule, ou même dans celle du Gladiateur, et des Lutteurs qui sont à Rome, ces parties fortes et robustes, qui ne sont belles qu’à cause qu’elles sont utiles, et qu’elles marquent plus de vigueur” (1689 repr., p. 372). 22. The first wife comes close to violating this princi­ple (fig. 29). Her neck is twisted on her shoulders and her head is thrown back, resulting in her upturned face. In fact, her contortions are not unlike t­ hose of the Devil in Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il (fig. 69), a figure much admired by Le Brun in his lecture in May 1667 (n. 2, above). ­ ere is Renouard’s take on it in 1619: “L’une en vain fuit 23. Metamorphoses, 1660 ed., p. 252. H la mort, qui l’arrête en fuyant, et la jette par terre: l’autre embrassant le corps d’un de ses frères pauvrette sent la parque qui l’embrasse: l’une se cache, l’autre attend le coup en tremblant” (1619 ed., p. 163). Sipylus was shot in the neck as he attempted to escape on ­horse­back. Similar acts of desperation by the Lyceans w ­ ere ­imagined by Renouard, who said they tried to hide in the w ­ ater (p. 166), and by Du Ryer, who observed that only their heads poked out (p. 257). Matheus took up the idea in his illustration (fig. 40). 24. Drawings of the “­Running Niobides” are included in the Recueil des plus rares antiquités that Le Brun presented to Séguier upon his return to Paris. See Loire, 2000, p. 86, fols. 10, 11.

Notes to Pages 79–84 25. Matheus restaged the ­children so that they rush in unison to the left; one ­brother, a sword at his side, closely resembles the Lycean girls in his swivelling pose (Renouard 1619 ed., p. 158; DuRyer 1660 ed., p. 247, in reverse). His images appear in the early French editions of the Metamorphoses. 26. See the summary of Bourdon’s lecture by Félibien, in Conférences, I (1), pp. 187–88. The discussion ­here is remarkably Le Brun-­like. 27. Ibid., p. 193. 28. Ibid., p. 183. 29. “Leurs malheurs sur leurs yeux artistement s’exprime[nt] / elles semblent pleurer pour expier leurs crimes / regardant tristement, par l’arrest du destin, / Latone et ses enfans, au milieu du bassin.” See Denis (ca. 1674–75), 1969 ed., vol. 37, p. 56; and Berger, 2008, p. 476. 30. “Et jettant dedans l’air, des eaux au lieu de pleurs, / de leur métamorphose, exposent leurs douleurs” (Denis (ca. 1674–75), 1969 ed., vol. 37, p. 56). 31. Josephson, 1955, pp. 258–61, assumed that the author was “C.-­G. Jourdain,” an inspector in the gardens of Versailles. However, the “servante” in the manuscript’s title is undeniably a ­woman. Where did Dame Jourdain acquire her intimate knowledge of the gardens? Is she the wife of the “Jourdan” who is credited in the royal ledgers as early as 1683 with undisclosed work at Versailles? Jourdan was “employé au petit parc” from 1686 onward as “inspecteur” (CBR, II, cols. 484, 947, 949, 1267, 1269; III, cols. 190, 357, 491, 636, 786, 917, l059, 1152, 1192; IV, col. 122). In 1695, he was twice paid for his per­for­mance as “inspecteur dans le jardin de Versailles, pour le dernier quar­tier 1694 et le premier 1695” (III, col. 1192)—­a six-­month span that includes 3 January 1695, the manuscript’s date. Jourdan’s health took a downward turn, and early in 1697 a pension was sent “en considération des longs ser­vices qu’il lui a rendu en cette qualité et qu’il n’est plus en état de continuer à cause de son infirmité” (IV, cols. 139, 202, 287); the third entry specifies that a part of this sum would be sent to his ­widow. Jourdan died in the winter of 1696–97. His w ­ idow received an annual pension through 1715 at least. The dedicatee of her manuscript was Marie-­Anne de Bourbon (the d­ aughter of Louis XIV and Louise de La Vallière), who became Princesee de Conti douairière when her husband, Louis Armand de Bourbon, Prince de Conti, died in 1685. It is clear from the dedication that Dame Jourdain was well-­received at court. See also Chapters 3, n. 22, and 5, n. 89. 32. Jourdain, 1695, fol. 84. 33. Le Brun (1668), in Conférences, I (1) p. 266 (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 127) (Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 550, no. 1974). 34. See Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 566, no. 2017. It is one of Le Brun’s mixed passions, the movement of which “slopes down [from the brain] ­towards the heart represent[ing] all the wildest and cruellest passions” (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 128). 35. Le Brun (1668), in Conférences, I (1), p. 279 (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, pp. 138–39) (Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 568, no. 2024, for Le Brun’s diagram). 36. See Conférences, I (1), p. 279, for Le Brun’s Anger (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 138) (Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 566, no. 2019, and, for a second, less pertinent form of Anger, no. 2018). For Le Brun’s Rage, see Conférences, I (1), pp. 279–80 (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 139) (Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 569, no. 2027). 37. See Conférences, I (1), p. 281 (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, pp. 139–40). 38. Trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 140. 39. Félibien (1663), 1689 repr., p. 46, said that since “la coutume de ces peuples était de quitter leurs habits, et de déchirer leurs vêtements, lors qu’ils se trouvaient dans le deuil et dans l’affliction. Et comme ces gens-­là étaient dans une profonde tristesse, non seulement pour la captivité où ils se voyaient, mais encore par la pensée qu’ils avaient que Darius étoit mort; il ne faut pas s’étonner si cet eunuque paraît ressentir plus particulièrement le coup d’une si mauvaise fortune, puis que les eunuques étant des officiers considérables chez les Rois de Perse, ils participaient plus que personne à la disgrâce de Darius.” 40. Le Brun (1668), in Conférences, I (1), pp. 271–74 (trans. by Montagu, 1994b, p. 134) (Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 564, no. 2013 for Horror, no. 2015 for Terror).

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Notes to Pages 84–89 41. The original head of the girl in the southern basin is now in storage, replaced in the late nineteenth ­century by a copy or cast. Photo­g raphs of it ­were published by Brière, 1906, II, pl. 12, no. 4; and by Francastel, 1930, pl. XXXII, no. 69 (with authorship and provenance). 42. See Conférences, I (1), p. 280. Montagu, 1994b, p. 139, for the translation. 43. See Hedin, 2016, pp. 329–33. 44. Félibien (1668a), pp. 200–201. 45. Euripides, Iphigenia in Aulis, 1547–50. 46. Cicero (Orator, XII, 74); Quintilian (Instututio oratoria, II, xiii, 6); Pliny (Natu­ral History, XXXV, 73–74); Valerius Maximus (Factorum et dictorum memorabilium libri novem, VIII, xi, 6). 47. For example, Chambray (1662), 2005 ed., pp. 224–25, and the verse by Loménie de Brienne (1662), in Charles Le Brun: 1619–1690, exh. cat., 1963, p. 59, no. 23. 48. Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., pp.  202–3. See Montagu, 1994a, pp.  310–12; Montagu, 1994b, p. 39. 49. See Dowley, 1968, pp. 469–70. 50. Charles Perrault put it this way: “Et ce Dragon d’où sort une montagne d’eau, a quelque chose de terrible qui ne vous plaît pas moins” (1688), 1964 repr., pp. 248–49. Perrault not only faced the inner b­ attle, he confessed to it. See Chapter 7, n. 45, for further discussion. 51. Mignard (1667), in Conférences, I (1), p. 145. 52. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., p. 379.

Chapter 7 1. In August 1664, during construction, it was called “[le] pavillon du réservoir d’eau du château” (BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 127, fol. 2; publ. by Nolhac, 1901, p. 210 n. 5; and l­ ater by Lange, 1961, p. 145). 2. See Petit’s memo of 17 July 1665 (Mélanges Colbert 130 bis, fol. 793; publ. by Lange, 1961, p. 145). Lange states that the rocailles ­were transported from Paris to Versailles in June 1665 (pp. 141, 148). See also CBR, I, cols. 79, 85. 3. Perrault (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., pp. 207–8. 4. See Berger, 2016, pp. 94–100. Berger points out that the word is capitalized in Félibien’s first edition but not in the reprint of 1689. He translates the word as “The One.” 5. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., p. 342. For the translations, with a few minor variations, I am indebted to Berger. For his ­brother Pierre, who inherited the ­family property in Viry in 1657, Charles oversaw the construction of a ­house as well as “la rocaille d’une grotte, qui était le plus bel ornement de cette maison de campagne” (see his Mémoires (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., pp. 124–25). It was Charles’s conduct of the Viry proj­ect that inspired Colbert to hire him as his commis at the Bâtiments du Roi in 1663. For Viry, see Petzet, 2000, p. 506. 6. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., p 359. Berger, 2016, p. 96, notes the cryptic nature of the ending of this passage. 7. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., p. 386. 8. Blondel, 1756, IV, p. 107 n. x. 9. Claude’s colossi seem to reside in the tradition of Italian grottos. W ­ ere they fluvial deities, on a scale rivaling, say, the Marforio in Rome? Even in defeat his colossi had at least one sculptural heir, the river god who reclined in the tympanum of the ­middle niche, above the Soleil couchant (fig. 6), for which see Weber, 1985, p. 103. He was fashioned by Van Opstal in 1666. Félibien described him in 1672 (1689 repr., p. 365) as a nude old man, an assemblage of tiny white moulettes, much the same fabric that covered the tritons and sirens, in relief, inside. His beard consisted of black shells, and on his black hair he wore a yellow crown and coral branches. He was, in fact, closer in function and make-up to the colossi than to the Soleil couchant.

Notes to Pages 89–93 10. This is not to limit the number of projets to two. It is not inconceivable that one or more ­others, unknown to us t­ oday, ­were considered. 11. Blondel, 1756, IV, p. 107 n. x. 12. Perrault (ca. 1700), 1993 ed., pp. 207–9. The italics are mine. The Grotto of Tethys was demolished in 1684, freeing space for the northern wing of the château (Appendix B). 13. Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., p. 418. He also attributed the design of Tuby’s Soleil levant to Le Brun (p. 420). 14. Namely, the Dragon, Apollo, and Latona fountains. Lange, 1961, p. 144, followed by most ­later writers, contends that Poussin’s Finding of Moses (1647, Louvre), which entered the royal collection in 1665, was a decisive influence on Le Brun. 15. Hedin, 1983, p. 52. 16. The original ledgers state that Girardon and Regnaudin ­were paid 400 livres “à compte des ouvrages de sculpture qu’ils ont faits à la Grotte de Versailles” (BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 313, fol. 58r; CBR, I, 133), and that the Marsy ­brothers earned 500 livres, “ à compte d’une figure de marbre qu’ils font représentant la déesse Latone” (AN, Ol 2129, fol. 66v; CBR, I, col. 252). Tuby earned 500 livres, “à compte de l’ornement de fontaine qu’il fait pour la grande pièce d’eau [the Bassin des Cygnes]” (AN, Ol 2129, fol. 66v; CBR, I, col. 253). 17. As well as their ­labors on the Siren and Dragon fountains. It is an impor­tant truth that, like Latona, neither the Siren nor the Dragon is cited by name in the CBR in 1666, though t­ here is no question that both ­were underway in that year. 18. La Fontaine (1669), 1892 ed., p. 123. 19. The Bassin des Cygnes was first called the “canal.” Itemized by Jolly in the second half of 1666 is a pipe that fed “le g­ rand jet d’eau qui se doit faire au Cannal aux Cygnes” (AN, O1 1762, cahier 7, no. 5). Jolly spent the next two years increasing the ­water supply to the basin. A long section of his 1667 inventory is titled “grande conduite du cannal des Cygnes” (AN, O1 1762A, cahier 8, nos. 115, 117, 119, 121, 123, 126, 147, 149). For related work in 1668, see cahier 9, fols. 1r, 4r (three times), 4v, 5r, 7r–7v, 7v (unnumbered entries). Félibien said in 1668 that the basin featured “une infinité de jets d’eau, qui réunis ensemble, font une gerbe d’une hauteur et d’une grosseur extraordinaire” (1689 repr., pp. 207–8). In 1669, Scudéry admired “la vue de ces ­grands parterres, de tous ces jets d’eau qu’on voit de tous les côtés, de cette gerbe d’eau prodigieuse qui est au canal des Cygnes” (2002 ed., pp. 84–85). That same year, Jolly cast some 165 feet of pipe “pour la communication des deux grosses conduites ainsi que le Roy a demandé pour faire jouer le gros jet du bassin des Cygnes, en attendant que le g­ rand réservoir de glaise fut racommodé” (AN, O1 1762A, cahier 10, fol. 3v, unnumbered entry). Charles Perrault referred in a memo from 26 November 1669 to a valve at one of the new reservoirs “qui fait jouer la gerbe du bassin des Cygnes,” supplying, en route, a basin in one of the Deux Bosquets (AN, O1 1854, liasse 1, no. 4). 20. See Hedin, 2017, pp. 4–8. 21. My italics. For their models, see Maral, 2015, p. 80. 22. By my chronology, when Le Nôtre escorted Bernini to the Fer-­à-­Cheval on 13 September  1665, no part of the triptych had yet been conceived, including the Soleil couchant for the Grotto. For the Italian’s visit to Versailles, see Chantelou (1665), 2001 ed., pp. 178–80. 23. Lange, 1961, p. 140. Maral, 2015, p. 79, seems to concur: “La grotte de Téthys fut certes construite et ornée avant les bassins de Latona et d’Apollon, mais l’hypothèse peut être formulée d’une sorte de schéma directeur prédéfini et mis en œuvre par étapes: un dispositif général d’écriture des jardins, en quelque sorte le miroir d’un monde parcouru par le Soleil bienfaisant de Louis XIV.” 24. Weber, 1985, pp. 100–106. He acknowledges the appealing prospect of a “true core,” then goes on to question it in the light of his discovery. 25. AN, O11595, no. 115. See Weber, 1985, pp. 105–6. 26. Weber, 1985, p. 106 (and ca. 1666–68, p. 273). Ann Friedman, in her article on the history of the Parterre d’Eau, favored a wider margin, ca. 1665–68 (1988, p. 8). For Maral, the memo was written “avant 1668” (2015, p. 78).

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Notes to Pages 93–97 27. Some of Perrault’s ideas, of obvious appeal for fountains, resurface in Le Brun’s Recueil de divers desseins de fontaines et de frises maritimes. See Weber, 1985, p. 106; and Maral, 2015, pp. 78–79. 28. This is no trivial omission by Perrault. At some point soon ­a fter Perrault wrote his memo, Le Brun surveyed the landscape from the second landing of the Fer-­à-­Cheval and envisioned the presence of the younger Lyceans, thus linking the iconography of all three basins. 29. A pipe had been embedded in the ground at that spot as early as 17 July 1664, so Le Nôtre told Colbert in a memo (BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 122, fol. 579; publ. by Marie, 1947, pp. 23– 24). The pipe slumbered ­there ­until Jolly linked it to the reservoir above the Grotto of Tethys at the beginning of 1665. For the exacting details of their connection, see App. A. 30. See App. A, n. 4. The w ­ ater was sent from one to the other by way of an “aqueduc,” a high-­ volume vessel. 31. I agree with Weber, 1985, p. 106, that the “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” was written ­after the idea ­ ere of the Soleil couchant had been approved. However, by my chronology, the memo and the plan w separated by a rather short period of time. 32. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 312, fol. 62r (CBR, I, col. 77). For La Haye, see Hedin, 2012, p. 182. 33. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 8, no. 146. Clearly, La Haye’s activity postdates the writing of the Fer-­à-­Cheval memo by Charles Perrault. The round basin appears for the last time in a projet from the early 1670s for the first Parterre d’Eau by a member of Le Brun’s studio. See Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 679, no. 2366. 34. The central jet was suppressed in 1670 to open the way for the Latona group. 35. In taking the incremental approach to the decorations of the axis, I go against my e­ arlier assumption to the contrary (Hedin, 1983). The revelations of Jolly’s hydraulic inventories led me to the reversal. 36. Berger suggested to me that one of Jolly’s effets appears atop the conical or pyramidal scaffolding in Patel’s bird’s-­eye view of 1668 (fig. 12, right) (private communication). 37. The destination of Mazeline’s figure is a mystery. The swan inhabited all three basins along the axis, one a­ fter the other, in 1667. For the southern axis, see Hedin, 2012. 38. Weber, speculating, considers the allegorical potential of Charles’s cast, particularly that of Athena (1985, p. 106). 39. For the northern axis, see Hedin, 2017. The gardens evolved in proportion to the supply of ­water. Plans from the second half of the 1660s show the outlines of what ­will become the Pavillon d’Eau to the east of Allée d’Eau and the Berceau d’Eau to the west; the Théâtre d’Eau to the west of the Berceau d’Eau; and the Etoile (Montagne d’Eau) to the west of the Théâtre (figs. 10, 11). ­Water was the defining as well as the naming agent in each. 40. Perrault, “Le Labyrinthe de Versailles,” in Recueil, 1675, pp. 234–35. For the translations, see Berger, 1985a, p. 31. The Labyrinth, a bosquet in the southern gardens, was packed with more than three dozen fountains representing the lessons of Aesop. The figuration of the bosquet began in 1671–72. See Maisonnier and Maral, 2013. 41. Félibien (1668b), 1689 repr., pp. 200–201. 42. Perrault (1688), 1964 repr., I, p. 163. 43. John Locke noted in 1677 that the jet at the Bosquet de la Renommée was said to reach 70 feet, but that “the highest and bigest of all the jet d’eaux is that in the Fountain of Dragons [sic]” (1953 ed., pp. 164, 178). 44. Perrault (1688), 1964 repr., I, pp. 162–63. 45. Perrault (1692), in ibid., III, p. 296. 46. Perrault (1688), in ibid., I, p. 248. See Chapter 6, n. 50, above. 47. “Quand le Soleil est las, et qu’il a fait sa tâche, / Il descend chez Téthys, et prend quelque relâche. / C’est ainsi que Louis s’en va se délasser / D’un soin que tous les jours il faut recommencer. / Si j’étois plus savant en l’art de bien écrire, / Je peindrois ce monarque étendant son empire: / Il

Notes to Pages 97–99 lanceroit la foudre; on verroit à ses pieds / Des peuples abattus, d’autres humiliés. / Je laisse ces sujets aux maîtres du Parnasse; / Et pendant que Louis, peint en dieu de la Thrace, / Fera bruire en leurs vers tout le sacré vallon, / Je le célébrerai sous le nom d’Apollon.” See La Fontaine (1669), 1892 ed., p. 36. Even by conservative estimates, the War of Devolution (1667–68) postdates the birth of the conceit by a year or more. La Fontaine does not have a po­liti­cal dimension in mind. 48. “C’est la que le Heros las du travail im­mense / Qu’exige des ­grands Rois l’employ de leur puissance, / Ayant porté ses soins sur la terre & les flots, / Ira gouster en paix les charmes du repos; / Afin qu’y reprenant une vigueur nouvelle, / Il retourne aussi-­tost où son peuple l’appelle. / Ainsi lorsque mon char de la mer approchant, / Roule d’un pas plus viste aux portes du Couchant, / Après que j’ay versé dans tous les coins du monde / Les rayons bienfaisans de ma clarté feconde, / J’entre pour ranimer mes feux presqu’amortis / Dans l’humide sejour des grottes de Thetis, / D’où sortant au matin couronné de lumiere, / Je reprens dans les Cieux ma course coustumiere.” See Perrault, “La Peinture,” in Recueil, 1675, pp. 199–200. It was written in praise of Le Brun, Colbert, and Louis XIV. 49. [Silvandre]: “Allons, Bergers, entrons dans cet heureux sejour [the Grotto of Tethys], / Tout y paroît charmant, Louis est de retour; / Il sort des bras de la Victoire, / Et vient rassembler, à leur tour, / Les plaisirs égarez dans ces bois d’elentour.” / [Coridon]: “Il se plaît en ces lieux à perdre la memoire / De la grandeur qui brille dans sa cour: / Cessons de parler de sa gloire, / Il n’est permis icy de parler que d’amour).” Silvandre and Corodon (in duet) and then the chorus proceed to echo the concluding couplet. See L’ églogue de Versailles (1668), in Recueil général des opéras représentés par l’Académie royale de musique, 1703, III, pp. 81–82. It was performed in an ephemeral outdoor theater modeled ­a fter the Grotto of Tethys. 50. Félibien (1672), 1689 repr., pp. 386–87. 51. In one, an oil painting from 1650 or 1651 (National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin) for the Hôtel de Nouveau, Apollo prepares to depart chez Tethys at daybreak, his h ­ orses waiting impatiently in the sky; it was preceded by a drawing (Musée des Beaux-­A rts, Rouen). The other, a ceiling painting in the Hôtel de La Rivière from 1653 (­today the Musée Carnavalet), shows Apollo rising at dawn, the Hours preparing him and his h ­ orses for their day’s work. See Gady, 2010, pp. 305–6, and Berger, 2016, pp. 97–98, both with bibliography. 52. Poultier, 1718, pp. 64–65. For his letter in context, see Chapter 3, n. 23. 53. See the summary by Friedman, 1983, pp. 66–136; the quotation is hers. The most useful guide to Apollo was Natale Conti’s Mythologie des Dieux of 1627 (repr. ed., pp. 322–46). His chapter on Apollo bulges with arcane wisdom dating back to the Ancients. He leads a parade of authors, to each of whom he attributes a unique knowledge of the genealogy, history, and powers of Apollo. 54. Charles Perrault said it concisely: It is Louis XIV “qui fait fleurir toutes les choses dans son royaume et particulièrement les beaux Arts, qu’il protège et dont il n’est pas moins le père que le Soleil l’est de toutes les fleurs” (1690, p. 30). It is Apollo “qui donne le génie et le feu de l’invention,” while Mercury is “le père de l’industrie” and Minerva reigns over “la justice et la dextérité de la main” (p. 4). 55. Félibien’s report on a con­temporary painting of Parnassus by Nicolas Mignard on the ceiling of the cabinet in the Tuileries applies equally to the proposed mountain of inspiration for Versailles : “Ces trois Muses [Poetry, Painting, M ­ usic] représentent cet accord, et ce concert de tous les g­ rands hommes qui paraissent aujourd’hui dans les sciences et dans les arts, lesquels unanimement célébrent les vertus de Sa Majesté, et travaillent à rendre sa gloire immortelle” (1688, V, pp. 235–36). 56. In my view, Charles Perrault alludes to Latona in one of his many discussions of ancient vs. modern art: “Dans celui de la sculpture on n’y voit point l’Apollon, la Vénus ou l’Hercule, mais les figures de la grotte de Versailles et quelques autres de ce même palais” (1690, p. 3).

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Notes to Pages 101–104

Epilogue 1. Perrault, “Le Labyrinthe de Versailles,” in Recueil, 1675, pp. 234–37. I owe the translation to Berger, 1985a, pp. 31–32. 2. Ms. 442. A pen scratch in the upper part of the drawing, the fault of a curator or reader at some point in the past, has been erased in our Figure 80. For the Recueil, see, especially, Bouchenot-­ Déchin, 2018, pp. 179–90. 3. Le Brun omitted Clio’s trumpet, but his image is other­wise faithful to Ripa’s r­ ecipe in the Iconologie of 1644 (II, p. 73). 4. Ms. 442, fol. 144, lines 3–4. It is published in his Recueil, 1675, p. 219. 5. See Ripa, II, pp. 179 (Planimetry), 192 (Iconography). Iconography is identified by name but no instructions on how to represent her are given. Jacques de Bie (II, p. 191) portrays a heavi­ly clad ­woman holding three short instruments of mea­sure in one hand and a yardstick in the other; an architectural plan stands upright ­behind the stick.

Appendix A 1. CBR, I, col. 252. The “3p” refers to the three payments issued between 13 May 1668 and 3 December 1668, which Guiffrey combined; they totaled 2,000 livres. In the original ledgers for 13 May 1668, the entry reads: “auxdits Marsy à compte d’une figure de marbre qu’ils font représentant la déesse Latone . . . ​500 livres” (AN, Ol 2129, fol. 66v). We return to this payment in n. 27, below. 2. The letter, dated 17 July 1664, was publ. by Marie, 1947, pp. 23–24. The pipe was wrapped in a waterproof cloth and embedded in the cement under­neath the basin. 3. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 2, nos. 17–26 (January–­February 1665). 4. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 6, nos. 32, 35 (March–­June 1666). A marginal note to no. 32 refers to “l’aqueduc qui est entre le bassin du ­g rand parterre et celui de l’ovale.” 5. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 6, unnumbered entries, fol. 4v. In the hydraulic papers, the round basins that receive the discharge from the oval basin are called the “bassins de glaise.” The recipients of the discharge from the “bassins de glaise” are the “bassins de plomb,” that is, the basins of the Deux Bosquets; ­those lower basins are cited ­here for the first time. 6. Ibid. The memo, dated 28 August 1667, bears the heading: “Preuves de la tromperie de sieur Jolly dans les fournitures de plomb et soudure qu’il a faites à Versailles et à Vincennes depuis et compris 1664 jusqu’au 6 avril 1667.” 7. Perrault concluded that Jolly had overpriced his materials by some 50,000 livres. He was dismissed in 1669 and replaced by Claude II Denis. Back in Paris, Jolly proposed and succeeded in building a new pump at the Pont Notre-­Dame. 8. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 140, fol. 441; published by Nolhac, 1901, p. 214 n. 8. Jolly referred in his June–­December 1666 inventory to the pipe “qui passe au travers de l’ovale pour faire jouer les six jets d’eau d’autour du jet du milieu,” confirming Petit’s claim (AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, no. 46). 9. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, no. 50. It is written in the margin that each toise of pipe is valued at 240 livres, bringing the total to 32,400 livres! In this instance, “couronnes” is a hydraulic term. 10. Ibid., no. 71. No. 65 again refers to a ring of twenty jets (cf. no. 73, for the “tiges,” or branches of pipes). Alexandre Bontemps, premier valet de chambre du roi, witnessed a demonstration of the twenty jets of the oval basin at the end of 1666: “M. Bontemps a vu l’état de toutes choses, dont il pourra informer Monseigneur [Colbert], tant de la Grotte que des orgues, qu’il a entendus resonner, et des jets d’eau au pourtour du bassin du nouveau parterre [the Parterre de Latone].” See the memo of 9 December 1666 from Petit to Colbert, published by Nolhac, 1901, p. 215 n. 8. 11. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, no. 8.

Notes to Pages 105–107 12. Ibid., nos. 69, 71. ­These twin bodies of ­water are called the “bassins de glaise” to distinguish them from the two round “bassins de plomb” that lie in the woods, further to the west (the Deux Bosquets). An auxiliary supply of ­water was sent to the “bassins de glaise” (nos. 8, 11, 13). Also itemized are the pipes that convey the discharges from the oval basin, the “bassins de glaise,” and the “bassins de plomb” (nos. 17, 19, 26, 28, 30, 48). 13. AN, O1 1854, liasse 1, no. 4. The document, titled “Mémoire des fontaines de Versailles,” is unsigned, but it is written in Perrault’s unmistakable hand. It was discussed by Barbet, 1907, pp. 42– 43, and published in full by Friedman, 1983, pp. 358–61; see Friedman, 1988, p. 26, doc. 10a. It is a thumbnail sketch of the hydraulic system near the end of 1669. The contents of it are confirmed by Jolly’s inventories. 14. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 7, unnumbered entry, fol. 11r. 15. Petit signed off on the June–­December 1666 inventory on 4 February 1667, but the audit by Perrault took place in August 1667. 16. It is noteworthy that Perrault was forced to squeeze his notation into a narrow space separating the entries. Th ­ ere are several emendations of this kind by Perrault in the inventory of June–­ December 1666. 17. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 313, fol. 59r. 18. On 13 January  1667, the Marsy b­ rothers signed a receipt “en déduction des ouvrages de sculpture de fonte qu’ils ont faits et font pour les fontaines du château de Versailles” (italics mine). Such an early date in 1667 implies the completion of at least some work in 1666. See Robert, 1876, p. 46, no. CVI. 19. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 313, fol. 60r. 20. Ibid., fol. 60v (twice); Mélanges Colbert 315, fols. 84r, 84v (twice), 86r. On three occasions the payments are in the names of both ­brothers; on three ­others, in Gaspard’s only. 21. Jacques Bailly, the miniaturist, was paid on 25 May 1667 “à compte des figures qu’il bronze et autres ornements qu’il fait aux fontaines” (Mélanges Colbert 315, fol. 84v). By July, Bailly had completed some of his work, and, in October 1667, he received his parfait paiement for “des ouvrages de bronzure qu’il a faits à Versailles” (ibid., fols. 84v, 85r, 85v). 22. AN, O1 1762A, cahier 8, no. 141. 23. Ibid., no. 142. A l­ ater entry deals with the pipes that feed “les vingt-­quatre tortues et lézards qui sont au dessous de l’ovale” (ibid., no. 152). 24. Félibien said nothing of the adult Lyceans, who ­were still absent. Jean Le Pautre’s inclusion of the adult Lyceans during the pyrotechnics of 18 July 1668 is anachronistic (fig. 17); his deceptive print is signed and dated 1679 (Chapter 3). 25. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 315, fol. 87r: “auxdits Marsy pour leur parfait paiement de la somme de 9100 livres à laquelle reviennent les ouvrages d’ornem[ent]s des fontaines de Versailles.” 26. Ibid.: “audit Marsy à compte des ouvrages de sculpture qu’il fait pour les ornements des fontaines.” 27. AN, O1 2129, fol. 66v. The same entry, published by Guiffrey in combination with two other entries, is a corruption: “A Gaspard Marsy, à compte d’une figure de Latone de marbre blanc qu’il fait pour une fontaine de Versailles (3 p.)” (CBR, I, col. 252). 28. AN, O1 2129, fols. 77v, 78r. In the first, both b­ rothers are said to be working on the figure of Latona; in the second, Gaspard alone is credited. ­ istake to be heading for the Grotto of 29. AN, O1 2130, fols. 59v, where the figure is said by m Tethys (60r, 60v, 61r, 61v). It is said in the first of t­ hese payments that Gaspard was alone at work on the figure of Latona; both ­brothers are listed in the final four payments. 30. CBR, I, col. 333. ­ istake, the scribe wrote 1674 instead 31. AN, O1 2131, fols. 75r, 75v, 76r, 84r, where, by m of 1670.

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Notes to Pages 107–111 32. Bailly was paid for “bronzing” the w ­ hales at the Apollo fountain and “les paysans et grenouilles de celle de Latone” (CBR, I, col. 509, a payment from 18 October 1671). He may have regilded the small frogs bordering the oval basin (n. 21, above). 33. See Barbet, 1907, p. 39 ff ; and Friedman, 1988, p. 10 ff. 34. CBR, I, col. 1160. It is likely that Gaspard called on Anselme Flamen, his then-­partner, to assist him in 1679. Their assignment has all the indications of restoration work. See Hedin, 1981, pp. 105–8. 35. CBR, I, cols. 1185, 1314 (and col. 1186, a likely related entry).

Appendix B 1. The fountain was fully intact in the late summer of 1686. See Maral, 2012b, pp. 96–97. 2. CBR, II, col. 1098. The king’s order was issued at the end of 1686, and the work went forward in 1687 (cf. ibid., cols. 1099, 1104, 1121, for related developments). The last report on the original state of the fountain is found in the Mercure Galant, Nov. 1686, pt. II, pp. 208–9. 3. CBR, II, col. 1116; III, col. 526. Payments to artists and laborers w ­ ere often delayed in t­ hese years ­because of the economic pressures of the War of the League of Augsburg. 4. Ibid., II, col. 1276; III, col. 23. 5. See Tessin, 2002, p. 188; and Hedin and Sandgren, 2006, p. 100. 6. CBR, III, cols. 106, 242, 292, 293; IV, cols. 29, 65. 7. AN, O1 1790, liasse 1, fols. 26–27, nos. 335–37. In the margin alongside the reference to the fourteen frogs in the second tier it is written: “des 14, il en manque six.” 8. Ibid., no. 338. For the two Massous, see Souchal, 1987, III, pp. 77–92. The elder Massou is cited in the next entry of the inventory for his ­labors at the Labyrinth; the confusion is likely attributable to the proximity of the two entries. 9. AN, O1 1968, liasse 5. The inventories correspond only if the six missing frogs in the second tier are duly accounted for (n. 7 above). 10. See Hedin, 1997. 11. See Lablaude et al., 2015. The book is filled with splendid photo­g raphs, of the Lyceans in par­tic­u­lar.

Appendix C 1. See P-­V, I, pp. 106, 122–23, 124–25, 129, 130, 133, 134. 2. Ibid., pp. 159, 160, 162, 169. 3. Ibid., pp. 343–44. He had been called on to conduct life-­class on two occasions during the nine-­year interval between his professorships, the first in December 1665, the second in October 1666 (ibid., pp. 293, 307). For Gaspard’s on-­again, off-­again c­ areer at the Académie, see Hedin, 1983, pp. 33–34, 236–40. 4. Evidently, the cast at Gaspard’s disposal lacked the Greek inscription. For the sculpture, see Haskell and Penny, 1981, p. 311, no. 80. 5. ENSBA, Ms. 137. 6. Hedin, 1983, pp. 238–39. 7. Conférences, I (1), pp. 340–43. 8. This is a reference by Gaspard to Michel Anguier’s lecture of 9 November 1669 on the Farnese Hercules (ibid., pp. 323–39). See our Chapter 5 for the intersection of their ideas. 9. ­These first two paragraphs are written on a separate sheet of paper preserved in ENSBA, Ms. 137.

Notes to Pages 111–118 10. This is another reference by Gaspard to Anguier’s lecture of the previous month. 11. This passage is written in the pre­sent tense, but the editors of the Conférences (I (1), p. 343 n. a) state that it is part of a ­later correction of Gaspard’s text. In a certain ­later correction, Guillet said that Gaspard was himself guilty of grouping Giovanni da Bologna, Franqueville, Pilon, and Delaune. Henri Testelin assumed the same. 12. ENSBA, Ms. 170. It was published by Hedin, 1983, p. 239, and again in Conférences, I (2), pp. 606–7. 13. Ibid., II (1), p. 202. The second lecture was in fact delivered in September 1676. 14. Henri Testelin said the same in a note that he appended to Gaspard’s autograph text (ENSBA, Ms. 137). 15. Republished in Conférences, I (2), pp. 667–71. 16. Ibid., p. 711. 17. P-­V, III, p. 166. 18. Regnaudin and Girardon, both of whom had traveled to Rome twenty-­five years ­earlier, ­were in attendance during the rereading of Gaspard’s lecture on 2 July 1695. The former, a devoted student of antiquities, may have been the source of this information. 19. Girardon and Regnaudin again come to mind. 20. ENSBA, Ms. 137. “Ms. 123” is written at the top of Caylus’s extract.

Appendix D 1. Whitman, 1969, pp. 286–301. The thesis, vis-­à-­vis the Dragon, goes back at least as far as L.-­A . Barbet’s Les grandes eaux de Versailles: “Déjà en 1668 [sic], les artistes avaient les commandes des principaux groupes dessinés par Le Brun [sic]. Leurs sujets sont principalement tirés de la fable d’Apollon. Le Roi a conservé dans son coeur le souvenir des guerres civiles dont fut témoin son enfance: Apollon, terrassant le serpent Python, est pour lui le symbole qui figure l’écrasement de l’émeute. Le bassin du Dragon, où le serpent est représenté percé de flèches, est l’un des premiers créés. Dans la suite la flatterie aime à revenir sur cette image et compare le roi vainqueur à Apollon, au Dieu soleil” (1907, p. 275). Michail Alpatov, who seems to have been unfamiliar with Barbet’s book, applied the thesis to the Latona fountain in 1935; his essay, only one sentence of which deals with the issue, was translated from Rus­sian to German in 1974 (pp. 260–61). 2. Sabatier, 1999, pp. 72–99; Sabatier, 2016, pp. 298–306. 3. Hedin, 2001, pp. 675–78. Unfortunately, the doubts that I expressed in my article of 2001 ­were not included in the French version of 2004. 4. It is no surprise that Whitman downplays the value of Scudéry’s book, which is filled with insights that refuse to support his thesis. She repeatedly calls attention to Versailles as a place of plea­ sure and joyous festivals, without a tinge of didactic purpose. 5. He dismissed Charles Perrault’s sequence of events along the axis (Chapter 7). 6. He expands: “If on one level the fountain of Latona announces the punishment that ­will befall ­those who rise up against the divinely appointed ruler and thereby seek to disrupt the cosmic order, on the level of the par­tic­u­lar event in which the general princi­ple is revealed, the allusion is to the war of the Fronde.” The fountain “is only comprehensible in terms of the sociopo­liti­cal premises of the age of absolutism and is in fact intended as an almost threatening affirmation of the princi­ ple of divine-­right monarchy.” 7. Whitman refers to paintings by Tintoretto, Annibale Carracci, Guibo Reni, and Francesco Albani (fig. 44); Albani’s might have played a role in the choice of subject at Versailles, he concedes, even if it has nothing in common compositionally with the fountain. As for pre­ce­dents in France, he cites the illustrations in editions of Ovid and a tapestry designed by Toussaint Dubreuil. Other pre­ce­dents, such as the sculptures by Domenico Pieratti (fig. 48) and Agostino Ubaldini in Italy

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Notes to Pages 118–129 and the painting by Ambroise Dubois in France, have come to light since Whitman published his essay in 1969, but they need not be brought to bear on the argument; already by 1969 the known pre­ce­dents ­were plentiful. See Pigler, 1974, II, pp. 153–55, for a lengthy list. 8. Mercure Galant, Sept. 1680, pt. 2, pp. 309–11. Nivelon based his account of the vignette on the Mercure (2004 ed., p. 470). Sabatier noticed that the passage in the Mercure refers in the plural to civil wars and secret rebellions (1999, p. 86). Whitman dilutes his own thesis by speculating that Latona “could have an additional, more immediate reference,” such as the War of Devolution of 1667–68 (1969, p. 300 n. 34); that idea is untenable if Latona was already well ­under way at an ­earlier date. 9. Th ­ ere is no evidence that the courtiers stood in grim and ­silent contemplation of the Dragon on the night of 18 July 1668. To be sure, ­there was the normal expectation of etiquette in the royal presence. 10. Italics mine. No one has promoted the “po­liti­cal” Dragon more zealously than Guillou, 1967, pp. 51–54; he stresses, and in my view seriously misinterprets, the fountain’s northern location. 11. Hedin, 1983, pp. 39–40, 52–53. It was my discovery of the Pe­tite Commande that led me to take a fresh look at Whitman’s argument. 12. See, for example, Bottineau, 1988, p. 120, who notes that the accounts in guidebooks say nothing of the events of 1648–53. 13. Or, if not at face value, at least with some credibility. Betsy Rosasco sees in Latona an enigma, a “deliberately polyvalent mythological image” (1989, p. 146). As such, Alpatov (n. 1, above) and Whitman are just two players of the game who proposed the “correct solution”; in their case, the victory of Anne d’Autriche over the frondeurs of Paris. Accordingly, Sieur Combes’s solution to the enigma of Latona is “merely one of a multitude of pos­si­ble answers.” For the dubious value of Combes on this issue, see Hedin, 2014–15, pp. 85, 129–32, as well as Chapter 3, n. 47 and Appendix F, n. 22 of this book. 14. For Pommier, “sur le parcours glorieux de Soleil de l’aube au couchant, les rayons qui répandent la vie; peuvent aussi frapper à mort les sujets révoltés ou les adversaires prétentieux” (1986, p. 201). In the war that broke out in 1672, the Dutch sided not with the French, their neighbors, but with the Spanish. Casting the Dutch as frogs, “animal démocratique,” which depend on the Sun for their low livelihoods, was a standard insult.

Appendix F 1. Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., pp. 279–80. 2. I am excluding a series of bronze vases, documented for the first time in June 1665, and thus, in my view, preceding the conception of Latona and the Soleil levant. ­There ­were twenty-­six vases in all, but only thirteen models, each being cast twice. Claude Ballin seems to have designed twelve, François Anguier one. Six of the vases w ­ ere engraved by Le Pautre in 1672–73. Scudéry saw them sitting on the borders of the moats and terraces in 1669 (2002 ed., p. 85). ­Today, fourteen vases sit in a row on the parapet outside the northern facade, and a row of twelve complementary vases sits on the southern side. See Souchal, 1981, II, p. 233, no. 16; 1987, III, pp. 6, no. 15, 330, no. 7. See also Pénet, 2016, pp. 203–4. 3. See Hedin, 2017, pp. 4–8. 4. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 315, fol. 85r. 5. Ibid., fols. 85v (October), 86r (December). 6. Ibid., fol. 86v. 7. BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 315, fol. 86v (March); AN, O12129, fols. 66v (April), 77v (August). He had also received 1000 livres in December 1668 for unspecified “ouvrages de sculpture qu’il a faite à Versailles” (AN, O12129, fol. 78r).

Notes to Pages 129–133 8. AN, O12130, fol. 59v; O1 2131, fol. 76r (respectively). 9. Between September 1664 and March 1665, the sculptor Thibaut Poissant carved eight stone terms, each twelve feet tall, for the gardens, receiving a total of 2,900 livres for his efforts. This breaks down to about 360 livres per term (BnF, Mss., Mélanges Colbert 311, fols. 144r, 145r, 145v, 154r). At this approximate pay scale, Houzeau was paid for about eigh­teen terms altogether. 10. The terms that stood along the trees on the western side of the Parterre de Latone, as pictured by Patel in 1668 (fig. 13), ­were supported by legs, not by columns (private communication from Alexandre Maral). In a fan painting from about 1675, ten term figures stand against the retaining wall of the Fer-­à-­Cheval (see our n. 35, below); no firm conclusions can be drawn from this image. 11. CBR, I, col. 194. Landscapers w ­ ere paid from May 1665 to July 1667 for flattening the surface of the ave­nue (col. 195). 12. Ibid., cols. 194, 195 (Allée Royale), 235, 251, 255, 256 (Canal). 13. For photo­graphs and commentaries, see Pincas, 1996, pp. 148–51. The first vases ­there ­were decorated with solar motifs and royal attributes. 14. AN, O1 1794. 15. See Hedin, 2014–15, pp. 140–44 (Appendix). 16. That is where they w ­ ere inventoried in 1686. See Maral, 2012b, pp. 94–95. 17. See Tervarent, 1958, cols. 363–64, for an overview. For Alciati (Emblematum Liber, 1531), the sphinx was the incarnation of ignorance and voluptuousness. For Paradin (Les devises héroïques, 1567), she was the essence of mysterious, profound intelligence. Conti investigated her ancient pedigree more thoroughly than his pre­de­ces­sors (Mythologie, 1627, repr. ed., pp. 1005–6, 1030–34). For Ripa, who credits Paradin for the idea, secrecy or silence is personified by a sphinx and also by a frog (Iconologie, 1644, repr. ed., I, pp. 179–80). The founding legend of Oedipus is a common denominator. 18. See the first of two letters that Félibien wrote on the subject of Fouquet’s Vaux-­le-­Vicomte (1660–61, pp. 14–15). The sphinxes that flanked the steps leading to the Pe­tite Cascades in the gardens of Vaux seem to do nothing more than welcome the visitor. 19. See Chapter 3, n. 11. The statues ­were carved on Le Brun’s designs by his new team. 20. See Weber, 1974, p. 264; and Tessin, 2004, p. 240, no. 351 (THC 245). 21. Musée de Versailles, inv. nos. 750 (Martin), 8608 (Allegrain). 22. See Hedin, 2014–15, pp. 123–29. I would like to renew my thanks to Volker Schröder for sharing his remarkable discovery of an ­earlier, officially rejected version of Combes’s “answer.” For our other encounters with Combes, see Chapter 3, n. 47; Appendix D, n. 13. 23. See Félibien (1674), 1689 repr., pp. 294–97 (southern facade), 297–99 (northern facade). 24. Ibid., pp. 293–94 (western facade). See also Hedin, 1983, pp. 148, no. 24 (Months), 152, no. 25 (trophies), 152, no. 26 (reliefs), 177, no. 37 (­faces). 25. For the statues of Apollo (Coysevox) and Diana (attrib. Girardon), see Souchal, 1972, pp. 76– 77, 110 nn. 16, 17; Souchal, 1977, I, p. 182, no. 11. For the statues of Art and Nature (both by Louis Le Conte), see Souchal, 1972, p. 77; Souchal, 1981, II, p. 213, nos. 10, 11 26. See Souchal, 1981, II, p. 34, no. 30; III, pp. 53, no. 38, 249, no. 23, 339, no. 31; and Weber, 1985, pp. 275–76. 27. For the Parterre d’Eau, see Weber, 1981, pp. 171–74; Weber, 1985, pp.114–20, 271–73; Friedman, 1983, pp. 66–136; Friedman, 1988, pp. 1–30; Friedman, 1993, pp. 24–35; and Maral, 2013b. 28. Nivelon (ca. 1698), 2004 ed., pp. 428–33. Le Brun’s sculptors went to work in 1674, and the fruits of their ­labors began to appear at the end of the de­cade. In 1683–84, the puzzle gave way to the s­ imple twin-­basin scheme that exists ­today. 29. Ibid., pp. 433–34. Chastillon referred to the monster as Python. 30. Ibid., pp. 434–35. 31. Conti (1627), repr. ed., pp. 988–91. See also Berger, 1985a, p. 27.

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Notes to Pages 133–134 32. For example, Weber, 1981, pp. 172–73; Weber, 1985, p. 117; Berger, 1985a, pp. 27–28. 33. Musée de Condé, Chantilly, ms. 442. 34. Weber argues that Le Brun’s ideas for a centerpiece w ­ ere fluid during the planning stages, and that at one point he seems to have favored a fountain representing the Parts of the World. In a drawing by Le Brun’s atelier, a Parnassus stands in the central basin and Victories are posted at the four corners of the scheme. See Beauvais, 2000, II, p. 679, no. 2366. 35. See Joulie, 2010, pp. 77–79. The painting, now kept in a private collection, is illus. in color in Hedin, 2013, p. 216.

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Exhibition Cata­logs L’Albane: 1578–1660. Ed. Stéphane Loire. Exh. cat., Musée du Louvre, Paris, 2000–2001. Charles Le Brun, 1619–1690: peintre et dessinateur. Ed. Jacques Thuillier and Jennifer Montagu. Exh. cat., Château de Versailles, 1963. Jacques Sarazin, Sculpteur du Roi: 1592–1660. Ed. Barbara Brejon de Lavergnée, Geneviève Bresc-­ Bautier, and Françoise de La Moureyre. Exh. cat., Musée du Noyonnais, Noyon, 1992.

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Index

Académie de France à Rome, 11 Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture, 15, 65, 67, 71, 98; conférences, 11, 141nn56–57; theoretical lectures at, 73; visualization of passions and, 85 Adoration of the Golden Calf (Perrier), 43 Aesop, fables of, 100 Agamemnon (mythological figure), 85 aigrettes (marsh reeds), 1, 31, 105 Ailes des Ministres, 142n36 Albani, Francesco, 41, 42, 55, 169n7 Alexander VII, Pope, 17 Allée d’Eau, 3, 19, 95, 146n28 Allée Royale, xix, 50, 153n27 Allegrain, Etienne, 131 Alpatov, Michail, 169n1, 170n13 Amour (Lerambert), 95 Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, Les (La Fontaine, 1669), 29–31, 91, 107, 116, 146n39 ancients, 19, 51, 52, 56, 64; drapery and, 70; marble used by, 71; Modes of, 66 Anguier, François, 24, 52, 56, 57, 59, 170n2 Anguier, Michel, 58, 59, 153n33, 153n35, 155n58; Bernini and, 155n52; Le Brun’s “lost lecture” and, 61; lecture on divine temperaments, 159nn8–9 Anne d’Autriche, 12, 24, 116, 117, 170n13 Antaeus (mythological figure), 93, 95 Apelles, 54, 113 Apollo (god), xx, Fig. 4, 16, 62, 89, 90, 151n57; allegory of, 97–99; costume concept and, 39, Fig. 25; daily ritual of, 94; as governor of time, 132; in Latona fountain, 47, Fig. 20, Figs. 25–26; Louis XIV as, 10, 97, 98, 100–101, 117, 118; Lycean peasants confronted by, 19; on Mount Parnassus, 101–2, Fig. 80; Muses and, 133, 134, Fig. 76; in Pieratti sculpture, 47, 151n7, Fig. 48; “pure forms” of, 66; “simultaneous passions” concept and, 69; Siren fountain and, 128; sphinxes and, 131. See also Soleil couchant; Soleil levant Apollonius, 110, 153n36

Art de peinture, L’ (de Piles), 55, 56 Athenian manner, 54, 56 Axial view of Versailles from the north (Silvestre, 1676), 19, Fig. 15 Bacchus fountain, 24, 25 Bailly, Jacques, 167n21, 168n32 Bain de Diane, 19, 95, 96, 142n35, 146n28 Ballin, Claude, 170n2 Barberini, Cardinal Antonio, 46 Barberini, Francesco, 46, 47 Bassin de Neptune, 21 Bassin des Cygnes, xx, 2, 4, 6, 95; original names of, 137n9; run-­off ­water and, 7; ­water supply to, 91, 163n19 Basville, Nicolas de Lamoignon de, 141n57, 148n22 Bâtiments du Roi, 4, 11, 12, 20, 88, 109; Colbert’s surintendance of, 5, 10; cooperative pro­cess of, 27, 28; “Félibien’s law” and, 96; Houzeau’s term sculpture and, 129; sphinxes and, 131; statues ordered by, 15, 142n19 Baudouin, Jean, 157n94 Belle Jardinière, La [La Vierge à l’Enfant et Saint Jean] (Raphael), 48, 148n23, Fig. 49 Bellori, G.-­P., 55 Belvedere Antinous, 55, 61, 62, Fig. 57 Belvedere Apollo, 61, 157n106, 159n 2, Fig. 67; marble used for, 71; Perrier’s drawings of, 43; type of noble divinities in, 75 Belvedere Torso, 51, 52, 58, 64, 110, Fig. 54; attributed to Herodotus by G. Marsy, 53, 54, 110, 112, 113, 115; Boselli’s promotion of, 60; Duquesnoy’s copy of, 55; Le Brun’s types and, 62 Berger, Robert, 47, 87–88, 162n4 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 49–52, 65; Anguier and, 155n52; G. Marsy and, 153n34; Michelangelo criticized by, 60, 156n68; state of French art attacked by, 99 Bertin, Claude, 108 Bertin, Nicolas, 153n27 Bie, Jacques de, 157n94, 166n5

184

Index Bird’s-­eye view of Versailles from the east (Patel, 1668), 1, 164n36, Figs. 12–13; fountains along northern axis in, 19; fountains documented in partial completion, 29; ­Grand Canal in early stage in, 17 Blondel, Jean-­François, 27, 88–90 Boboli gardens (Florence), 151n4 Bolognese school, 53, 54 Bontemps, Alexandre, 166n10 Borghese Gladiator, 62, 66, 159n6, Fig. 66; as ancestor of Versailles frogs, 76–78; marble used for, 71 Borghese Gladiator (Perrier, 1638), 43, 77, Fig. 67 Borghese Seneca, 61, 66, Fig. 59 Boselli, Orfeo, 59–60, 64, 155n64, 156n69 Bosquet de la Girandole, 32 Bosquet de l’Arc de Triomphe, 146n28 Bosquet de la Renommée, 109, 164n43 Bosquet de l’Isle Royale, 140n44 Bosquet du Dauphin, 32 Bosse, Abraham, 49 Bourdon, Sébastien, 49, 61, 69, 70, 79 Brejon de Lavergnée, Arnauld, 41 Buckingham, Duke of, 17 Buirette, Jacques, 148n22 burlesque: Dragon fountain and, 96; Pe­tite Commande and, 15, 16, 97 Buyster, Philippe de, 28, 77, 79, 145n12, 160n18 Cabinet du Roi, 29 Capitoline Urania, 60 Carracci, Annibale, 53, 54, 58, 169n7 Cassiano dal Pozzo, 55 Caylus, comte de, 50–51, 56; abstract of Marsy’s lecture (1669) on Belvedere Torso and, 114–15; on Van Opstal, 57 Celestial Venus, 49, 70, 157n94 Cent Marches, 131 Cesi Juno, 60 Chambray, Roland Fréart de, 152n21 Champaigne, Jean-­Baptiste de, 148n11, 148n14 Champaigne, Philippe de, 37, 51, 67, 68, 148n11, 148n14 Chantelou, Paul Fréart de, 49–50, 57; emotive response to artworks, 65–66; on the Farnese Bull, 71; Richelieu Torso and, 50, 51, 152nn20–21 Chapelain, Jean, 20, 143n50 Chastillon, Louis de, 133 Château d’Anet, 35 chiaroscuro, 61, 70, 158n115 Chigi, Cardinal Flavio, 17, 142n32 Chloe, 63 Christ Healing the Blindmen (Poussin), 40–41, 69, 70, 79–80, Fig. 43 Cicero, 85

Clément, Pierre, 141n8 Colbert, Jean-­Baptiste, 5, 7, 14, 15, 87, 103, 117; death of, 109, 130; Dufresnoy and, 154n49; gloire as concern of, 19–21; as intendant des finances, 13; as “minister of culture,” 11, 140n53; Pe­tite Académie and, 19–20, 27; Richelieu Torso and, 50; surintendance appointment of, 5, 10–11, 27; w ­ ater system and, 94 Combes, Sieur, 21, 33, 131, 145n21, 170n13 Comptes des Bâtiments du Roi sous le règne de Louis XIV (Guiffrey, 1881–1901), 22, 24, 102, 130, 144n8; on Marsy ­brothers, 25, 106; on payments for work on sculptural triptych, 91, 163n16 Conférénces de l’Académie royale (Lichtenstein and Michel, eds.), 35, 38, 39, 61 Conti, Natale, 133, 165n53, 171n17 contours, types of, 75 contrapposto, 47, 65, 78, 79 Corinthian manner, 54, 56 Correggio, 54 Cortona, Pietro da, 42 costume (princi­ple of decorum), 18, 19, 39, 128; drapery and, 70; Fronde thesis and, 119, 120; Le Brun’s “Expression” and, 66; versatility of, 73 Couronnes, 95 creatures, small, 22–23, 26, 29, 31–32, 91, 106, 130; Jolly’s placement of ­water pipes and, 144n7; moved to base of Mansart’s cone, 108; as pioneers of fountain’s physical presence, 95, 107; ­water jets from, 109. See also crocodiles; frogs; lizards; turtles crocodiles, 26, 32, 105 Dancing Faun, 62, 75, Fig. 64 De arte graphica (Dufresnoy, 1668), 55, 56, 154n49 Death of the Niobides (attrib. Perrier), 43 de’Cavalieri, Giovanni Battista, 43 Delaunay, Jean, 87, 92 Delaune, Etienne, 54, 114, 169n11 della Bella, Stefano, 42, 43 Deluge fountain (Chastillon), 133, Fig. 78 Dempsey, Charles, 55, 59, 66, 154n40 Denis, Claude I, 4–5, 6, 33, 81, 138n23 Denis, Claude II, 6 De Piles, Roger, 55–56 Descartes, René, 20, 67 Description de la Grotte de Versailles (Félibien, 1672), 62–63 Description sommaire du chasteau de Versailles (Félibien, 1674), 32–33, 62, 116, 128 Des principes (Félibien, 1676), 154n46 Deux-­Bosquets, 3, 105, 167n12 Diana (goddess), xix, 19, 26, 35, 132, 137n4; costume concept and, 39, Fig. 27; Fronde thesis

Index and, 117; in Latona fountain, 47, Figs. 20 and 27; in Pieratti sculpture, 47, 151n7, Fig. 48; “pure forms” of, 66; “simultaneous passions” concept and, 69 Diane de Poitiers, 35 dolphins, 84, 88, 93, 95 Domenichino, 55, 56 doves, 18, 95 Dragon fountain, 16, 18, 19, 24, 25, Fig. 15; allegory of, 96; blood vomited by, 96; Claude Perrault and, 146n28; date of execution, 95; Fronde thesis and, 116, 118–20, 169n1, 170nn9–10; veiled face trope in, 84–85 Dubois, Ambroise, 35, 170n7 Dubreuil, Toussaint, 35, 169n7 “Du Bus plan” [“d’Anville plan”] (ca. 1662), 2, 5, 8, 137n10, Fig. 8 Dufresnoy, Charles-­A lphonse, 55–56, 154n42, 154n46 Duquesnoy, François, 46, 54, 56, 114; ancient Greek sculpture and, 55; Boselli and, 59, 155n64; on drapery in art, 158n115; invited to become premier sculpteur du roi, 59 Du Ryer, Pierre, 34, 74, 76 Dutch War (1672–78), 21, 170n14 Duval, Ambroise, 130 ­Dying Alexander, 151n6 Ecuries, 142n36 Edelinck, Jean, 29, 44 Eglogue de Versailles (opera, 1668), 97, 165n49 Eleasar and Rebecca (Poussin, 1648), 37, 51, 67 Ele­ments, statues of, 128, 132–33 Enfants, 19, 95, Figs. 12 and 15 Entombment (Titian), 68 Enveloppe, 17, 21, 29, 131 Errard, Charles, 13, 59, 156n86 Escalier des Ambassadeurs, 118 Etang de Clagny, 5, 6, 8, 19, 103, 131, 139n36 Euripides, 84 Farnese Bull, 60, 71 Farnese Flora, 60 Farnese Hercules (Glycon), 43, 53, 54, 78, 157n106, 160n21, Fig. 55; Anguier’s lecture on, 58; Boselli’s promotion of, 60; Le Brun’s types and, 62; Marsy’s lecture (1669) on Belvedere Torso and, 114; type of superhuman heroes, 75 Félibien, André, 4, 12, 35, 118, 138n21; Dragon fountain described by, 84–85, 96; on drapery in art, 70; on essentials of painting, 39; on fauns and countryfolk, 75, 159n8; “Félibien’s law,” 18–19, 96, 98, 116–17, 128; on fireworks at Latona fountain, 32; on Grotto of Tethys, 87, 90, 97; guidebook (1674), 17, 32–33; on Le Brun’s Tent of Darius, 45, 68, 83; Perrier criticized by, 150n46; on Poussin’s Israelites

Gathering the Manna, 37, 43–44, 61, 149n29; on Raphael, 66, 73–74; on repre­sen­ta­tion of passions, 85; on the reservoirs, 7; on “simultaneous passions” concept, 68–69; uncredited debt to Dufresnoy, 154n46; on Venus repre­sen­ ta­tions, 49; on w ­ ater of Versailles, 6, 16–17. See also Description sommaire du chasteau de Versailles Fer-­à-­Cheval, xix, 4, 9, 16, 120, 133–34; lower landing of, 29; outer ramps of, 8; previous names of, 3; retaining wall, xx; Sphinx aux Enfants at top of, 17, Fig. 19 “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” [Desseins de fontaines pour Versailles] (Perrault), 92–95, Fig. 75 Finding of Moses (Poussin), 66, 163n14 Fontainebleau, 24, 35, 131, 146n26 Fontaine des Arts, 98, 134, Fig. 77 Fontaine des Muses, 98, 134, Fig. 76 Fouquet, Louis, 155n64 Fouquet, Nicolas, 12, 13, 140n50, 152n18 Francastel, Pierre, 41, 143nn41–42 Francine, François, 6, 138n26 Francine, Pierre, 139n37 François de Savoie, 35 François I, 48 Franqueville, Pierre de, 114, 115, 169n11 Friedman, Ann, 163n26 frogs, 105, 108; Dutch cast as, 120, 170n14; fireworks from mouths of, 32; “Gladiator Frogs,” 76–78, 82; in oval border, 26, 29. See also Lycean peasants Fronde thesis, xx–­x xi, 10, 116–20, 133; adherents of, 120, 170n13; costume concept and, 18; revolts in Paris (1648–1553), 13, 116, 141n9; sculptural triptych in clash with, 96 Galatea (mythological figure), 52, 140n50 Galerie d’Eau (Galerie des Antiques), 140n44 Ghirlandaio, Domenico, 55, 56 Giovanni da Bologna, 114–15, 169n11 Girardon, François, 24, 25, 38, 63, 85, 109, 146n28, 156n86; Grande Allée and, 130; as master of drapery, 70; in Rome, 64; Soleil couchant and, 89, 91, 92 Giustiniani, Vincenzo, 55 Glycon, 54 Gobelins factory (Paris), 24 ­Grand Canal, xix, 7, 17, 120, 130, 139n28 Grande Allée, 130 Grande Commande (Le Brun, 1674), 132–33, 145n15, 157n94 Grande Galerie (Galerie des Glaces), 21, 132 Grande Pompe. See Tour d’Eau ­Grand Parc, 4 ­Grand Parterre, 3, 103, 138n15; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” and, 92–94; landscaping of, 4; reservoirs built ­under, 107

185

186

Index Grotto of Tethys, 5, 8, 25, 62–63, 103, 130, Fig. 5; Apollo in, xx, 19, 87, 128; conception of, 87; destruction of (1684), 109, 130, 163n12; drapery on figures in, 70; entertainments at, 17; facade of, 88, Fig. 5; interior, Fig. 6; nude sculptures in, 52; reservoirs north of, 6; Soleil couchant and, xx, 94, 96; Van Opstal’s work at, 155n53; ­water pipes and, 93, 139nn34–35, 164n29 Guérin, Gilles, 90 Guiffrey, Jules, 22, 144n8 Guillet de Saint-­Georges, 15, 22, 43, 114, 144n8; designers not credited by, 145n19; on fellowship of Perrier and Le Brun, 42; Marsy’s lecture (1689) and, 112–14; on workshop practices of Marsy ­brothers, 25 Guistiniani, Vincenzo, 42, 47 Henri II, 35 Henri IV (Henri de Bourbon), 2 Hercules (mythological figure), 93, 95 Hercules-­Commodus, 61, 62, 75, Fig. 65 Herodotus, 53, 54, 110, 112, 113, 114, 153n36 Horses of Apollo model (Marsy ­brothers), 146n34, 158n125 Houzeau, Jacques, 31, 129–30, 171n9 Huret, Grégoire, 67 Huygens, Christian, 140n48 Iconologie (Ripa, 1644), 157n94 “Institut plan” (1663), 2–3, 132, Fig. 9 Iphigenia in Aulis (Euripides), 84 Israelites Gathering the Manna (Poussin, 1637), 35–38, 43, 49, 63, Fig. 42; drapery in, 70; Le Brun’s debate with Champaigne over, 51; Le Brun’s lecture on, 67; Poussin’s use of idealized types and, 60, 61, 62 Italy, study trips to, 24, 145n13 Jabach, Everhard, 41 Jardin-­à-­Fleurs (flower garden), 15, 18, 19 Jardin du Roi, 18 Jolly, Denis, 5, 6, 138n26, 139n30; hydraulic inventories of, 7, 23, 95, 103–4, 105, 144n7, 164n35, Fig. 16; Perrault’s confrontation with, 104, 166n7; pump for Tour d’Eau, 15; satellite jets and, 9, 23, 40, 94, 104; ­water pipes laid by, 15, 16, 91, 93, 103–4, 142n35, 163n19, 164n29 Jourdain, Dame, 64, 81, 109, 161n31 Juno (goddess), xix, 44, 133–34 Jupiter (god), xix, xx, 26, 35, 44 Labyrinth, 95, 100–101, Figs. 10–11 Labyrinthe de Versailles (Perrault, 1677), 63, 95–96, 100–101, 164n40 La Feuille, Sieur de, 41, 149n36 La Fontaine, Jean de, 29–31, 33, 146n39, 153n34; on allegory of rising/descending Apollo, 97;

Latona fountain described by, 38; on Lycean peasants, 40, 79, 81, 83, 107, 109, 129; on the Richelieu Torso, 49, 152n18; sculptural triptych and, 116; on w ­ ater on transformed Lyceans, 96. See also Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, Les La Haye, Pierre de, 94, 95, 142n25, 164n33 landscape, xxi, 2–4, 18, 149n23, 164n28; in balance with ­water and art, 9; Le Brun’s theory of “Expression” and, 66; ­water system installation and, 4–8 Lanfranco, Giovanni, 42, 55 Lange, Liliane, 87, 92 Langlois, Nicolas, 29 Laocoön, 51, 53–54, 153n33, 154n38, 157– 58n106, Fig. 56; Anguier’s model of, 155n59; Boselli’s promotion of, 60; Duquesnoy’s copy of, 55; Le Brun’s types and, 62; marble used for, 72; Marsy’s lecture (1669) on Belvedere Torso and, 110, 114; Van Opstal’s lecture on, 57, 67, 71, 78, 155n53 Largillière, Nicolas de, 77 Latin inscriptions, 29 Latona (mythological figure), xix–xx, 19, 93, 137n4; allegory of, 13; with Apollo and Muses, 101–2, Fig. 80; birth of Apollo and Diana to, 133; costume concept and, 39, Fig. 20; expression/passion in, 69, 158n110; Fronde thesis and, 117–18; G. Marsy’s marble figure of, 11, 26, 64; plea to Jupiter, 35, 44, 45; represented in visual art, 35; as Titaness, 65. See also Metamorphoses (Ovid) Latona and Her ­Children (Pieratti, 1629–35), 46–47, 151n6, Fig. 48 Latona and the Lycean Peasants (Albani, ca. 1604), 41, Fig. 44 Latona fountain, xix, 1, 24, 93; artistic/aesthetic provenance of, xxi, 98–99; completion of (1670), 6; construction materials, 1–2, 137n4; as ­counter to Bernini’s attack on French art, 99; current view, Fig. 1; designers of, 9; doctrines of Le Brun and Marsy and, 46; execution of, 103–7; Félibien’s description of, 32–33; Le Brun’s oversight of sculptors, 25; ­legal contract for, 22, 144n1; literary accounts of, 29–33; Mansart’s overhaul of, 79, 108–9; original state of, 44, Fig. 2; origin of (1666), 16; as panegyric to Louis XIV, 10, 11, 99; perspectives seen or “read” from, 38; pictorial rec­ords of, 28–29; restoration of (2014–15), 109; sculptural triptych of, xx, 87 Latona group (Marsy ­brothers), 47–48, 62, 89, 107, 164n34, Fig. 20; angular view, Fig. 21; Apollo (frontal view), Fig. 25; Apollo (rear view), 48, Fig. 26; date of creation of, 117; date of execution (1668–70), 92; Diana (profile view), 47, Fig. 27; drapery in, 69–71; Fronde thesis and, 116–20, 170n13; frontal view, 47,

Index 120, Fig. 20; Latona (head and upper torso), Fig. 22; Latona (rear view), Fig. 24; Latona torso, Fig. 23; longtime outdoor location of, 64; marble used for, 72, 159n127; as ­middle of solar triptych, 128; “pure forms” of, 66; as response to Soleil couchant, 96; Richelieu Torso as prototype for, 65; “stylistic discrepancy” with Lyceans, 118; vandalized (1980), 109; workshop model of, 116 La Vallière, Louise de, 13–15, 161n31 Le Brun, Charles, 1, 54, 59, 90, 109; conférences and, 11, 141n56; on anger, 82, Fig. 72; ­Battles of Alexander paintings, 24, Fig. 47; costume concept and, 39; on despair, 81–83, Fig. 71; “disposition” concept of, 40; “Expression” theory of, 66–69; as a founder of the Académie royale, 11, 42; Fouquet’s patronage of, 12; Grande Commande sculptures of, 132–33, 145n15, 171n28; Grotto of Tethys and, 91; Latona fountain designs and, 22; “lost lecture” of, 61–62; as Moderns versus Ancients, 99; Niobides and, 42–44; Ovid translations and, 34; plans for Fer-­à-­Cheval retaining wall, 133–34, 172n34; as premier peintre du roi, 1, 11, 24, 27; in Rome, 46–48; royal tapestry of spring by, 19, 143n40; scenic fountains designed by, 9; sexes cast in equal numbers by, 44, 150n52; tapestries of Ele­ments and Seasons, 24, 27; Tent of Darius (1660–61), 45, 68, 83, 154n49; on terror and horror, 83–84, Fig. 73; Van Opstal’s rift with, 56, 57, 154n49; on won­der and astonishment, 81, Fig. 70 Le Brun, Charles, lectures of: on Poussin’s Manna, 35–38, 43–44, 51, 60–61, 69; on proportions and contours, 75; on Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il, 73, 159n2 Lecomte, Florent, 145n22 Lefebvre, Philippe, 146n26 Le Gros, Pierre, 50, 65, 153n25, 157n94 Le Guillou, Jean-­Claude, 2, 12 Le Nôtre, André, 8–9, 14, 137–38n11, 163n22; basins designed by, 9; on building of fountains, 103, 138n15; Fouquet’s patronage of, 12; gardens transformed by, 3; radical design of axes, 142n36; visionary plans of, 16 Leonardo da Vinci, 41, 53, 153n35 Le Pautre, Jean, 29, 31, 38, 44, 170n2 Le Pautre, Pierre, 29 Lerambert, Louis, 95, 130 Le Roy, Philibert, 2 Le Tellier, François-­Michel, 109 Le Vau, Louis, 3, 14, 138n15; Fouquet’s patronage of, 12; Ménagerie of, 4; Tour d’Eau designed by, 5 Lichtenstein, Jacqueline, 61, 75, 110 Lizard fountains, 1, 2, 24, 29, 81, 105, Figs. 36–39 lizards, 26, 32, 105, 108

Locke, John, 164n43 Lombard school of paint­ers, 51, 54 Loret, Jean, 14 Louis XIII, 2, 4, 12, 59 Louis XIV, xix, 155n67, 161n31; as Apollo, 10, 97, 98, 100–101, 117, 118; attachment to gardens of Versailles, xxi, 5, 141n4; Bernini’s bust of, 156n68; childhood/minority of, xx, 12, 116, 141n1; hydraulic installation overseen by, 5–6; Latona fountain as panegyric to, 10, 11, 99; plans overseen by, 15–16; as Roi-­Soleil (Sun King), 10, 89–90, 98, 116–17, 165n54; visits to Versailles, 12–15 Louvre, 5, 20; Appartement d’été, 155n58; Galerie d’Apollon, 24, 25; Grande Galerie, 153n34 Lully, Jean-­Baptiste, 97 Lycean peasants, 19, 64, 78–79, 93, 133; adolescents, 27, 29, 35, 107, Figs. 36–39; adults, 23, 27, 29, 74–76, 107; desperation of, 79, 81–84, 85, 160n23; Fronde thesis and, 116, 119; installation of (1670), 27; Latona sculpture moved away from, 109; Marsy ­brothers’ modeling of, 26; in Matheus’s illustration, 34, 35, 39, 161n25, Fig. 40; number of, 40–41; or­ga­nized as ­couples, 31, 40, 41, 78, 80; “pure forms” of, 66; “stylistic discrepancy” with Latona group, 118; turned to frogs, xx, 2, 31, 34–35, 45, 85, Figs. 28–35; ­water effects and, 95–97, 104 Machine de Marly, 140n47 Madonna of François I [La Grande Sainte Famille] (Raphael), 48, 66, 68, 70, Fig. 50 Magnier, Laurent, 15, 142n18 Maîtrise (guild of artisans and craftsmen), 11, 38 Mansart, Jules Hardouin-­, 21, 79, 81, 107–9, 146n35 Maral, Alexandre, 158n118, 163n26 Marie-­A nne de Bourbon, 161n31 Marie de Bourbon, 35 Marie-­Thérèse d’Autriche, 12, 141n6 Marsy, Balthazar, 1, 24, 112, 145n20, 145n25; death of, 25; entry into Académie (1673), 110 Marsy, Gaspard, 1, 25, 46, 58, 72, 98; early life, 24; lectures to Académie, 26, 62, 110–15; marble figure of Latona, 11; origin of four Greek manners, 55–56; Raphael admired by, 48, 152n11; Richelieu Torso and, 52–55, 65, 153n25; uncredited debt to Dufresnoy, 154n49 Marsy, Jaspard, 24 Marsy ­brothers, 24–27, 31, 38, 92; costume concept and, 39; Grotto of Tethys and, 90; Latona fountain commission and, 22–23; as Moderns against Ancients, 99; payment for work on Latona fountain, 91, 94, 106, 107, 163n16, 167n29 Martin, Jean-­Baptiste, 131

187

188

Index Massacre of the Innocents (Poussin, ca. 1625), 66, Fig. 68 Massou, Benoît, 108–9, 168n8 (App. B) Massou, François-­Benoît, 109, 168n8 (App. B) Matheus, Jean, 34, 35, 39, 123, 150n44 Maucroix, Abbé de, 49, 152n18 Mazarin, Cardinal, 12, 116 Mazeline, Louis, 95 Médici, Catherine de, 147n4 Medici, Cosimo de,’ 17 Medici Venus, 43, 49, 152n18, Fig. 51; Boselli’s promotion of, 60; comparison with Richelieu Venus, 49, 50, 52, 53, 57, 65, 115; erotic attention to, 158n116; Le Brun’s types and, 62; prototypes (idealized types) and, 61; type of heroic or divine figures in, 75 Melicerte, 63 “membrification,” 53, 56, 57, 153n35 Ménagerie, 4, 14, 17, 138n23 Mercure Galant (gazette), 118, 139n39, 149n36, 170n8 Metamorphoses (Ovid), xix–xx, 10, 70–71, 117; Du Ryer’s French translation (1660), 34, 74, 79, 85, 123–26, 147nn2–3; Miller’s En­g lish translation (1977), 126–27; Renouard’s French translation (1619), 34, 35, 74, 76, 121–23, 147nn1–2 Michel, Christian, 61, 75, 110 Michelangelo, 47, 53, 54, 56; ancient Greek sculpture and, 154n51; reproaches against, 60, 156n68; Risen Christ, 47, 59; Vatican Meleager, 47, 155n67 Mignard, Nicolas, 48, 85; “simultaneous passions” concept and, 68; on drapery in art, 70; painting of Parnassus, 165n55 Mignard, Pierre, 59, 109, 146n36, 149n36, 154n49; Grande Allée and, 130 Molière, 97 Monconys, Balthasar de, 49 Montagu, Jennifer, 66 Museo cartaceo (Cassiano dal Pozzo), 55 Mythologie des Dieux (Conti, 1627), 133, 165n53 nature, art and, 17, 98 Neptune (god), 133, 134, 140n50 Nile, 60 Niobe, 60–61, 66, Fig. 58 Niobe (mythological figure), 79, 80 Niobides (Perrier, 1638), 44, Fig. 46 Niobides statues (Villa Medici, Rome), 42–44, 60, 150nn43–44 Nivelon, Claude, 22, 61, 90, 144n2, 170n8; on Agamemnon’s face veiling, 85; on Le Brun’s Grande Commande, 132–34 Nocret, Jean, 48, 148n23 “nouvelle parterre,” 3 nudes, in sculpture, 50–52

Observations sur la peinture (Dufresnoy), 56, 154n46 Orangerie, 3, 17, 19, 21, 131 Ordination (Poussin), 66 Orlando furioso (Ariosto), reenacted at Versailles, 14 oval basin, 1, 38, 97, 102; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” and, 92, 93, 94–95; jets of w ­ ater in, 9, 40, 166n10; Lycean peasants in, 29; nozzles on border and surface of, 23, 91, 105, 106; number of satellite jets in, 106; placement of, 8–9 Ovid, 9, 34–35, 39–40, 69; on legendary origin of frogs, xix; Lycean peasants described by, 74, 76; ­women absent from locus classicus, 44. See also Metamorphoses Palazzo Pitti, Grotto of Moses, 151n4 Palissy, Bernard, 147n4 Parnassus (Le Brun, ca. 674–75), 101–2, Fig. 80 Parterre d’Eau, 98, 107, 132–33, 163n26, 164n33 Parterre de Broderie, 3, 107, 132 Parterre de Gazon, 3, 105, 106 Parterre de l’Amour, 18–19 Parterre de Latone, 1, 3, 13, 92, 94; small creatures around basins of, 130; ­water jets in, 104 Parterre de l’Ovale, 3 Parterre du Midi, 130 Parterre du Nord, 3, 19, 104, 142n35 Parts of the Day statues, 132 Parts of the World statues, 132 Passeri, Giovanni Battista, 59 Patel, Pierre, 1, 17, 19, 106, 130, 137n3, 138n21 pavilion du réservoir d’eau, 87 Pegasus (mythological figure), 133, 134, 145n15 Peinture, La (Perrault, 1668), 97 Percier, Charles, 147n4 Pérelle, Adam, 29, 33 Perrault, Charles, 9, 12, 23, 140n48, 144n8; on ancient versus modern art, 165n56; Dragon fountain described by, 96; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” of, 92–95, 164n28, Fig. 75; Grotto of Tethys and, 87–91, 88; hydraulic system and, 105, 106, 167n13; Jolly suspected over weight/ price of pipes, 104, 166n7; Mémoires of, 19–20, 27, 88, 89, 98; as Moderns versus Ancients, 101; Pe­tite Académie and, 19, 146n31; Richelieu Torso and, 50; Soleil couchant and, 89, 98 Perrault, Claude, 27, 28, 144n8; designs attributed to, 146n28; Grotto of Tethys and, 88–91; plan for colossal marble figures, 71 Perrault ­brothers, 27–28; Dragon fountain allegory and, 96; Viry estate and, 162n5 Perrier, François, 42–44, 77. See also Segmenta Petit, Louis, 15, 87, 139n30, 146n26, 167n15

Index Pe­tite Académie, 11, 19–21, 89, 92, 93 Pe­tite Commande, 15, 16, 19, 158n116; Fronde thesis and, 119; origin of, 144n8 Pe­tite Ecurie, 109 Petit Parc, 21, 101, 137n11; bound­aries of, 4; disarray of construction in, 18; Fronde thesis and, 118–20; Grande Commande statues in, 133; hydraulic advances in, 5; plans to divert rivers to, 140n47 Phidias, 54, 113 Pièce d’Eau des Suisses, 21 Pieratti, Domenico, 46–48, 151nn6–7, 169n7 Pietro da Cortona, 143n41 Piganiol de la Force, 145n22, 151n53, 153n27 Pilon, Germain, 54, 114, 169n11 Plaidoyer (Van Opstal, 1668), 155n53 Plaisirs de l’ isle enchantée (festival), 14–15, 144n8 Pliny, 72, 85, 150n51 Poems statues, 132 Poissant, Thibaut, 28, 171n9 Poultier, Jean-­Baptiste, 26, 98, 145n23, 156n89 Poussin, Nicolas, 35–38, 40, 66; Anguier (Michel) and, 58; consciousness of ancient Greek sculpture and, 55, 59; Eleasar and Rebecca (1648), 37, 51, 67; Finding of Moses, 66, 163n14; Le Brun as student of, 46; on the Richelieu Torso, 49, 52, 153n34. See also Christ Healing the Blindmen; Israelites Gathering the Manna Praxiteles, 54, 113 Premier Versailles, 14, 21, 118, 140n47; “Félibien’s law” and, 18; sculptural triptych of, 87 Promenade de Versailles, La (Scudéry, 1669), 7–8, 13, 31–32, 116, 130 prototypes (idealized types), 60 Pyramid, 19, 95, 142n35, 146n28. See also Tour d’Eau Pyramid (Girardon), 158n118 Quinault, Philippe, 97 Quintilian, 85 ramasse (toboggan-­like device), 14, 141n14 Raphael, 11, 46, 51, 53, 101, 152n11; La Belle Jardinière, 48, 148n23, Fig. 49; Madonna of François I, 48, 66, 68; as Sicyonian artist, 54. See also Saint Michael and the Dev­il Recueil de divers ouvrages en prose et en vers (Perrault), 101, 134 Regnaudin, Thomas, 24, 25, 38, 71; on the Borghese Gladiator, 77–78; on the Medici Venus, 49, 152n15; Soleil couchant and, 89, 92; on statues of Venus, 157n94 Remarques (de Piles), 55, 154n50 Re­nais­sance, Italian, 11 Reni, Guibo, 169n7

Renouard, Nicolas, 34, 35, 74, 76 reservoirs, 6, 19, 139n36, 163n19; auxiliary, 8; clay-­lined, 16; constructed ­under ­Grand Parterre, 140n47; lead-­lined, 15, 103 Rhodian manner, 54, 56, 114 Richardson, Jonathan, 150n45 Richelieu, Cardinal, 57, 153n29 Richelieu Torso (Richelieu Venus), 49–50, Fig. 52, 64, 115, 152n18, 152n21; as ancestral model of Marsy’s Latona, 52; Bernini and, 156n68; comparison with Medici Venus, 49, 50, 52, 53, 57, 65, 115; as exemplary work, 58; Marsy’s lecture (1669) on Belvedere Torso and, 52–55, 110, 114; Van Opstal’s lecture on, 50–51, 57 Risen Christ (Michelangelo), 47, 59 Rondeau, 3, 19, 119 Rosasco, Betsy, 170n13 round basins, 3, 29, 107; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” and, 92–93, 94; Lizard fountains in, 1; nozzles on borders of, 23, 105; ­water pipes laid in, 103, 104; young Lyceans in, 39, 91 Rubens, Peter Paul, 55 “­Running Niobides” drawings, 79, 160n24 Sabatier, Gérard, 116, 170n8 Sacchi, Andrea, 55 Saint Andrew’s Cross, 2, 3, 8, 138n17 Saint-­Cloud, Galerie d’Apollon of, 149n36 Saint-­Germain-­en-­Laye, 2, 19, 101, 140n46 Saint Michael and the Dev­il (Raphael, 1518), 67, 68, 159n11, Fig. 69; invisible divine power in, 73, 86; Lycean peasant postures compared with, 119, 160n22 Saint Simon, duc de, 7, 140n46 Saint Susanna (Duquesnoy), 55 Sandrart, Joachim von, 42, 55 Sarazin, Jacques, 24, 52, 144n12; Gaspard’s apprenticeship with, 56, 57, 59; Sphinx aux Enfants made by, 130 Schleier, Erich, 150n47, 150n49 Schnapper, Antoine, 157n94 Scudéry, Madeleine de, 7–8, 116, 139n36, 169n4, 170n2; on Louis XIV ‘s affection for Versailles, 13; on timeline of fountain construction, 31–32. See also Promenade de Versailles Seasons, fountains of the, 132 Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum (Perrier, 1638), 42–44, 49, 77, 78, 150n39, 150n51 Séguier, Pierre, 46, 151nn1–2 Sentimens (Testelin, 1680), 61–62 Sentimens de Charles-­Alphonse Dufresnoy (de Piles), 55, 56 Sentiments (Testelin, 1693–94), 113–14 Sicyonian manner, 54, 56 Silvestre, Israël, 19, 29, 140n50 “simultaneous passions” concept, 66–69

189

190

Index Siren fountain, 16, 19, 24, 88, 128, Fig. 74; date of creation of, 91–92; date of execution, 95; nude sculptures in, 52 Soleil couchant [Apollo Bathed by the Nymphs of Tethys] (Girardon and Regnaudin), xx, 16, 62, Figs. 6–7; date of creation of, 92, 163n22; design of, 90–91; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” and, 93–94, 164n31; Girardon’s Apollo in, 160n21; Louis XIV resting at Versailles represented by, 90; marble used for, 71; river god and, 162n9; workshop model of, 116 Soleil levant [Apollo fountain] (Tuby), xx, 16, 62, 89, 90, Fig. 4; date of conception of, 94; date of execution (1668–70), 92; Siren fountain programmed in coordination with, 91–92, 128; Tuby’s payment for working on, 91, 163n16; workshop model of, 116 Sphinx aux Enfants, 17, 130–31, Fig. 19 Stella, Jacques, 37, 154–55n52 Story of Diana Tapestries, 35 Striking the Rock (Perrier), 43, 150nn47–48 swans, amours riding on, 84, 94, 95 Tapis Vert, 130 Temperaments of Man statues, 132 Tent of Darius (Le Brun, 1660–61), 45, 68, 83, 154n49 term sculpture, 129–30, 171n10 Tessin, Nicodemus, 108 Testa, Pietro, 55 Testelin, Henri, 148n9, 148n14, 153n35; paraphrase of Gaspard’s 1669 lecture, 54–55, 113–14; on Poussin’s Christ Healing the Blindmen, 40–41; on proportions and contours, 75–76; on Raphael’s Saint Michael and the Dev­il, 73–74, 119, 159nn4–5, 159n11; ­Tables series, 61–62, 113 Thomassin, Simon, 153n27 Thuillier, Jacques, 148n16 Tiber, 60 Tintoretto, 169n7 Titian, 54, 55, 68, 154n49 Tour d’Eau, 6, 8, 103, 131, 140n48; alternate names, 5; Jolly’s pump for, 15 Traité de la peinture (Leonardo da Vinci), 41 Traité des passions (Descartes, 1649), 67 Treaty of Aix-­la-­Chapelle (1668), 16, 117, 118 Tuby, Jean-­Baptiste, 24, 38, 91 Tuileries (Paris), 27, 28, 93 turtles, 26, 105, 108 Ubaldini, Agostino, 47, 151n4, 169n7 Urban VIII Barberini, Pope, 46

Valerius Maximus, 85 Van der Meulen, Adam-­François, 142n36 Van Opstal, Gérard, 24, 38, 52, 144n12, 148n22; Gaspard’s apprenticeship with, 56–57; Le Brun’s rift with, 56, 57, 154n49; lecture on Laocoön, 57, 67, 68, 71, 78, 155n53; lecture on Richelieu Torso, 50–51, 65, 153n29 Vatican Meleager, 47, 155n67 Vaux-­le-­Vicomte, 12, 24, 30, 131, 140n50; lizards and crocodiles carved in Grotto of, 149n26 Venus, as most represented deity, 48–49 Vénus d’Arles, 70 Venus Emerging from the W ­ ater (Le Gros), 50, 65, 153n27, Fig. 53 Versailles: attacked by living frogs, 1, 137n3; entertainments at, 14–16; festival (18 July 1668) at, 32, 84, 106, 118–19, 142n35, 167n24, 170n9; interior decoration of, 13; landscape of, 2–4; as Louis XIV’s official seat of government/court, xix, 21; misconceptions about, 21; official guidebook of Félibien, 4, 138n21; Patel’s bird’s-­eye view, 1, Figs. 12–13; as plea­sure garden, 116, 169n4; Silvestre’s aerial view, 38, Fig. 3 Versailles, western axis, 3, 46, 100; Apollo’s transit and, 19, 98; assumption of unified program for, 92; chronology of events along, 91, 95; Fer-­à-­Cheval and revamping of, 16; solar triptych along, 24, 87, 109; summary of features, 128–34; ­water as ­bearer of meaning along, 96 Versailles Diana (Diana Chasseresse), 61, 62, 71, 75, 157n91, Fig. 60 Versailles plans: basins equipped with jets, 93, Fig. 10; triangular arrangement of basins, 1, Figs. 10–11 Villa Medici (Rome), 42, 43 Visconti, Jean-­Baptiste Primi, 140n43 Vouet, Simon, 42 War of Devolution (1667–68), 16, 117, 170n8 ­Water (Le Gros), 157n94 ­water system, 4–8, 15; “Fer-­à-­Cheval memo” and, 93, 94; Lycean peasants and, 95–97; moulin de retour, 6; pipes laid by Jolly, 15; Versailles entertainments and, 16–17 Weber, Gerold, 92, 93, 138n11, 172n34 Whitman, Nathan, 116–20 windmills, 6, 139n34, 139n36 Wrestlers, 43, 61, 66, 160n21, Fig. 62