Thursday, 23 November 1882

Yesterday was the second performance of Le Roi s'amuse — and at the same time the fiftieth anniversary. Naturally one could not find boxes.
What I am doing this week is so poor that I cannot make sense of it myself. Julian called me to his private room so as not to say it in front of everyone, and spoke words so useless, so cruel... So...: "At this moment, do not attempt torsos or important things — do only studies, but push them to the end. Leave all thought of ambition for now; it does not exist. You have no idea to what modesty, to what simplicity one must return in order to get out of this. [Word blacked out] Do not think about the Salon." I do not understand him. Last year he told me more or less the same thing; now, looking at last year's studies, he says: "You could not do as much at present — that was good work." To hear him, for four years I have been doing nothing — that is to say, his reproaches and lamentations and little sarcasms have begun ever since I started painting, for three or four years.
He perhaps thinks he is spurring me to work — it has the opposite effect; it annihilates me. I sat for three hours, lost, my hands uncertain, a burning sensation in my arms. But it is very foolish, for it annihilates me. If I do not make rapid progress in painting as I did in drawing, that is no reason to say all these infamous things to me. And yet. No. Last summer I did Irma Laughing and everyone found it good, though a little dry. This summer, after Spain, after the illness, I did a pastel that everyone found extremely good, and a painting that was good. What has happened since? I failed with my fisherman? Yes — and then I went to Russia for six weeks' holiday; I come back, I land with an execrable model, a bad position; I force myself to work all the same, against my inclination; I produce something dreadful that I scrape, that I daub; I try amidst all this mess to paint an arm; Julian arrives just as I had roughed it in — and badly — and then he tells me all this, in his private room again, in particular.
That I am not Breslau — I know it; that I need to study — I know that too. But from there to coming and telling me that all is lost, that I no longer know anything, that I have committed or not committed I know not what, that I know not what has occurred... In short, one would think I understood nothing about it, upon my honour.
He does not mean it... Then what? After my illness, in Nice — all the efforts I made he treated as horrors. Well, if that is his opinion, it is mine too; only one must not then say that it is because I scatter myself, that I do nothing, that I am sure of myself, that I refuse, that I consider myself arrived. He does not believe it — it is a mockery. But it is very foolish, for it annihilates me. If I do not make rapid progress in painting as I did in drawing, that is no reason to say all these infamous things to me. And yet. No. Are Irma or the pastel really so far inferior to Breslau in 1879? Breslau, after three years of painting, exhibits her friend Maria; I, after three years, have painted Irma Laughing — only the head and the arm finished; I spent fifteen days on it, of which eight or nine were spent on the dress that was subsequently effaced.
Breslau spent two months working away at Maria; she had time to redo and redo the hands and the dress. I consider myself in 1881 almost equal to Breslau in 1879. That would mean keeping pace: Breslau began to paint at the end of 1876 or the beginning of 1877, at Julian's, having drawn before — but since she drew before Julian, we cannot compare exactly; I therefore count only the years of painting. When I began to draw, Breslau had already been painting for about a year. So if I am roughly at her level of '79 in '81, we have kept pace. But then I fall ill and lose six or seven months. Then things resume a little... And given all that — suppose she is better gifted than I for painting, which is undeniable. Well, I have not done so badly as Julian wishes to say. 1882 for me corresponds to Breslau's year of failure in 1880 — am I now at her level of 1882?
But the comparison cannot be continued — beyond a certain degree, each person's temperament no longer permits the kind of comparison possible in a studio. Only next September shall I be at the point (still speaking chronologically) where she had her Salon success.
The previous year she was hung in the outer gallery. Well — even if at this moment I am not quite at the level of her year of failure, I have my illness to excuse me. I re-read myself and admire myself. This will seem very amusing in two or three years. For the moment, I continue. Can it be that he is putting me in the depths because I have abandoned his studio? I know that when Breslau began working at home they said she was finished. And yet it cannot be that.
That I need to study — I know it; it is Tony's opinion, it is my own. I have not arrived — that is clear, that is known, that is understood. And I have lamented so much before Tony that he consoles me by saying it is because I undertake things of the utmost difficulty and want them to be very good, and that for the moment it is impossible. The language is reasonable, and understandable. Breslau did not attempt plein-air work and did not dare lament that her pictures were not as good as Bastien[-Lepage]'s; since I am at the year of the outer gallery, I ought to do as she did and not paint fishermen at the water's edge. She did not do her little Breton girl until the following year, in the open air — and it was not as difficult as the fisherman. Add to that that she is more of a painter than I am.
By going too fast I bewilder myself and trouble my teachers. So — granting that I am as gifted as Breslau — I have progressed more or less as she did.
But we are not alike: she is far more of a painter; I have been ill; and I have not had her artistic environment — stimulating and propitious.
All that does not prevent my situation at the studio from being humiliating — I have the appearance of doing penance, of starting work again from the beginning. It is intolerable. It seems to me that people look on me as a failed old pupil, that I am thought to be more senior than Breslau and even than the detestable Amélie, and that people are laughing at the brilliant beginnings of former times, and that it is as if...

Notes

Le Roi s'amuse (1832): Victor Hugo's verse drama, suppressed by the government after its first performance in 1832 and not performed again for fifty years. Its revival in 1882, for its fiftieth anniversary, was a major theatrical event in Paris. The plot — a court jester whose daughter is seduced by the king — supplied the libretto for Verdi's Rigoletto (1851).
Breslau's Maria: Louise Breslau's large portrait of her friend Maria Bashkirtseff — no relation — exhibited at the Salon of 1880 and considered her breakthrough work.
The outer gallery (galerie extérieure): at the annual Salon, the least prestigious hanging position — poor light, peripheral location, a sign that one's submission had not impressed the jury.
"In the depths" (dans le troisième dessous): a theatrical phrase — the third level below the stage, where scenery was stored, was the deepest and most inaccessible. To be "in the third below" meant to be utterly ruined or undone.
Bastien-Lepage: Jules Bastien-Lepage (1848–1884), the leading French naturalist painter of the generation, renowned for his large outdoor figure studies. His Joan of Arc (1879) and rural scenes set the standard against which young Salon painters measured themselves.