Sunday, 15 July 1883

At dinner: Bagnitsky, the priest, Tchoumakoff, etc. *Monday, 16 July 1883 Crystallisation preoccupies me keenly, and I am convinced there is a book to be written on innocent crystallisations — those that lead nowhere. Myself, for example: complete love [Crossed out: passion] would only be possible for me within marriage — or for any young girl, or even for a married woman with principles. We are not therefore exempt from the things that give rise to crystallisations; these crystallisations lead nowhere; and allow me to say here that I do not like the word "crystallisation," but it avoids, as Stendhal says, a long explanatory phrase — I shall therefore use it. I was saying — we were saying — yes. [Crossed out: love begins] The crystallisation begins; if "the object has all the perfections" we let ourselves go and we arrive at love. That is to say: we love. The essential thing is to love, not to practise the thing that M. Alexandre Dumas fils calls love. If the object does not have all the perfections; if we discover in him a flaw, some flaws — an ugliness, a ridicule, a lack of wit — the thing stops halfway. I [word blacked out: believe] also that one can stop it at will. There was a beginning of crystallisation toward Cassagnac — I reason about it, examine it: he is a noisy tribune; Europe talks of him; women are mad about him; he is received in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I grant myself permission to love him. The crystallisation continues and I arrive at it. Had I discovered in him at that moment some flaw in the world's eyes, the crystallisation would cease. Another example: suppose I am preoccupied — and I am a little, I do not know quite why — with Bastien-Lepage. But as I cannot give myself licence to get carried away in that direction, the crystallisation will not occur and there will be no love. He is a talented man, but in everyone's eyes he is only "a painter of great talent." My vanities would be wounded. Then you will say: that is not real love. Possibly. I am telling you how I am — and there are probably others like me. Suppose the same painter were recognised not only as the greatest of artists (that would not be enough) but were to become an artist-god like the late Wagner — and with no more than I have in my heart at present, I should be capable of feeling the most complete and most frenzied amour-passion. There would no longer be obstacles or flaws; the object would have all the perfections, and the crystallisation would take place. Now I shall note all the impressions relative to this feeling. The sight of a hat resembling that of the object stops one's heartbeats, says Stendhal. He also blushed on hearing the name of the street where the friend of his beloved lived. At fourteen, I blushed on pronouncing or hearing pronounced the word "duke," because of the Duke of Hamilton. Since then I have not found that sensitivity so violent. When I was reading my English lessons — in which historic dukes were often mentioned — it was a torment; I trembled like a guilty person. I have not found that since, not to that degree. It has happened to me to pronounce with pleasure the name of persons or objects close to the Object of my current dreams; to smile, to blush very little — and that is all. Vanity and wounded pride still give me emotions of extreme violence. I await a visit or a greeting with heartbeats and real fever — and this from people with whom the heart has nothing to do; women, sometimes. This same Jules has plunged me into immense agitations. Will he come, will he not come, will he walk through the exhibition with us? I had made an effort, and wished to recoup my vanity. These are the feelings that have made me think [word blacked out: still] about this artist. And then his brother benefits from this preoccupation — it seemed to me that he was in love with me. What a man of taste! This feeling from another subordinate might not preoccupy me so much — but he is the other one's brother, and that changes things. Then it seems to me he is drawing back; that vexes me, and here I am very much occupied with it, agitated, watching his manner of being. Does it hold? Is it over? In those moments, the sight of a hat resembling the wretched architect's can cause me quite violent heartbeats — word of honour. So one must not trust these things. Then I go out with the Maréchale; it seems to me all of a sudden that she is not as gracious as usual — and my heartbeats are quite compromised; I search for the cause, imagine a thousand things, and lose my head. And then... The moment one has hope of pleasing some man, whatever man, he immediately stands out from the crowd. Then of course one ceases to care... Here is Carrier-Belleuse. He was charmed by my ravishing person; he may have thought — exotic foreigner, artist — that there was hope... And once enlightened about my person, he drew back. He preoccupied me, and to this day he is still a little above the others. Well, that is how I am — there must be others like me! But here I am, very attentive to crystallisation... If I were married to the Baron, that would make things easier — I could be less exacting, and content myself with partial crystallisations. I could, it seems to me... But the pen makes all these wanderings seem so positive that I stop myself. Tuesday, 17 July 1883 Still preoccupied with crystallisations — without an object, alas. And with sculpture. The painting is going a little better. Oh! To have talent! To efface this miserable mention! To exhibit the urchins and the Holy Women* in a black frame, with at the bottom the text: "...And having rolled a great stone to the entrance of the sepulchre, he departed. Now Mary Magdalen and the other Mary were there sitting over against the sepulchre." And a statue. Nausicaa or Ariadne — the sketches are all settled. Ariadne will cause mockery — they will say it is me, abandoned by whom? And Nausicaa. I love them both. Three things. Two pictures and a statue. I want it so much that I fear the most dreadful misfortunes. Stendhal says that love lives on hope and fear of the most dreadful misfortunes. Well then — is this love? The equivalent of it. Ah! the object must be irreproachable to inspire such feelings. Come — am I not going to fall in love? With whom? The least impossible would still appear to be the painter who detests me — but not even he. A stranger? But I shall find faults in him. No. Love cannot absorb me entirely — it will be an accessory, the crowning of the edifice; a pleasant superfluity. Well, we shall see. If I were married to the Baron, that would settle a great many things... For then love would not be an eternal commitment; I should be less exacting, since I could change... As little as possible. Ah! that would be a very agreeable existence... But it will not happen — things arranged in advance almost always go wrong. A whistle (there is a speaking tube from the hall to the studio) and I go to ask what it is with a slight heartbeat — for it might well be the architect who must have come back. It is Dusautoy. A heartbeat for Bastien's brother? But yes — I explained it to you. Have I not sometimes waited a whole hour for Julian and Tony, and very agitated, I assure you? And it is still like that: when the bell rings my heart beats. But these are truly inanities — these heartbeats have nothing in common with Stendhal's. Then explain them. Why? These are friends with whom I enjoy spending an evening; they amuse me; before whom I think I shine. And the architect above all because I imagine he adores me. That is all. I am boring my readers, but I am noting my impressions. If I miss my Celebrity it will be idiotic.