Monday, 7 October 1878

I paint in the mornings and draw in the afternoons.
If I am writing this evening it is because I have found in Balzac a M. d'Arthez who: Though he had reached the serious age of a man at thirty-eight, he retained a flower of youth due to a sober life, etc., and like all men of study, like statesmen, he had attained a reasonable embonpoint... dark eyes, thick dark hair... She had then at last encountered that superior man whom all women desire — if only to play with that power to which she would consent to submit, if only for the pleasure of mastering it; she found at last the greatness of intelligence united to the naïvety of heart, etc. — and then she saw, by an unheard-of happiness, all these riches contained in a form that pleased her... To that noble simplicity that adorned his imperial head, d'Arthez joined a naïve expression, the naturalness of children, and a touching benevolence.
How I should like to know what Balzac would say about... the Deceased.
Without elegance, without wit, without art, through common words I demolish and vulgarise people. By God! It is always easy to find the wretched side of a man — at bottom, at least the ordinary side, which one then further vulgarises and debases. One listens to the gossip of a human veterinarian; one sees no one; one forms false ideas from barely perceptible data... It is as if one wished to paint a portrait from a small photograph.
Everything I can say lies within the domain of conjecture — and that is truly wretched. Do you know why I express myself so badly? Because I am afraid to write words as they come to me — they seem to me either too tender, or too serious; or briefly, through a stupid false shame, I seek to write like M. de Villemessant's Figaro, in that bantering tone which, fearing mockery, forestalls it.
The fools will tell themselves I intend to go on writing like Balzac — no. But do you know what permits him to be so admirable? He pours onto paper everything he conceives in his mind, quite naturally, without fear, without affectation. (Almost all intelligent people have thought what he knew how to describe — but who has been able to express it as he does?) That faculty given to another mind would certainly have produced nothing similar — but suppose Balzac writing the same things as other writers.
To be complete I must praise or criticise antediluvian things.
No — not quite all people have thought thus, but in reading Balzac they were so struck by his truth, his naturalness, that they believed they had thought it themselves! But in my own case it has happened a hundred times, in speaking or thinking of something, that I was horribly tormented by ideas I could feel there — yet lacked the strength to disentangle and extract from the appalling chaos of my mind. I too have another pretension: when I say something well, a very fine observation, an expression like the one just now about "permitting" — it seems to me that no one will understand.
Perhaps they truly will not understand as I mean it.
Good night, good people.
Robert-Fleury and Julian are building an entire edifice on my account. They are training me like a horse that might win the grand prize. Julian makes only gestures to indicate it will spoil me — but I assured him that it encourages me enormously, which is the truth.

Notes

The passage quoted is from Balzac's Les Secrets de la princesse de Cadignan (1839). Daniel d'Arthez is the idealized intellectual hero of the Comédie humaine — brilliant, pure-hearted, and nobly simple.