Saturday, 19 May 1883

Alice comes to bid me tender farewell. The ball was splendid. During the day at the Salon there was a crowd of amusing people — Jules among them. Gavini spoke to him. Pearls before swine! Margaritas ante porcos!
All that and the rest sets my nerves on edge. First of all I worked badly; Claire was there, but it was not she who hindered me, it was Tony, who came and paid a long visit. He is very pleased with my picture.
And that does not revive me, or rather it does not calm me — those who work with passion will understand me; I should like to see the picture finished already, and the other one too, and that puts me in inexpressible states.
Bojidar is better; he is dining here, and that gives me the pleasure of having someone in front of whom to abuse Jules. Nasty creature, vain, small, horror! His picture is a frightful green. And he himself is yellow. I despise him! My wit at present consists in applying this I despise you or him to everything and everyone. He is stupid, he is ugly, he is dirty, he is thirty-four. What an ignoble being! Vile scoundrel. He is inferior to everything. And then, with studied moderation, I praise other talents, imitating Jules’s accent and intonations as I do it. You old Thrifty One! Miser! You invalid! I despise him!
And then? And then…
I am vexed… no. I am annoyed — no; furious — no; humiliated… not that either. Well, I am a little of all that, very little, because this manufacturer of open air without any air has not come back yet. It is eleven days now since he dined here. He detests me; I shall tell his brother so.
Yes, he has been set against me, he does not like me, but I do not like him either… I am silly, I am play-acting as I write… Ah! My pictures. When I am illustrious, I shall boast of being infirm.
Byron was lame, Gambetta one-eyed, and Jean-Jacques half deaf.
I feel that I can paint now. I have learned things!
And then, afterwards, I am going to paint a decorative panel. Spring. A woman leaning against a tree, her eyes closed and smiling as in a beautiful dream. And all around, a delicate landscape, tender greens, pale pinks, apple trees and peach trees in blossom, new shoots, everything that gives spring its enchanting colour.
It has never been done with sincerity. Lately people have painted spring landscapes, but they have stuck old men or washerwomen or lepers into them. I want a deliberate choice of everything “enchanting”. A thousand springs have been painted, but in cardboard landscapes, done by formula; only Bastien could have thought as I do, and he has not done it yet. This woman must look as though she hears all the harmonies of the tones, of the scents and of the birdsong. There must be sun there. Bastien has painted only grey open air, in the shade.
I want sun there, and I shall do it at Nice in an orchard, and if I find a very poetic orchard my woman will be nude. One must hear the murmur of the stream that runs at her feet, as at Granada, between tufts of violets, and here and there patches of sunlight!
There is an immense picture by Georges Bertrand at the Salon called Printemps qui passe. Five nude women on white horses, coming at the spectator at full gallop in full sunlight. It could have been very beautiful! It is only a succès d’estime — honour to courage and to talent in misfortune. The women have flabby bodies, the sunlight effect is dry and too decorative, the landscape is outside nature, all in lilac, yellow and pinkish tones. The general look is wan.
Nevertheless it is a tremendous attempt… If only it were not so dry, if there had been truer tones and more springlike women’s bodies, it would have been magnificent. I ask of spring tones that sing and go to the soul; I demand ravishing tender greens and enchanting pale pinks, and not yellowish pallors.
Well, such as it is, the Georges Bertrand is a bold thing that pleases those who reason and are indulgent and take account of the attempts and of the talent expended.
My spring is in a more intimate key, a more intense thought and harder to grasp. It is all charm and harmony of tones, a whole that expresses what I felt when thinking of a truly springlike landscape. An orgy of soft notes; it must be of a ravishing colour, with patches of sunlight coming here and there to give life and a certain beginning of mystery to the shadows.
Do you understand?
But Bastien is doing, or is going to do, a girl’s funeral, and if he is intelligent he will give it a landscape like the one I dream of as its setting. I hope he will not have so much wit, and that he will serve us up a landscape of an infamous green… And yet I should be grieved if he did not make a sublime picture of this subject. And I wish he may have had my ideas, while wishing he had not… I see his girl’s funeral on a flowery path, with fruit trees in blossom or roses being stripped of their petals, and coarse peasant heads as foils; all the poetry will lie in the coffin and in nature.
I shall say nothing to him about anything.
At this moment I have written to America to ask whether the M. Davis who stole the Joan of Arc for twenty thousand francs is disposed to sell it again.
In a month we collect thirty-six thousand roubles, and if the picture is not above sixty thousand francs I am determined to commit this folly.
It is three years since it was sold; well, to double one’s money in three years must be enough, even for an American. Yet we shall not be able to have it for less than a hundred thousand francs. Then I should draw back… With sorrow. Thirty-six thousand roubles make about ninety thousand francs.

Notes

In Latin in the original: Marie repeats in the Vulgate’s Latin (Matthew 7:6) the proverb she has just written in French, so the Latin stays. ↩
Printemps qui passe (“Passing Spring”): the title of Georges Bertrand’s painting. ↩
Bastien-Lepage’s Jeanne d’Arc (Salon of 1880) had been bought by the New York collector Erwin Davis, who gave it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1889; it is still there. ↩