Tuesday, 7 August 1883

I turn quite red at the thought that in a week it will be five months since I finished the Salon picture. What have I done in five months? Nothing yet.
Sculpture, it is true — but that does not count yet. The urchins are not finished!!!
I am very unhappy. Seriously. Saint-Amand dined here and recited to me the entire catalogue of the Louvre museum, indicating almost every picture in its place. He studied this in order to win my favour. He believes it possible that I might marry him. He must suppose me at bay to put that in his head. It is because I do not hear well that he thinks me brought low. After his departure I nearly fainted with grief. What have I done to God that He always strikes me!
I did not have enough miseries — He had to make me an invalid into the bargain, at the mercy of!... Of servants even. It is enough to drive one mad!
What does this modern Potiphar think? If he is not convinced that I shall love only Art — what does he think?
Does he resign himself to being deceived? Or does he suspect me of some dreadful vice?
One sees in Paris such odious, such shameful things — and they are printed and read — and I have the misfortune of understanding all the filth in shorthand, or almost all. A Saint-Amand marriage would be a shameful marriage, for people would warn us — they have already warned us — and so I would be marrying knowing all this?
Bojidar then? I do not mind — but... For one must not dream of any conquest: I shall have one married and fashionable, otherwise none at all... Love-match: impossible to find... In any case, within a year it will be decided.
Who do you suppose would adore me with this defect? There is no excuse — it exists in no novel, it has never been seen: at twenty, pretty, and such as I am!!!
I shall go mad with it, and my hair will turn white.
And now I try to console myself... At a ball, when there are many people it is not noticed — but those who know raise their voices, and it is as though I were being struck. Only a recognised, immense talent could mitigate this nameless bitterness.
Yes — I prefer Bojidar. Bojidar would be proud, in love, content — a good companion in short. Saint-Amand would be the absolute limit!
It is enough to sit down and weep. I wonder whether I am going to pray — or say that God does not exist. If He exists, He is like me: He does not hear!
Then what is it that rumbles, that chafes, that makes ordinary life seem miserable to me? It is a real force within me — it is something that my poor writing does not know how to say!
The idea of a picture or a statue keeps me awake entire nights — the thought of a charming young man has never managed so much.
I went to the Louvre this morning to look at Raphael, following a reading of Stendhal. Well — whatever I may do, from what I see here I cannot love him. I still prefer the naïveté of the Primitives. Raphael is cunning and false.
Divine, divine... divine — is he divine? The mark of the Divine is to transport us and carry our thoughts into celestial regions. Raphael tires me.
Then who is divine? I do not know. Why does Stendhal say Raphael paints souls? In which of his pictures?
That is an admiration I shall have to work at. The painter of souls is Bastien — however enormous and monstrous that assertion may seem to you.
Saint-Marceaux also represents souls. And the Primitives — naïve and admirable artists — of whom the already somewhat precious Perugino is almost one.
But what do I care for those absurd large machines full of science and correctness — or even the heaps of flesh in Rubens! They bore me! What am I to do with the Wedding at Cana? Or Raphael’s Virgins?
That is not divine! This Virgin is ordinary — and that Child... Actually one would have to see again what he has in Italy. The memory I retain of it is not favourable. The Madonna della Sedia is a pretty Italian chambermaid type, delicate. I see more of the divine in Michelangelo — Raphael Sanzio — listen to that precious name. And then Michelangelo Buonarroti himself — that is as grand as God.
And I! One day I shall do a divine subject — to see...
A Christ preaching from a boat. But Christ is human...
I would represent only things that grip, that move, that set the heart racing or make one dream — something that catches at the heart, like Cazin’s small simple canvases; dimensions matter little, but if on a large scale one arrived at that effect... That would be superb. But how many people understand Cazin?
And Nausicaa and Ariadne. The beautiful things! And if my Spring is a deferred dream... Nausicaa might, or — no — Ariadne will see the light soon.
It begins with an A. Spring will be done — but I am afraid of being ridiculous in beginning there. No matter — I shall make the sketch and then we shall see.
That calms one.

Notes

Raphael’s painting. ↩
Marie’s planned painting. ↩