Friday, 15 June 1883

The Canroberts write me a charming letter; indeed everyone is very kind, and I am not in tune with all these condolences.
This morning, hoping to meet no one so early, I venture to the Salle Petit: an exhibition of a hundred masterpieces in aid of something or other. Decamps, Delacroix, Fortuny, Rembrandt, Rousseau, Millet, Meissonnier — the only living one — and others.
And first of all I make my apologies to Meissonnier, whom I knew poorly and who had only inferior things at the last Exhibition of Portraits.
Here there are marvels, literally. But what made me take my crêpe veils out of doors was the wish to see Millet, whom I did not know at all and whose name was being dinned into my ears. Bastien is only his feeble imitator, people said — in short, I was irritated by it. I have seen him, and I shall go back.
Bastien is his imitator, if you like, because they are both painters of peasants, and because both are great artists, and all true masterpieces have a family likeness painting must resemble each other...
Cazin’s landscapes come far closer to Millet than Bastien’s. In Millet, in the six canvases I see there, what is beautiful is the whole, the harmony, the air, the fluidity. They are small figures seen in a summary way, very broad and very true. And what makes Bastien a force without equal today is the meticulous, powerful, living, extraordinary execution of those human figures; the perfect imitation of nature, in short — life. His Soir au village, which is no more than an impression on a small scale, certainly equals Millet; there are only two small figures lost in the twilight. But the memory of his Love in the Village hurts my eyes. What a mistake, that background! How can he not see it? Yes, in those large pictures he lacks what makes Millet extraordinary in small ones... The air, the harmony... Whatever people say, the figure must dominate! Le Père Jacques is superior to Love in the Village in effect, and Haymaking too; Le Père Jacques was full of poetry, the little girl picking flowers is a ravishing figure and the old man was good... I know very well that it is harder to give a large picture that... envelope, that blending, so soft and so firm, which characterises Millet... but one ought to achieve it. In a small picture many things can be slurred over. The background of small pictures where impression dominates (and not the meticulous Meissonnier), like Cazin, for example, who is Millet’s son: one can often give that nothing and that everything which spreads over everything and is to be found precisely at no single point, called charm, with a few lucky strokes of the brush... Whereas in a large picture all that changes, and becomes terribly difficult, for feeling must rest on knowledge, and that is often like love and money...

Notes

Soir au village: “Evening in the Village.” ↩
Le Père Jacques: “Old Jacques.” ↩