Saturday, 12 May 1883

I spend the morning at the studio chatting with the ladies, and catch Julian for a moment to ask him to come and see the urchins. You understand — I don’t want advice; only the impression of the public. Now Julian represents the right-thinking majority.
He arrived at dinner time; the canvas had to be fetched from the shelter; he saw both, the urchins first. There are six of them; one tall boy, seen almost from behind, is showing the other five, grouped round him, something or other in his hand.
One sees the street fairly far off, and in the distance two or three little girls going away. He flatly makes me take out the street lamp that was in the left-hand corner; he is right. For the rest, he finds it original, amusing, and almost certainly a success. Much better than the two urchins at the Salon. Above all the roguish side of the main urchin, who is beginning to grow up — one of those the little ones call the big boys. As for the women…
Well, Julian was perfect this evening. Serious, delicate, kind. He neither teased me nor made fun of me. I point this out to him, and he tells me that he takes his tone from what I show him. And that I am well and truly getting back in the saddle. And that these two canvases, so different, would make a very great effect. He seems to believe that this time it is serious. he was to go Our ladies wanted to take him to the circus, but he stayed with me, and we talked about the Holy Women. I explain to him how I understand it. We made great fun of Tony’s draperies. Could those women have had fine draperies of blue or brown cashmere? They had been following Jesus for months; they were the revolutionaries… the Louise Michels, the outcasts of those days; they were outside elegance, outside fashion…
And during the days the great drama lasted, the trial and the execution, could they have been anything but in rags, or nearly? Julian says it may be sublime or… a flop. And that I must be careful with the Magdalene, because I want to put a whole world into her, and that… In that line the greatest artists have suffered defeats. Too bad, I am launched! My picture is there. It is already done. I see it, I feel it. Nothing in the world would change anything in it, no journey, no nature, no advice. The effect as roughed in pleases Julian. But it is not yet what I want. I know at what hour it must take place: at the hour when outlines blur, the calm that contrasts with what has just happened. And far off, human forms going away after having buried him; the two women alone have remained, sunk in stupor. The Magdalene in profile, her elbow on her right knee and her chin in her hand, her eye, which sees nothing, fixed on the entrance to the sepulchre; the left knee touches the ground and the left arm hangs down.
The other Mary stands a little behind, her head in her hands and her shoulders raised; one sees only her hands, and the pose must reveal an outburst of tears, of weariness, of release, of despair.
She is standing upright Her head fallen into both her hands, and the body in which one feels the abandon, the ebbing away of all strength. It is all over.
Julian thinks this movement very beautiful — she is not concerned with the public, she is there for herself, given over to her misery.
The seated woman will be the most difficult. There must be stupor there, revolt, bewilderment, despair, prostration — and revolt! And it is that revolt which is the delicate thing to render.
A world. A world. A world. And it is I who undertake this? Well, yes, it is I, and it depends on no one but me, and it is impossible not to do it. God willing. Ah! He must know that I fear Him and that I fall on my knees to beg Him to let me work. I deserve no favour, no help! Only that He let me do it.
But it may be a flop, a flop in the eyes of the public. It will be no less a beautiful thing for that. And I shall have my urchins to console me.
That would be too wonderful.
I nearly forgot to say that Julian, on arriving, announced an honourable mention as a certainty.
It made such an impression on me that I had forgotten all about it, as you see. Art is more than that, and above that.
My Salon picture does not interest me. I did it for want of anything better, and not having enough time.

Notes

In French in the original: l’asile. ↩
Marie’s projected painting of the holy women at the tomb. ↩