Sunday, 10 June 1883

Since Sunday is not a day when one risks meeting anyone, I go to the Salon in the morning. There are truly abominably unjust awards. Bastien's painting causes me more and more grief. Whom am I to admire, good God? I should like to see his Jeanne d'Arc again... There is always a crowd in front of the young Rochegrosse's young painting. It is very powerful, that is indisputable — but it leaves me cold. But what does not leave me cold? To be moved I must make a great effort, and then by dint of working myself up I arrive at a great exaltation... a forced one... Yet Jeanne d'Arc... Yes, that is true, and then? And a few other things as well. At the Louvre? Portraits — for the large ancient compositions... But the portraits, and then some delightful things from the French school. And at the last Exhibition of Portraits of the Century, the Lawrences, and two or three of Bastien — his brother, Theuriet, Sarah. And then... And then — who says that I am a painter at all?... Pushed into another path I should have reached the same point by sheer intelligence and will, except in mathematics. But music passions me and I could compose readily. So why painting? And what instead? These are wretched thoughts. I want to paint a large canvas — large in dimensions... And I search for a subject... I have an antique one... Ulysses recounting his adventures to the king of the Phaeacians, Alcinous — Alcinous and Queen Arete on their thrones, surrounded by princes, young men, and their household; this takes place in a colonnade of rose marble; Nausicaa, leaning against one of these columns a little behind her parents, listens to the hero. The whole atmosphere of the feast and the song of the blind bard Demodocus, who sits in the background looking out with his lute resting on his knee, indifferent as a singer no longer listened to. In all this there are attitudes, groups, composition in short. It is not that which worries me — that will be fine — but the execution. There is the terrible part... I know nothing, nothing, nothing. Furniture, costumes, accessories — and then to produce a large composition one requires research... And one must know what Tony calls the qualities, or the... What? Well then... Look — it seems so difficult that it cannot be quite so difficult as all that... A woman with such a canvas would cause an enormous stir. But I have so many projects that my whole life would go into them. The large canvas would be for 1885!! Where shall we be then? *Monday, 11 June 1883 My father is dead. The telegram arrived this morning at ten o'clock. That is to say, at that very instant, those madwomen downstairs were saying that Maman must come back this very minute, without waiting for the burial. And I came up here very agitated, but not weeping — only when Rosalie came to show me the arrangement of a dress I said to her: "It is not worth it — Monsieur is dead." And [I] began to weep, irresistibly. Have I wronged him? I do not think so. I have always tried to behave properly... But in such a moment one always believes oneself guilty of something... I should have gone with Maman... but our relations were not tender enough for my departure to have been warranted... What does it matter — one should have done more than was merely correct. But [Crossed out: he was blameless, I] could not remain there... he had wounded me in a thousand ways, and everything must be over before I can entirely forget. I waited with a kind of impatience for a resolution — without desiring it, but there was in this idea of an event, of being in deep mourning... there was an occupation, a novelty... Should I reproach myself these thoughts? I do worst in writing them — so many things pass through one's head that if one wrote them all... He was only fifty — to have suffered so!... And in the end to have done harm to no one: very well liked at home, perfectly honourable, upright, an enemy of all shady dealings, and a good fellow. Tuesday, 12 June 1883 I painted a little... perhaps not very proper, but I did nothing yesterday. Bojidar comes to address the death announcements, and we lack composure — the names of people call for commentary... If the event had taken place here, I should have been very affected; but from a distance, and then we had been expecting it. Saint-Amand comes to weep. Wednesday, 13 June 1883 Cards arrive in quantity. Mme Gavini sent a telegram from Agen; Odette came, and M. Eschmann, a Russian, and old Géry who arrives with a face from another world, in tears... I found it hard to be in harmony... One ought to have wept... And I did not weep, even during the memorial service at the church, which took place at five o'clock. No one was invited and there were only Saint-Amand, Bojidar, the Engelhardts, and Tchernitsky. If I had been truly grief-stricken I should not recount it, for there is in that a modesty it seems to me I would be violating; all the same, I am too calm... I had a model this morning — Edwige, who poses at Suchetet's; and Suchetet, learning yesterday that she would pose at my studio this morning, sends me his sincerest compliments on my Salon work. He was walking with Saint-Marceaux, who showed him my paintings, with which he is very pleased. I have never seen this Suchetet — we have only often had the same model, through whom I asked him for some information on modelling tools, stands, etc. That is exceedingly agreeable, is it not — is it not agreeable? Among the other cards one receives that of Jules Bastien-Lepage, one of the first, and a letter from the architect who writes: "Dear Mademoiselle, if I were not afraid of being importune, etc. etc., which strikes so violently your whole sympathetic family, whom I have the pleasure of knowing... " He then begs me to believe in the sincerity etc., his respect, and his admiration. Perhaps one should not mock the form when the substance comes from the heart, but all the same it is very nearly a concierge's letter. Does the great brother not write better?... I should like to wring a letter from him. What preoccupies me is that I am too cold — it will give rise to comment... If he, my father, could see me occupied with my mourning dress and the condolence cards and letters, he would have had one of his mocking, contemptuous expressions, as if to say: is that all? It is his fault! His nature was very congenial to me — far more so than Maman's — and he took pleasure in making himself... indifferent and often detested, doing nothing but wound me and speak to me in a tone I would not have suffered from anyone. He invested his pride in it. "Ah, you grovel before her, do you — well, you shall see!!" Here in Paris he was violent to the last degree; he very nearly threatened to beat me once; my expression had seemed insolent to him, and he cried: "You shall see what I do to you — you shall see, you shall remember it all your life." Maman took him away, fearing he would throw something at my head. And what had I done? Nothing but say: "I beg you not to shout at me — I am not accustomed to being spoken to this way!" That calm manner I had exasperated him. When I think now of that abominable tone he adopted to get the better of my "defiances" — my blood rises. And yet I tried to be kind to him, but he always feared being under my "dominance." I could have loved him greatly, greatly, but that — and that business concerning Maman... Well, I tell you things as they are. He lived in his world, reigning over those around him, and I in mine, reigning over those around me; then we were brought together and he made a kind of childishness of asserting his independence. Very often he would take offence and imagine that I wanted to "command" when I was a thousand leagues from thinking of it. In short, one must attribute his irritability to illness... In any case... In a moment such as this, facing death, facing this end of everything — I ask myself whether I was at fault. And I do not believe so... He treated me as I know not what — I wept over it and even had the idea of leaving, going away, to make it perfectly clear that... I picture Maman — if I had the misfortune to lose her — well, I should have a thousand reproaches and a thousand remorse, for I have been very rude and very violent... For good reasons and out of self-preservation, I know, but all the same, I shall reproach myself for all those intemperate words... Besides, Maman... There would be immense grief in losing her — the mere thought makes me weep; I may acknowledge her faults, we might not get along if we were not related, I may tell myself... But in her case all that is inconsistency, lightness of mind, and ignorance; she is a child, and a child in those conditions is a hateful creature, I know well; I should prefer she had lovers and knew how to live like others... She is virtuous, but she understands nothing and has no confidence in me... and always believes that everything will sort itself out, that it is better "not to make a fuss." I believe that the death which would cause me the most grief would be my aunt's — she who has devoted her whole life to everyone, who has never, not for a single minute, lived for herself, except for the hours spent at roulette in Baden or Monaco. Only Maman is kind to her; I have not kissed her in a year and say to her only indifferent things or reproaches on a heap of trifles. It is not out of malice, but I too have been very unhappy and still am, and all these discussions about our affairs with Maman and my aunt have accustomed me to a brief, hard, cutting tone. If I were to say tender or even gentle things I should weep like a fool. Well — without being tender, I could be more agreeable, smile and talk sometimes; that would make her so happy and cost me nothing — but it would be such a change in my manner... that I dare not, out of a kind of false shame. And yet this poor woman whose story can be told in one word — Devotion — moves me, and I should like to be kind... And if she were to die — she is one who would leave me with remorse! Look — Grand-papa: he sometimes impatient me with old man's quirks, but old age must be respected; I have answered him harshly at times, and when he was paralysed I felt such remorse that I came very often to sit with him, to atone, to soften it, to expiate. And then Grand-papa loved me very much, and here I am weeping at the thought of him. But my father... After twenty years of separation he wanted to win me over by coarseness and brusqueness!... Thursday, 14 June 1883 Friday, 15 June 1883 The Canroberts write me a charming letter; indeed everyone is very kind and I am not in harmony with all these condolences. This morning, hoping to find no one there early, I venture to the Salle Petit: an exhibition of a hundred masterpieces in aid of something. Decamps, Delacroix, Fortuny, Rembrandt, Rousseau, Millet, Meissonier — the only living one — and others. And first I make my apologies to Meissonier, whom I had not known well and who had shown only inferior things at the last Exhibition of Portraits. Here there are marvels, literally. But what drew me out in my crêpe veils was the wish to see Millet, whom I did not know at all and about whom one was deafened with talk. Bastien is only his weak imitator, they said — and I was growing irritated. I have seen, and I shall go again. Bastien is his imitator, if you like, because they are both peasant painters, and because both are great artists, and all genuine masterpieces have a family resemblance [Crossed out: paintings must resemble each other...]. Cazin's landscapes come far closer to Millet than Bastien's. In Millet — in the six canvases I see here — what is beautiful is the wholeness, the harmony, the atmosphere, the fluidity. They are small figures seen in a broad, summary, and very true way. And what makes Bastien of an unequalled force today is the meticulous, powerful, vital, extraordinary execution of his human figures; the perfect imitation of nature in short — life. His Soir au village, which is nothing but a small-scale impression, certainly equals Millet; there are only two small figures lost in the twilight. But the memory of his Amour au village tears at my eyes. What a mistake that background! How does he not see it? Yes, in those large canvases he lacks what makes Millet extraordinary in small ones... The atmosphere, the harmony... Whatever one says, the figure must dominate! Le Père Jacques is superior to L'Amour au village in effect; Les Foins too; Le Père Jacques was full of poetry, the little girl picking flowers is a ravishing figure and the old man was fine... I know full well that it is harder to give a large canvas that... envelope, that soft and firm fusion which characterises Millet... but one must achieve it. In a small canvas many things can be glossed over. The background of small paintings where impression dominates (and not the meticulous Meissonier), like Cazin for example — who is Millet's true son — one can often achieve that nothing and everything which pervades every part and is found precisely nowhere, called charm, with a few fortunate brushstrokes... Whereas in a large canvas everything changes and becomes terribly difficult, for feeling must be supported by technique, and that is often like love and money... Saturday, 16 June 1883 The Duchess of Fitz-James stayed an hour, then others — this interrupts the work; I am furious. So then, I withdraw the qualification of masterpiece from Bastien's paintings. Why? Because his Amour au village exasperates me, or because I lack the courage of my opinion? One dares deify only the dead — if Millet were alive, what would they say of him? And here one sees only six canvases of Millet: shall we not find six equivalent canvases in the rue Legendre? Not a chance. 1. Jeanne d'Arc; 2. The portrait of his brother; 3. Le Soir au village; 4. Les Foins*; 5. I do not know everything, and he is not yet dead. Bastien is less a son of Millet than Cazin, who resembles him far more — or perhaps more... young. Bastien is original; he is himself. One always proceeds somewhat from someone else, but then personality emerges. Besides, poetry, force, and charm are always the same, and if it is imitation to seek them, then all would be hopeless. One feels a keen impression before a Millet; one finds it again before a Jules... What does that prove? Superficial people say: imitations. They are wrong — two different actors in different plays can move you in the same way, because genuine, human, intense feelings are always the same. There are some ten lines, altogether gracious, from Étincelle about me. I am a remarkable painter, a beautiful young woman, and a student of Bastien-Lepage. Take that. I saw the bust of E. Renan at Saint-Marceaux's, and yesterday I saw Renan passing in a cab. I recognised him at once. What a likeness, at least! Renan — who has studied Judea and Judaism... his bust? Saint-Marceaux is more and more Jewish.