Saturday, 21 July 1883

A storm and rain. The picture overturned and punctured — but not beyond repair. At bottom I am delighted: it happens around four o'clock, and at that very moment I had just been seized by an idea for an allegorical composition in clay... It is an inspiration from heaven, and plunges me into a feeling of inexpressible happiness. I am absolutely happy for two hours. Happy love must produce a similar impression. I barely take the time to make a pencil sketch and throw myself upon the clay. One must neither search nor reflect — the fingers execute a prescribed work with mechanical precision. I have seen it and I execute. As it is possible that this moment will have great influence on my life, I shall give the details. First I drew very quickly an indecipherable sketch that did not render the impression... Instead of searching for something else (which is always wasted time), I began reading about Joan of Arc — and it is on the cover of that book that in a single second I made the composition to which nothing will be changed in principle. It descends like a hurricane. It is a bas-relief — the foreground figures in the round, a pictorial relief — and the backgrounds barely indicated. It will be very large, life-size. Seventeen or eighteen figures. It is a furious onrush, an invasion, a hurricane of youth. It comes at you like a whirlwind. Le Printemps. That and nothing else. My God, yes. Spring is a young god who rushes forward followed by a crowd of girls and young men. He almost flies. It begins in the background at left and descends toward the front at right, where Spring stands — at his feet children hasten to gather flowers; to his left a young girl runs and tries to look him in the face; behind her a young man and a young woman leaning against one another, the woman's head glimpsed face-on, thrown slightly back, the man's face almost hidden behind hers. A young girl stoops to rouse a very young one who rubs her eyes; young boys with arms raised sing and shout — and in the background at left, women laugh in the face of an old man sitting shrunken at the foot of a tree. A cupid perched in that tree tickles his shoulder with a branch. It is so beautiful that I cannot attribute it to myself — I did not invent it, or seek it, or compose it; I have no merit in it. It was dictated to me by an Unknown Being. It is something that gives my life henceforth a purpose, my aspirations an outlet. The group of lovers alone could be a whole thing in itself. They fly, one might say — the woman throws her head back and rests it against her lover's, whose face is almost hidden. There one will need to spend a great deal of delicacy and a very virginal tenderness. Ah! this is not a variation on Bastien's melodies. It is beautiful and original, like the Holy Women. What disturbs me is that I think so. They say one should not be aware of these things. And yet... Since I do not attribute the merit to myself — quite sincerely... Besides, Balzac was aware, grew enthusiastic over his creations, and the day he had the idea of connecting all his characters together, he understood the greatness of that discovery and told his sister. I say it with a laugh. This excellent Émile Bastien finds me in the heat of the work. He dines here — but since I make no jokes about Jules, the conversation is not very amusing. I had thought the architect alone would be more interesting than this. And then I am afraid of appearing to amuse myself with him — my family would think me proud of that conquest, and that would humiliate me deeply. But I am entirely given over to my Printemps. Is it possible that I have this to do?! But it is such great happiness that I am afraid...