The Gift Horse And The Absent Kings

Some of you may have noticed this curious discovery which cropped up in social media feeds last week following an article in the New York Times. It’s a painting that has been discovered during the renovations of a hum-drum office in Paris. Over the summer, workmen remodelling the place in advance of Oscar de la Renta opening a boutique there, were pulling down a wall when they spotted something rather unexpected. A number of obscure gents from the 1600s were visible on the other side. It was as if they had scooped the side off a rabbit warren and found the occupants’ eyes sparkling back out at them from the darkness. It’s one of those discoveries that we expect to come across in airport novels, not real life. At some point in the past, a great canvas had been mounted on a gauze and then glued to the end of the room before a false wall was erected in front of it. Fabulous stuff. But bizarre too. It seems a commendably professional job was done of preserving and hiding a work of art which really doesn’t look like it has the requisite quality to grab the attention of art thieves. I doubt even a mob as rapacious as the Nazis would have spared the piece a second glance. Yet it seems someone cared enough that they weren’t prepared to take the chance. We better start digging and see what we can discover.

At first, the identities of the men in the picture were a mystery. No one had the foggiest idea who they were. The only clue to draw on was the buildings in the city in the background, some of which corresponded with landmarks in Jerusalem. Before long, a knowledgeable boffin at the Louvre spotted that the picture had an exact match in the form of the print we can see here. It’s from an edition of ‘The Journeys of the Marquis de Nointel’ published in 1900. The book concerns itself with the diplomatic efforts of – deep breath – Charles Marie François Olier Marquis de Nointel, who from 1670 to 1680 spent ten years overseas as an ambassador for the French king Louis XIV.  With such a firm connection made between the painting and the man, it followed that the picture was a depiction of the moment in 1674 when Charles visited the Holy City. The print, we must assume, was drawn from the painting many years later.

Before we tackle the picture, I better let you know what Charles got up to when he set off from Paris and headed east. For a long time, France had a prickly relationship with the Ottomans. When our be-frilled marquis was despatched to Istanbul as an ambassador, there was much room for improvement. While France’s enemies, the Brits and the Dutch, could trade through Ottoman ports and routes paying a 3% levy on their goods, the French had to stump up 5%. This was the sort of humiliating indignity that was always going to wind up a man like Louis XIV. Here was a bloke who for ten years had presented himself as the ‘The Sun King’. The altogether loftier title of ‘Apollo’ had even been bandied about unironically. Getting stiffed by the Turks while others were offered more genial tariffs was not the sort of thing that should happen to a chap of such exalted parts.

The situation wasn’t great for the royal purse either. A tax rate of 5% may sound stunningly trivial in an age where we’ve been conditioned to far, far higher, but it had very real and debilitating effects on French trade in and out of the eastern Mediterranean and The Black Sea in the 1600s. For a docile king with more manageable concerns, this may perhaps have been tolerable. But Louis was perpetually jostling for position with his neighbours in the north, in the south and, of course, across the English channel. The threat of war was semi-permanent. This is something that is always expensive. Every penny mattered. Something had to change. Someone was going to have to get themselves to Istanbul and charm the Ottomans into levelling the fiscal playing field. Charles got the job. The 19th century historian who chronicled his travels in the book we noted earlier, gently suggests that any achievements Charles notched up were likely due to circumstance as much as anything else. Not exactly an Olympian endorsement. But it doesn’t seem the man was a total flunky either. We hear of his tremendous personal appeal, and how his star had risen in higher circles owing to his reputation as an all round decent skin. Here was a man a king might trust to do a delicate diplomatic job.

It wasn’t just money that preoccupied Louis. There was another objective Charles was to pursue. 150 years before, the Ottomans and the French had formalised a set of arrangements called ‘Capitulations’. For our purposes, these loosely enabled Frenchmen to remain subject to French rather than Ottoman law when present in Turkish territories. It was an innovation which removed legal uncertainties and encouraged trade. But Louis XIV now wanted it to go further. He saw himself as the head of the Catholic church, and felt it was right that the shielding reach of his umbrella should extend over all the church’s adherents in the Turkish East. Persuading the imperial decision makers in Istanbul that France ought to be the official protector of every Christian in Ottoman domains was always going to be a big ask. Charles had a challenge on his hands. Nonetheless, he intended to do his best. Together with an extensive assortment of worthies, hangers on, soldiers  and advisers who would aid him in his efforts, he set sail from Toulon.

Diplomacy can move slowly. It took three years to persuade the Ottomans to reduce their 5% levy on French trade. This at least was a result. The renegotiation of the ‘Capitulations’ was much tougher. In fact, it didn’t go anywhere fruitful. In spite of this, Charles pluckily decided in 1674 to visit a plethora of Christian centres and institutions scattered across Turkish territories as if Versailles was extending its protective hand over each of them. Bit by bit, the frilled diplomat made his way around the corner of the Mediterranean and into the Levant until, at last, he came to Jerusalem. For Charles, as the chosen envoy of a man who viewed himself as the head of the church, the place would have had gigantic significance. He had no choice but to make an entry into the city worthy of France, of his king, and of God’s highest emissary on earth.

This is the moment the painting depicts. Fortunately, we have a report of what happened which is taken from letters Charles and others wrote. It can be read in the same account published in 1900 wherein the print which confirmed the identity of the painting was found by that clever expert at the Louvre. The relevant passage reads like a pastiche of a parading Roman general. The only things lacking were tumbling acrobats and jugglers. Charles was preceded by sixteen bodyguards and grooms, by Turkish officers, Christian monks and trumpeters. His arms were carried in front of him. His horse was richly harnessed, and a parasol – symbol of sovereigns across the Orient – shaded his head. Behind him, fifty mounted men rode in two lines with their muskets held high. Pageantry and ceremony. A Christian authority taking its rightful place in an ancient seat. This, at least in part, is what the painting depicts . It’s a straightforward commemoration of the French state’s success on a diplomatic and spiritual mission abroad.

To modern eyes, it all appears a bit impertinent. For most of us, this looks like a gaggle of stiff-necked popinjays laying claim to something they’ve no right to at all. Their fashion sense doesn’t help. It’s as if this great city is being laid at the feet of a handful of lurid and ludicrous dandies. But if we allow these anachronisms to distract us too much, we’ll miss the fact that something sincere is being telegraphed to us. An allusion is being made to the feast of Palm Sunday. A canopy of palm fronds hangs over Charles’ head. In Christian symbolism, these leaves point to one of two things: martyrdom or Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. Given that the scene is set just outside the Holy City, there’s no question that it’s the latter that’s referenced here. The Catholic Frenchmen in this painting would certainly have understood it that way. In fact, their trip to Jerusalem was timed so that Charles would arrive only a few days before the feast fell due. This was no accident. It is quite clear that the men of this diplomatic mission felt they were following in Jesus’ path. Evidently, when the picture was commissioned, the artist was told to paint an explicit indicator of this. And he did. With his brushes, he illustrated for us that as the French king’s emissaries came to this holy place, they followed in the footsteps of Christ himself. Proper order, it seems, is being restored.

No doubt this was a satisfying message to include in a painting that commemorated French efforts to shelter the Christian religion abroad. But there are one or two items we can see elsewhere that indicate a more nuanced reality was playing out in the temporal world. This is where things start to become interesting. If we look at Charles and his entourage, they seem at first to epitomise French courtly fashion: frills, silks, wigs, hats, preposterous knee-covering boots. Yet something’s out of place. Take a moment to examine Charles’ sword. Look at the slightly turned handle with its arms terminating in small ball-like swellings; look at the shallow sweep of the blade in its scabbard. This is no French weapon. This is unmistakably an Ottoman ‘kilij’, the type of sword favoured by the Janissaries who made up the Ottoman armies. In fact, it’s quite close in its configuration to a very famous sword, that of Mehmed II who had ruled two hundred years before and brought the Ottoman empire properly to life in a twenty year blaze of conquest. Although it didn’t come with the overpowering baggage of an Excalibur, this was nonetheless a holy weapon in all but name. You can see it nowadays in the armoury in Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. It seems likely to me that this eye-catching variant of an original was given to Charles in Istanbul. We shouldn’t be surprised. Diplomats are so often the hungry recipients of priceless freebies. But this one was very, how shall we say, Turkish. The fact Charles presents himself with it at a moment of French triumph gives us an intriguing peek at the propaganda and priorities he felt he had to juggle. He evidently felt he couldn’t push the Ottomans out of the picture.

It doesn’t stop there. As we scan across the painting, we see that the long lances which are visible in the mid-ground of the picture look like they’re needle-tipped. These long narrow heads which are designed to punch through armour and mail are also Turkish in style. Presumably, given their position in the picture’s mid-ground, we can surmise that Turkish troops are leading the party’s descent towards the city gates. Elsewhere three men in red stand on the left hand side of the painting. Their moustaches, their clothes and their shaved heads (required by the Hanefite Islamic law under which they lived) make their Ottoman origins clear. This was not an age where credit was shared around even-handedly in political matters. Quite the opposite. Why then has the artist gone to such lengths to announce Turkish involvement in this French triumph? If we pause for a moment’s thought, a straightforward answer suggests itself.

Charles had been abroad for at least four years when this event took place. He had no idea when his king would recall him. In the meantime, he had to live among his Ottoman hosts. If he commissioned a picture of his splendid entry into Jerusalem while he was still overseas, the Ottomans were sure to see it. All the more so, given the piece is a 10 x 20 foot monster. Making it an all French affair wouldn’t go down well. For starters, the Turks had not really agreed to those ‘Capitulations’ Charles sought out on Louis’ behalf. They’d ruled Jerusalem for 150 years and weren’t in any hurry to dilute their grip. Without the proper approval, casting the French as the sole guardians of the city’s Christians would be tantamount to an insult; a presumption far in excess of anything that had been achieved in negotiations.

There was also the fact that as he made his way around the Christian centres of the Ottoman empire, Charles had been accompanied, protected and indulged by Turks every step of the way. He was a guest. Good guests can’t just set up shop in any room they please in their host’s house. They need to be accompanied. You may remember that according to the biography published in 1900, Charles’ entry into the Holy City was preceded by a group of Ottoman officers. He didn’t sweep into the city as a victor; he was allowed to visit by his hosts. To omit these facts from the painting would be delusional, not to mention an act of unpardonable impudence. No ambassador worth his salt would permit such a thing. Not a chance. The artist would have been given his painting instructions: Charles would sit in his saddle as a proud envoy of the French king attempting to bring Catholic authority back to Jerusalem. But an Ottoman blade would gird his waist. Ottoman lances would lead the way, and Ottoman men would stand nearby. This is a painting that has been calibrated to flatter Paris and offer respect to Istanbul. It’s a diplomat’s composition.

At this point, we ought to reroute our attention to a curious element within the picture. It’s the pale horse held by a Turkish attendant on the left. It’s a magnificent, clean-limbed beast. Like many a highly strung aristocrat, its eyes swim as if they were yolks in the whites of poached eggs. This is no run-of-the-mill saddle carrier. This is a steed. Its bridle and martingale drip with gold ornamentation. The tack on Charles’ mount appears threadbare by comparison. But the detail which ought to blip strongest on our radar is the absence of a rider. The wigged Frenchman in red who we might at first suppose is astride the animal is in fact on a different, darker horse. That superb pale horse that’s been painted so prominently within the composition is bafflingly and conspicuously riderless. It’s as if the most important person in the arrangement has yet to arrive. What on earth is going on?

I thought for a change I might take you through some of my process as I attempt to answer this. Often when I try to dissect a painting, I’ll come to an element within it which is hard to reconcile with everything else. It doesn’t quite seem to fit, and presents more questions than answers. Any number of explanations might suggest themselves, but most won’t click with the overall theme within the picture. The trick is to eliminate the duff theories one by one until at last something emerges which sits snugly with the content we see elsewhere in the piece. Once that happens, I’ll double check it against any information I can gather off canvas. This translates as reading up on the people, the time, the customs, the concerns, and anything else that might cast light on how the rogue element connects with the picture. Straightforward enough, you may imagine. And sometimes it is. But more often the process takes a little while. This riderless horse offers a great example of how I go from head-scratching to gotcha.

Because the best explanations are often the simplest, it makes sense to look for the most immediate and functional reason for why the horse has been brought into the scene. We know that Charles has probably been in the saddle all day and has just arrived at a place where he wants to put his best foot forward. Could it be that he is about to jump from the tired horse he’s on and hoist himself aboard this second, more eye-catching nag which has been brought to him fresh and fancy for the entry into the city? Is the riderless horse, in other words, kept by Charles for occasions of ceremony? We know many wealthy dignitaries of the time kept several remounts for moments such as this. Why not here?

The reason this theory doesn’t wash is because mounting a fresh horse is too unceremonious an incident to make it into a formal painting. It would be as if the picture was revealing the chief actor hurriedly applying his make-up before the curtain goes up. It doesn’t deliver the right message. We can tell the artist’s intention was to show us France’s emissary at his best – he’s on the cusp of delivering royal Catholic authority to the Christians of Jerusalem (at least, that’s how he sees it) - not the mundane realities of getting ready for a parade. Besides, the animal is tended to by Ottoman rather than French servants. The same foreign influences are visible elsewhere too. The saddle with its outlandishly high pommel, and the saddle rug with its oriental designs are less in line with French stylistic preferences of the time and much closer to those of the Turks. The same is true of the bridle. Dangling gold pendants hang from the brow band. We see this kind of decoration on high-end Ottoman saddlery, not French. At a moment of triumph for the French state, would Charles show himself about to mount a horse he’d kitted out with Ottoman harnessing and surrounded by Ottoman grooms? I think not. So much for the fancy, fresh horse hypothesis.

Now we have eliminated Charles’ ownership from the equation, it makes sense for us to switch our gaze to the steed itself. We’ve already noted its Ottoman paraphernalia and surrounding staff. It follows that our equine friend must have an Ottoman owner. Who are the likely candidates? The gleaming opulence on display would lead us to believe it must be someone of the highest rank. This narrows the field. Could it be the horse belongs to the Sultan at the time, Mehmed IV? The hunting dogs beneath the horse – Ottomans didn’t keep dogs as pets – would help this theory along. Mehmed was a famously enthusiastic hunting man; so much so that the title ‘Avci’, meaning hunter, had been amended to his name. The dogs, the servants, the gear, the horse, the wealth: surely it has to be him. One problem. The man was nowhere near Jerusalem at the time. He was embroiled in a war with Poland. Unless Mehmed had access to a Star Trek transporter, this would seem to be a dead end.

Where to go next? Looking around, we spot again the mounted figure in red I mentioned earlier. He seems to be a part of the entourage around the mystery horse. Maybe he’ll help us get a little closer to an answer. The wig he wears indicates that he is very much a Frenchman, even though he is not amongst his confrères on the right. Evidently, this is a bloke who can mix with both sides. We also see he wears no hat, as the other French do. Instead he holds it in his hand, having just swept it from his head. He is motioning with it as if presenting the Turkish faction and the horse to the French? Such a gesture strongly suggests the animal is being offered as a gift. But why would a Frenchman present an Ottoman horse? Wait a second. Could it be that he is translating? Having learned from the Ottomans what it is they bring and who it is intended for, is he passing the message along? It seems possible. But for this theory to work, one of the extended party of Frenchman who accompanied Charles would need to be bilingual. Was there such a man in the Holy Land with Charles in 1674?

This is the point to leave the canvas aside for a moment and check for any trace of a multilingual Frenchman in the relevant texts. Et voila! It just so happens such a man was there. He was called Antoine Galland. If you’ve ever read ‘A Thousand And One Arabian Nights’, you may have sped past his name in the introduction. Antoine was the man who, thirty years later, would be the first European to translate the stories from Arabic. He was evidently a fine linguist from an early age. With a little digging we discover that when he was 28 he was attached to Charles’ diplomatic mission as a translator. And here he is. If the Turks needed such a man to interpret for them, it can only mean that the horse was an offering. The ceremony and significance of a diplomatic gift would require clear lines of communication. It seems we’ve cracked the case. But wait. There’s a problem. Nowhere in the account of Charles’ entry into Jerusalem is any mention made of him receiving a horse. And we can be sure a high-stepping jewel as priceless and rarefied as this would have merited a few words at the least.

So where do we go from here? We’re reasonably confident the horse is a gift from the Ottomans, and is being presented through the bilingual Antoine Galland. But we’re also pretty sure that Charles received no such gift. If we’re going to find out who this animal was intended for, perhaps we should investigate Ottoman customs in relation to gift giving. Particularly in the sphere of diplomacy. Just how often did they give away top quality horses, and to what kind of people? This is going to take a bit of digging. If you really want I’ll direct you to a half dozen PDFs out there on the internet. But I suspect you’d prefer the summary. Here it is. Diplomatic gift giving was a serious business for the Ottoman court. There was even a budgetary department of sorts that carefully managed the finances for these matters. Top end horses did feature. But these were very expensive lollipops to part with. The Sultan’s purse may have been capacious, but it wasn’t bottomless. Well bred, prize beasts like the one we can see in the picture were reserved for those of the highest stature and importance. The more recognisable figures who fell into this bracket were people like Frederick the Great and Napoleon. Lowly ambassadors like Charles, no matter how charming, did not make the cut. Elite horses were presents for kings. In fact, we read of one which the Ottomans sent to Louis XIV’s successor, Louis XV, 50 years after the events depicted in this painting. In my book, this sounds like a ‘Click!’

Now everything makes sense. The magnificent horse is a gift from the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed IV ‘Avci’ to the French king Louis XIV. I suspect it marks the successful conclusion of the negotiations for lower tax rates on French trade. This would have been the logical point at which the two monarchs might have exchanged tokens of goodwill across the eighteen hundred miles that separated them. Here we see the animal presented to the French ambassador, who no doubt will make arrangements to ship it on to Versailles. Did this incident occur just before the entry into Jerusalem a few days before Palm Sunday in 1674? Almost certainly not. It would have happened in Istanbul some time before. But we must remember that this painting is primarily concerned with French successes. If the visit to Jerusalem was the high point for Louis’ spiritual authority, the new fiscal relationship with the Ottoman court was its political equivalent. The picture is an attempt to show the two victories side by side. The generous gift of a prize horse symbolises one, while the sight of Catholic Frenchmen descending on the Holy city from underneath some palm leaves represents the other.

As is the case with any picture brimming with propaganda, we have to be wary. We must remind ourselves that Charles’ trip to Jerusalem was in some respects a sham. The ‘Capitulations’ that were required for Louis to properly assume the role of protector of Christians in the Ottoman world were never formally granted by Mehmed. The Sultan didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes either. What sort of half-wit would permit a foreign king to exercise power in his own dominion? Yet it seems this wasn’t enough to stop Charles from setting out for Jerusalem like a saviour, and then commissioning a work of art that would turn the trip into a triumph. The man wanted a picture that would convince its French audience that he had done the job superbly for his king and pulled all the required rabbits from the hat. A few liberties taken, for sure. But what harm? As well as polishing his reputation in France, the piece had to pay enough respect to the Turks that they didn’t take offence. And it just about does. Their presence is all over the canvas. It is Ottoman spears that lead the French into the city. Any Turk spotting this fact ought to nod approvingly. For French eyes, it’s a detail that is camouflaged by meatier distractions elsewhere. I’ve no doubt when it’s fully cleaned and better photos are available, we’ll be able to spot further reinforcements for both sides.

If it seems strange that we have spent so much time trying to disentangle the significance of a horse for two men, each of whom is absent from the canvas, that’s because it is. But this is the nature of politicised art. Paintings in this genre have often been tortured and prodded through hoops in order to satisfy the political agendas of those who commissioned them. They’re the result of meetings and box-ticking. There are messages to be sent, matters of state to be served, dignitaries to be crammed in, propaganda to manufacture. One can imagine the list delivered to the artist. We can sense his frustration as his hunt for beauty, depth, harmony, and a sense of natural design is slowly strangled by the wishes of others. In the end, many artists throw in the towel. They resolve to treat their patron as the unimaginative dullard he probably is, and arrange all the required memoranda in a straight line across the front of the painting, much like a troop of wooden actors taking a bow on the stage. In compositional terms, this is very much what we see here. It’s double-entry bookkeeping with a brush. It’s the most difficult, frustrating and least rewarding kind of painting there is. This is why commemorative paintings of political events – even though they are frequent in public spaces and museums - tend not to hit the level of bucket list art. There’s too much crowbarred onto the canvas by paymasters who know nothing of how to paint.

Throughout this thread, I’ve avoided naming an artist. That’s because, for me, it’s not at all clear who it might be. The New York Times article which first covered this discovery, credits a painter called Arnould de Veuz. I’m sure this information was not given to the journalist casually. I don’t doubt that the team who are working on the painting’s restoration know their stuff. But I’m unconvinced. Arnould was pretty handy with a brush. He could certainly manage something like this if he wanted to. But other works of his have a lightness of touch and an Italianate feel that is absent here. He’s also a better draughtsman. His sense of line and rhythm is more musical and harmonious. There is a further consideration to take into account. This was not the only commemorative painting of Charles on his travels. There is one other that in many respects is very close in style and execution. It depicts Charles’ visit to Athens before he went to Jerusalem. We see the same cardboard cut-out approach to the city, the same stacking of the key players along one plane, even the foliage seems similar. This was by a chap called Jacques Carrey. We know that he accompanied Charles’ roaming diplomatic band on their travels. It seems logical to me that Jacque’s is the hand that lies behind the painting. But without seeing the two pieces in the flesh, I won’t over commit. I’ll just point out that attributions are tricky, and they get harder with artists who are more obscure.

Before we finish, we ought to spend a moment or two pondering how the picture ended up behind a false wall. When it comes to immobile pieces of art like frescoes painted onto walls, the dull truth is that in large family homes they are often bricked over in the course of an interior remodel. They’ve fallen out of fashion, and no one particularly cares if they never see the light of day again. Destroying them is out of the question; that would be a step too far. But walling them over to make way for the jazzy art-deco wallpaper that’s all the rage in the best circles . . . that can be done with a clean conscience. Yet it is hard to imagine that is the case here. We read in the New York Times of the great care which was taken to glue the painting onto a gauze and then onto the supporting wall. This would indicate it was taken out of its frame, had its stretcher bars removed and was relined. This is a costly and difficult process. Someone cared. Perhaps they feared the grubby looting grasp of the Nazis. But this is a competent, workmanlike painting of statesmanship with little in the way of sparkle. It’s not the sort of thing that attracted Hitler’s excitable brigade of thieves. If I were in charge of investigations, I would carefully date the relining of the canvas and cross reference it with contemporary title deeds for the building. A family name will emerge. With luck, in an attic somewhere, their descendants will have an old tin case filled with letters. Who knows what quirks and twists they might reveal. We can hope. In the meantime, if you’re stuck for a wedding dress, why not pop along to Oscar de la Renta’s new place in Paris. If you’re interested in a long and loving marriage, it can’t be a bad idea to see a picture that’s about tactfully sharing round the credit.