Sunday, 31 December 1882

It is too dark to paint; we go to church, then to the Gavinis' where we find Géry. Géry, to whom we gave a silver jug in memory of Mise-Brun, has sent a very large box of sweets — as has M. de Morgan. Saint-Amand gave his portrait framed, and I think that is all. For six months we have given no sign of life; with this move, people scarcely know whether we still exist in this Paris.
And then we go to see the rue de Sèze exhibition again. Bastien, Saint-Marceaux and Cazin. This is the first time I have seen Cazin's painting, and I am conquered — it is poetry. But Bastien's village evening yields nothing to this professional poet called Cazin; and note that Bastien has often been stigmatised with the title of "first-rate executant."
There I spend a precious hour — there are pleasures. Mlle de Villevieille, who came to see me yesterday, is right: sculpture was never made like Saint-Marceaux's. The words so often used and become banal — it is alive — are here of absolute truth. And beyond this master quality, which would suffice to make an artist happy, there is a depth of thought, an intensity of feeling, a je-ne-sais-quoi of mystery that does not make Saint-Marceaux a man of immense talent merely, but an artist of genius.
Only he is still young, and still alive — that is why I seem to be exaggerating. At moments I would place him above Bastien.
It is a fixed idea now: I must have a painting by one and a statue by the other. Last year's street boy, entitled Pas de chance.
Ah! for that I would need twenty thousand francs. It seems to me I would spend all my time on my knees before these objects if I had them — I should want to sleep at the foot of the painting and fall asleep and wake with it before my eyes. We took a walk to see the fairground stalls, and the priest dines here. Yesterday there were the Engelhardts, the Princess and Alexis, who find me greatly improved in looks.

Notes

Jean-Charles Cazin (1841–1901): French painter, associated with poetic naturalism — atmospheric landscapes and figure scenes suffused with a melancholy twilight quality. He was a favourite of critics who found Bastien-Lepage too prosaic.