Wednesday, 11 April 1883

The Canroberts take us to visit Francesqui's studio, then we all go to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, then to have tea at the Canroberts'. Francesqui has talent and is kind and agreeable — but… At the Arts Décoratifs I saw a reduced version of Saint-Marceaux's Arlequin. Never before has art moved me to this degree. Everything disappears, everything fades. Painting? What is painting! Wretchedness, foolishness, trickery, decadence. It is impossible that Saint-Marceaux should not one day be placed among the greatest. He produces little because… the craftsmen do not work for him. He loves his art too much. Where is the critic who has written of the Arlequin as a philosopher and a man of letters? Théophile Gautier is dead. And Wolff is too much shop and studio. The Arlequin is not only of unrivalled execution, but it is a work of high philosophy — it is the most complete, the most refined, the most witty, the most grandiose image of a superior mind watching the vices, the absurdities, the infamies of this world parade before it. This statue by its execution alone could be a masterpiece; but the thought it expresses — its thoughts, rather — are of an absolutely [word blacked out: ——] order. It is the highest expression of spiritual and satirical genius. It is refined and it is grandiose. It has such youth and vigour of form… Such nonchalance as to take your breath away. Am I then the only one to understand everything this great artist has put into his work?! Is it possible that people perceive only the proportions, the pose, the craft, the dexterity?
Julian used to say to me: what talent wasted on this thing — and why?
Look, it seems to me that is enough… No — every enlightened person must understand it. Look, go and see Falguière — it is very beautiful, it is flesh, it is fine form. He is a very great talent.
Then go and see Saint-Marceaux, and return again to Falguière. And you will feel a sensation of emptiness, of softness — like when you look at Clairin's decorative panels after a painting by Bastien-Lepage. Everything seems limp after the Arlequin.
The sublime allegory trembles, vibrates. The muscles twitch beneath the panels of the close-fitting costume. He laughs crookedly, he sneers, arms crossed and his slapstick in hand — he mocks all humanity.

Notes

L'Arlequin (The Harlequin): a celebrated bronze sculpture (1879) by René de Saint-Marceaux (1845–1915), depicting the commedia dell'arte Harlequin in a posture of mocking superiority.