Thursday, 6 September 1883

We go on horseback to Paris, arriving at the Bois around eleven, crossing it, lunching on the rue Ampère, letting the horses feed, and returning to Jouy by five. And then what? Does it amuse me? Not in the least. Above all riding in an unfamiliar saddle, and for such a distance without being accustomed — without the training.
One is foolish, and does it all the same; one has a corset too long that chafes, a riding habit from three years ago that has not taken one's shape at all, worn barely ten times and at intervals too long apart.
And to cross the Bois looking like that… Let us hope it was not too frightful after all… Well.
I would far rather have been painting. The countryside in this season is magnificent… In passing, let us pay tribute to Bastien — the more one looks at nature, the more one admires him; he is prodigious. Riding along I saw a beautiful kitchen garden and there a woman in a dress… the tones of L'Amour au village… which is beginning to seem to me a masterpiece… No, no doubt before those canvases you will be surprised at first — you, a city-dweller, or simply a man lacking observation — it will seem grey to you… But look closely at nature and isolate the piece to be painted, and you will see that it is admirably true; and that truth is a quality which permits one to give oneself entirely to the intellectual meaning of the work. For I, I want my feelings to be held back by no weaknesses of the brush.
What more can I tell you? All my reflections will always end in an act of adoration toward this great artist, this great poet. My God, that explains the impression of the other evening… One admires him so, so much, that one goes so far as to…
It would be better to have talent oneself. I have just seen a painting… I want to do it here, to carry it off in a month — no longer.