Saturday, 11 August 1883

... Be that as it may, it is Bastien who occupies my thoughts beyond art — it is the little painter from Damvillers who is the subject of my girlish reveries.
Misery.
I am reading Stendhal's histories of painting. This intelligent man is always in agreement with me, yet it seems to me that he looks for too much cunning and too many hidden intentions... He gave me a painful surprise by saying that in painting suffering, one ought to consult physiology. How!!!
But if I do not feel tragic expression, what physiology will be able to make me feel it!
The muscles and the symptoms!
Ah, Lord. The painter who depicts suffering physiologically, rather than because he has felt it, understood it, seen it — even figuratively — will be nothing but a cold and uninspired artist. It is as if one were told to grieve according to certain rules.
Feel first and reason afterwards, if one wishes. It is impossible that analysis should not eventually confirm the impression. But to do otherwise would be mere intellectual curiosity.
Feel free to dissect tears in order to learn logically and scientifically what colour they ought to be painted! As for me, I prefer to see them glisten and to paint them as I see them, without even knowing why they are as they are and not otherwise.
Bastien-Lepage has been in Paris since yesterday, and his agreeable brother came this evening to ask whether we would have them to dinner tomorrow. I accepted.
That admirable Émile was delighted to prove to me that his brother does not hate me; he arrived as if bringing us an empire. I maintain my dignity, declaring that Jules judges me badly and that in any case I find him antipathetic. This spoken aside, naturally, as Tchernitsky and Tchoumakoff are present.
Why does Jules not feel for me the same friendship as the architect? That architect, so good that when I once reproached him for saying something disagreeable to me, he said it was not so, that it could not be so, for it would pain him to be obliged to displease me. And another time, that even in thought he cannot imagine himself ill-disposed toward me, and that it seems to him it would be easier to burn himself with a hot iron — and that he loves Bojidar because Bojidar thinks well of me.
In all seriousness, and with no ulterior coquettish motive, I believe he is sincerely devoted to me. Love and all that — that is nonsense, and if there was any, it passed with reflection…
Well, why should Jules not be devoted to me… At least I would not feel this unease and embarrassment at the thought of his visit.