Monday, 28 August 1882

There are days when I truly believe I have something in here. Listen — it is impossible that this fever, these impulses, this love of what I do should not be destined to amount to something great. It is impossible to see and feel nature and form as I do without arriving at...
I drew the second figure for the painting, and then, as Mme Tchernitsky, who had arrived while I was working, was reading in a corner, I made a quick sketch of her.
One must never compose anything — no composition equals truth; the great art lies in seizing the right moment and doing what one sees... But let this truth sink in: to copy nature truly one must have genius, and an ordinary artist can only ever parody it... A skilled technician who copies for the sake of copying produces a vulgar work which the vulgar call realist and which they are often right to scorn. It is not a matter of taking just anyone and painting them as one sees them; a movement caught unawares, a pose, can be held only roughly, and in the posing it stiffens. The mind must be struck and retain the impression of the instant when one saw the thing. That is where one recognises the artist.
I have re-read a book by Ouida — a woman of no great talent — called Ariadne; it is in English. A book made to move one to the utmost degree; I have been on the point of re-reading it twenty times in the last three or four years and have always drawn back, knowing what agitation it caused me and must cause me again. It is about art and love, and is set in Rome.
in the margin
On the first reading I had been moved only by the love and by Rome.
Three things combined — any one of which would be enough to set me ablaze — and love is the least of them; one could remove the love from the book and there would remain quite enough to drive me mad. For Rome I have an adoration, a veneration, a passion that nothing equals. For the Rome of artists and poets, the true Rome, has not even been tarnished for me by the society Rome that made me suffer. I remember only poetic and artistic Rome, and that brings me to my knees. The book is about sculpture — I am forever on the point of trying it myself; last night I could not sleep!
O divine power of art, O celestial and incomparable feeling that holds you apart from everything, O supreme joy that lifts you above the earth — it is with heaving breast and eyes wet with tears that I invoke it and prostrate myself before God to implore His protection. It is enough to drive one mad; I want to do ten things at once; I feel, I believe — I believe, do you hear — that I am going to do something fine. And my soul soars towards unknown heights.
Provided it is not in order to fall lower again... These relapses are terrible — but life must have a bit of everything... Days of dejection follow hours of exaltation; one suffers during both; yet I am not enough of a poseur to say that one suffers equally.
Compose nothing? But paintings — mine? Well, it is almost the same thing: a subject arrests you, strikes you — it is evident that at that very instant you picture the scene, you see the painting. If your imagination has been vividly struck, you see it almost simultaneously with reading or thinking. I am sure that all truly moving paintings were conceived in just this way. Beyond that there is only research and correction — the academy. One must do only what imposes itself, what haunts and holds you.
Dumas is quite right: one does not hold one’s subject — it is the subject that holds you. A man staking five francs may feel the same anguish as one staking a hundred thousand... I can therefore understand...
No, no! There is in me such a need to translate my impressions, such a violence of artistic emotions, so many confused things crowding in my head, that it cannot fail to find expression one day. The formula — oh, the formula.
All the fortune-hunting counts will say that the formula is marriage. I am not innocent enough to confuse the... impressions. I am no saint, and I would sometimes like to be a man — but let us not confuse, I beg you, earthly appetites that I understand by intuition or by nature... with the others... What M. Dumas fils calls love is a need like any other, and one dispenses with it easily when one is more than a young girl or an animal.
As for love — true love — well, it is an accessory, a complement, a crowning of the edifice; at least for me.
One arrives at it by other means: being known, celebrated, great — that naturally brings in its train all the successes and the passions one inspires. But here I am straying from my subject.
The point was simply to tell the false Diogenes to go hang — those who would reduce to their own level feelings they are incapable of understanding. There are filthy, ignoble, hideous creatures who reduce all feminine ambition to physical causes... marry her off and she will paint no more. Yet one might cite married women — or women who are as good as married — who have had talent and genius. There have been some too who remained Joan of Arc, but there have also been great men in the same case. You see plainly, ignoble materialists, that you are nothing but brutes. And since everything must be told you, know, you hideous beasts of St. Anthony, that if devotees of Art think about what M. Dumas fils calls love, it is as they think of their dinner, their sleep, and so forth. And that if I were married it would not take from me my love of Art — but on the contrary would allow me to devote myself to it with greater tranquillity, having no trouble to endure save that of thought. I am sorry to say this to you, but it seems to me I am arguing with real beings and answering their objections.