Thursday, 15 March 1883

There. It is finished. At three o'clock I was still working, but everyone arrived and I had to leave it. Mme and Mlle Canrobert, Alice, Bojidar, Alexis, the Princess, Abbema, Mme Kanchine. And Tony came in the morning.
The whole company goes to Bastien's to see the painting: L'amour au village. In an orchard a young girl seen from behind, her head bowed, [blacked-out word: holding] a flower in her hand, leaning against a hedge; on this side of the hedge a young man seen from the front, eyes lowered and looking at his fingers which he torments. It is of a penetrating poetry and an exquisite feeling. As for the execution — there is none.
It is nature itself. There is no painting, there are no brushstrokes. It is nature itself. One wishes to fall on one's knees before it. But not only this painting — sketches and studies on every side that complete the admiration inspired by this marvellous talent. There is a small portrait of Mme Drouet, the old guardian angel of Victor Hugo, which is a miracle of truth, of feeling, of likeness; none of his paintings so much as remotely resemble one another — they are living beings passing before one's eyes. He is not a painter, he is a poet, a psychologist, a metaphysician, a creator. His own portrait there in a corner is a masterpiece. And he has not yet given everything — that is to say, one cannot do more or better than what he has done, but we await him at a great painting where he will reach such heights that no one will dare deny his genius. The girl seen from behind with her two short braids and her flower in her hand is a poem. He is a great genius, truly. Velázquez painted as well as he, but Velázquez was nothing but an intelligent painter.
Whereas Bastien is a sublime artist, a creator, a psychologist. And he is beautiful.
We go then to see the paintings being brought into the Palais. It is snowing; Breslau is there, opposite us.
Émile Bastien is sending a very good landscape as well — without his brother he would have some talent.
You do not know what is going on at home.
It has just been noticed that Alexis is of a princely house, that his cousin Pierre is one day soon to be king of Serbia for Russia will overthrow Milan, and that really I ought to marry Alexis. Yes, it has been discussed at home for two days now. It has no doubt been said that here I am at twenty-four with an incurable illness, and that really I ought to settle down.
So then... Doubtless it is difficult for me to marry, for the indispensable conditions are a name, a certain fortune, and a good fellow who leaves me free. The last above all. I should marry in order to be able to come and go as the needs of my art require.
To be called a princess, with an agreeable husband — a decent Slav fellow who will regard me as a marvel and will not bother me. And who will have fifty thousand francs a year — for a modern prince that is not bad, since they usually have not a penny. That is what has been said at home. I say nothing. I should like to be independent and to have talent.
No one has ever entered more deeply into the reality of life than Bastien. Nothing is greater, more elevated, more admirably human. The natural dimensions further render the truth of his paintings more arresting.
Whom will you cite to me? The Italians — naturally conventional. Some are sublime but inevitably routine, and besides... they do not grip one's heart, soul, mind.
The Spaniards? Brilliant and charming. The French — brilliant, dramatic, or academic... Millet and Breton are poets, no doubt. But Bastien has united everything. And he is the king of all, not only by his miraculous execution but by the depth and intensity of feeling. One cannot push observation further, and "the genius of observation is almost the whole of human genius," as Balzac said. I am writing seated on the floor at the moment of going to bed — I had to recount all of this.
He is a genius.
The Engelhardts, the Princess, and Alexis dined here. Bastien is a genius.

Notes

"Il n'y en a pas" — highest praise among Realists: the technique is invisible, subsumed entirely into the illusion of reality.