Tuesday, 6 November 1883

Emile Bastien¹ has just told me that his brother is ill from not having done enough work this year. Just like me, then! He has, it seems, been away, a thousand things to do,² and the day after tomorrow they leave for Damvillers³ — the architect for a month, and Jules until January, and in January he goes to America until the opening of the Salon. There is the news. I show him the urchins, and I can hardly bring myself to write what he says of them. A medal — for certain. A great success — for certain. Many artists in the highest positions and of the first rank could not have done as much. No one would ever guess it was the work of a young woman. It is the work of someone who thinks, who observes, who loves nature. In short, he had not expected so much. It is caught from life — it is true, it is observed, it is intelligent. Nothing jars; it is a painting. It is not incomplete, as last year's was. But take care! You are going to pass through a critical moment; you will find yourself in a dangerous situation. This painting will certainly have a great success, and you are going to let it go to your head — that would be a pity. At this I begin to laugh, saying that my ambition is such that it would take something far too enormous to go to my head. I told him what I think. Julian would like it to be better still. "So would I," says this excellent fellow, "and it is evident that I do not consider you at your zenith — that would be a sorry thing... But, such as it is, the painting is good, and every artist, without knowing you and without knowing anything about you, will say it is good." Well — I am not left with the impression of those compliments. In the first place because I should like it to be better, and then... because one need not say why. It stares one in the face. And at this thought I recall Edmond's words: "You bear very well a well-delivered blow with a club." What blow with a club? What? Well, in two words: the indifference of Jules Bastien-Lepage... and everything that causes and follows from it. I am bearing it very well, the blow — a little stunned at first; there remains from it a sort of weakness which, little by little, will change into resignation — a disdainful resignation, like that of someone who is the victim of a great injustice and does not complain because he is conscious of his own worth. And it is an almost sweet feeling. I should like to define this particular state more precisely. I feel weakened; it is like a great calm. I suppose those who have just been bled feel something similar.⁴ I am coming to terms with it... until the month of May... As though... but why should it change in May? In any case, who knows? This leads me to think of all the good, the worthy, the remarkable things I may yet possess, and I console myself gently. [In the margin: I had already [word blackened: experienced] nearly the same feeling on the announcement of Cassagnac's marriage... [word blackened: when I receive with extraordinary calm everything that ought to shatter me.]] This made me talk at dinner with my family — talk like a natural person! And with a very calm, very gentle air, as on the first day I put my hair back from my forehead. Now I am wearing it over my forehead again in the dog style.⁵ This statue of Nausicaa⁶ — it will be my incarnation; I shall put all my little miseries into it. In any case I feel a great calm; I shall work with calm; it seems to me that all my movements will be tranquil, that I shall regard the universe with a gentle condescension. Impossible to take it as a tragedy, to go and pray to God to arrange things — it does not go so far as that. Do you not think I take things well? Important things? I should like to see Julian this evening, so that there might be a witness to my dignity. May? Six months? Another woman would be... would be heaven knows what. As for me, I tell myself there is nothing for it but to fill those six months well — to work the whole time. This event is, then... What event? Well, this absence of event is therefore almost a blessing... I am calm as though I were, or because I am, strong. And patient as though I were certain of the future. Who knows? Truly, I feel invested with a sort of dignity. I have confidence. I am a Force. And then... What? But is it really not love? No. But outside of it I see nothing that interests me... That is what is wanted, Mademoiselle — attend to your Art. Take example from this same little painter... Yes, yes. Ah! Old reasoners! You cannot prevent it from being infuriating!