DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.49256#0141
VALENTIN.
9
Behold us in a retreat of gipsies. A dirty and sallow-faced sorceress, with a napkin bound
around lier head, like the women of Frascati, and liiding lier countenance in the shade, is
examining the hand of a kind of landsknecht, who is liaving bis fortune told. The tranquillity
of this low witch forms a striking contrast with the lively émotion that is visible in the soldier’s
features ; and, as if the strangcness of the figures about him, and the appearance of the cavern,
into which only a mysterious light finds its way through an air-hole, were not suffirent to
trouble his thoughts, the companions of the prophetess succecd in exciting his imagination still
more efîectually by the noisy music which they are playing close to his ears. To the loft, in the
obscurity, is seen a man putting his hand into the gipsy’s pocket, from which he draws forth a
living cock, a sort of symbolical animal, such as the old sibyls usually possess. In truth, it is
not merely impossible to paint with a more masterly and vigorous touch ; but, what is more, to
initiate the spectator with greater success into the mysteries of the life led by the gipsies of those
days—by that proscribed and vagabond race, with their eccentric costume and coppcr-coloured
complexions, who lived by rapine, or on the credulity of the public, who covered themselves with
garments of glaring hues, and found in every town some dark retreat or other, unknown to
justice, and offering a place of refuge to every adventurer without hearth or home.
As we hâve already remarked, the substance of Valentin’s pictures is the same as that of Callot’s
engravings. The former, as well as the latter, offer us a lively représentation of the marin ers
of a certain period ; but, although the epoch of Valentin’s works is the same as that of Callot’s,
there is a markcd différence in their manner of seeing things. The reason that this brilliant
arabesque did not unfold itself before the eyes of the painter of Coulommiers, as it did before
those of the engraver of Nancy, is, that each of them gave the fruits of his observations the tinge
of his own disposition, and stamped them with the impression of his own mind. The one chose
the burlesque, the other the poetic side of the subject. Callot was more particularly struck with
the gait of the passer-by, the easy swagger of the cavalier, and that kind of misery which, in
his day, was coated with a varnish of elegance. He rcpresented the agitated and wandering
épisodes of out-of-door life, which he had seen defiling before him,—those joyons caravans of
tatterdemalions who used to feast upon the sward, share their booty under the vault of heaven,
and gild their rags in the sun. Valentin, on the contrary, devoted his attention to the in-door
life of this wandering race ; he entered with them the unknown retreats where they reposed
themselves from their fatigues, or where, during the night, and by the light of their torches,
they indulgcd in ail kinds of pleasure ; he entered with them those places whose sorry aspect
was redeemed by the brilliancy of the varied drapery, the poetry of mystery, and the exhibition
of false luxury.
Callot worked with a smile upon his lips ; he studied this mode of life, which had long
ceascd to be his own, without deranging his ruff, or losing aught of the spirit of a philosopher,
or the manners of a man of birth. Valentin mixed with his models. He shared their
habits ; he thought these beings were grand, and copied them seriously and passionately.
Callot conveyed a moral with aqua-fortis ; Valentin made use of his pencil to pourtray
vagabonds of good family, the Don Cœsars of his day.
What, in fact, are the so-called Family Concerts, which figure in the galleries of the
Louvre, and which are admired there under that title? What name can we give to
the personages executing a concerted piece, and ranged round a table covered with a rich
cloth? Would not any one take them for amateurs of the highest rank in society? Ail their
costumes are perfect ; some wear superb breast-plates, which the spectator thinks he hears
resound,—so true to nature are they; others hâve magnificent doublets, with a plumed hat,
and a dagger in their girdle ; the stout and haughty woman who beats time upon a spinet is a
73
9
Behold us in a retreat of gipsies. A dirty and sallow-faced sorceress, with a napkin bound
around lier head, like the women of Frascati, and liiding lier countenance in the shade, is
examining the hand of a kind of landsknecht, who is liaving bis fortune told. The tranquillity
of this low witch forms a striking contrast with the lively émotion that is visible in the soldier’s
features ; and, as if the strangcness of the figures about him, and the appearance of the cavern,
into which only a mysterious light finds its way through an air-hole, were not suffirent to
trouble his thoughts, the companions of the prophetess succecd in exciting his imagination still
more efîectually by the noisy music which they are playing close to his ears. To the loft, in the
obscurity, is seen a man putting his hand into the gipsy’s pocket, from which he draws forth a
living cock, a sort of symbolical animal, such as the old sibyls usually possess. In truth, it is
not merely impossible to paint with a more masterly and vigorous touch ; but, what is more, to
initiate the spectator with greater success into the mysteries of the life led by the gipsies of those
days—by that proscribed and vagabond race, with their eccentric costume and coppcr-coloured
complexions, who lived by rapine, or on the credulity of the public, who covered themselves with
garments of glaring hues, and found in every town some dark retreat or other, unknown to
justice, and offering a place of refuge to every adventurer without hearth or home.
As we hâve already remarked, the substance of Valentin’s pictures is the same as that of Callot’s
engravings. The former, as well as the latter, offer us a lively représentation of the marin ers
of a certain period ; but, although the epoch of Valentin’s works is the same as that of Callot’s,
there is a markcd différence in their manner of seeing things. The reason that this brilliant
arabesque did not unfold itself before the eyes of the painter of Coulommiers, as it did before
those of the engraver of Nancy, is, that each of them gave the fruits of his observations the tinge
of his own disposition, and stamped them with the impression of his own mind. The one chose
the burlesque, the other the poetic side of the subject. Callot was more particularly struck with
the gait of the passer-by, the easy swagger of the cavalier, and that kind of misery which, in
his day, was coated with a varnish of elegance. He rcpresented the agitated and wandering
épisodes of out-of-door life, which he had seen defiling before him,—those joyons caravans of
tatterdemalions who used to feast upon the sward, share their booty under the vault of heaven,
and gild their rags in the sun. Valentin, on the contrary, devoted his attention to the in-door
life of this wandering race ; he entered with them the unknown retreats where they reposed
themselves from their fatigues, or where, during the night, and by the light of their torches,
they indulgcd in ail kinds of pleasure ; he entered with them those places whose sorry aspect
was redeemed by the brilliancy of the varied drapery, the poetry of mystery, and the exhibition
of false luxury.
Callot worked with a smile upon his lips ; he studied this mode of life, which had long
ceascd to be his own, without deranging his ruff, or losing aught of the spirit of a philosopher,
or the manners of a man of birth. Valentin mixed with his models. He shared their
habits ; he thought these beings were grand, and copied them seriously and passionately.
Callot conveyed a moral with aqua-fortis ; Valentin made use of his pencil to pourtray
vagabonds of good family, the Don Cœsars of his day.
What, in fact, are the so-called Family Concerts, which figure in the galleries of the
Louvre, and which are admired there under that title? What name can we give to
the personages executing a concerted piece, and ranged round a table covered with a rich
cloth? Would not any one take them for amateurs of the highest rank in society? Ail their
costumes are perfect ; some wear superb breast-plates, which the spectator thinks he hears
resound,—so true to nature are they; others hâve magnificent doublets, with a plumed hat,
and a dagger in their girdle ; the stout and haughty woman who beats time upon a spinet is a
73