Friday, 27 April 1883

Tony came to see me yesterday and stayed an hour — and for a change we talked about Bastien. Only in front of him I am restrained in my enthusiasm. We also spoke of my large painting, and the aforementioned Tony expressed serious misgivings.
He greatly encourages me to do the six urchins. It is very difficult — but in the end all one has to do is copy. One always has to copy. Copy? That is easy to say — to copy without the artist's preconception, without an interior idea, to copy is stupid. To copy — but one must copy with the soul as with the eyes. I do not say all this to Tony; he would understand it, but he would add ideas of classical interpretation that I repudiate with the most extreme violence. In the end he says that for a painting of that order one must know things I have no inkling of. For example: draperies. Quèsaco? Study draperies? Study draperies? What do you mean?
Well, Monsieur, I shall do my draperies — since draperies there are — exactly as I handle modern dress.
It will be dreadful.
— And why? Were the people I am going to paint not living and modern?
— Yes, but there are things in art one must know. You cannot do draperies — !! — just as they come; you will have to arrange…
— Do I not arrange, as an artist, the clothes of 1883 to my own conception? Do I copy them without choosing? Is choice not one of the artist's powers?
— Be that as it may — you will not find your painting ready-made.
I do not reply — it would lead me to say foolish things. But — oh!… I shall not find my painting ready-made in nature. Well, I never! What can that mean?
My painting is in my head. And nature will furnish the means of executing it.
It is evident that a certain feeling must preside over all of this… If I possess that feeling, all will go well — but if I do not possess it, no studies of draperies will give it to me. Those studies and others of the Tony-variety can only help me fabricate a correct work. And I should be in despair. I am horrified to think that this breath of pallor and academic nullity might influence me.
I need a landscape more or less like the one I dream of — and it is not complicated.
And I need two women, whom I have found. The chief one is astonishing. And the other is also fine. And then? And then I need a base somewhere in the country and fine weather to do my figures. And the landscape will be made from studies brought back from there.
And then? The difficulty is that I shall not do it this year.
I shall only be able to go in November, and unless I do it entirely on location I shall have to wait until summer to execute it.
At this moment there is in me one of those deep, enthusiastic, immense convictions that it must be beautiful! And there is also the certainty that one's powers multiply tenfold when one works with love. It even seems to me that a certain élan can make up for almost everything. I shall give you proof of this.
For example… I have not played the piano for six or seven years. Or rather, not at all — just a few bars in passing; ~~and three times a week, some~~ I have gone months without touching it, only to suddenly play five or six hours a day, once a year. Under those conditions the fingers are nothing — so I can do nothing
…in front of an audience, and any young lady at all would beat me. And yet — let me hear a masterpiece like Chopin's march, or Beethoven's, let me be seized and possessed by the desire to play it, and in a few days — two or three days — playing no more than an hour a day, I succeed in playing it perfectly well, as well as anyone, as well as Dusautoy who holds the first prize of the Conservatoire and who practises — and with a conviction he does not have and never will.
Who is the idiot who dared say that Bastien is nothing but a craftsman, a manufacturer of competent painting? Bastien is the most delicate, the most refined, the most inward of painters. Everything he has done is of an exquisite sensibility, of a penetrating poetry.
Except perhaps the potatoes and the beggar… And even then…
Le Père Jacques — it is the marvellous symphony of the forest in autumn; and the little girl gathering flowers is a masterpiece. He paints a passage as only the strongest can — and at the same time he has delicacies, refinements of feeling, so subtle that he almost needs all his knowledge and all his force simply to remain great.
The young peasant woman, weary, seated at the roadside, in whose ears love songs are singing — it is of an infinite feeling and delicacy…
Yesterday evening and this afternoon we attended the Holy Week services at the Russian church.