Thursday, 8 November 1883

I read in a newspaper that at the opening of an industrial exhibition in the rue de Sèze yesterday there was a great crowd — our Grand Dukes included. I was supposed to go and let the day slip past. And among the names listed I read: Bastien-Lepage. This plunges me into an extreme state of agitation; I am almost weeping. No — let us struggle no longer. I have no luck; that says everything. And it makes me sing, accompanying myself on the harp. If I had been entirely happy I might perhaps be unable to work. They say that great artists have all known hardship;¹ my hardship is all these miseries that perpetually bring me back to the feet of Art — my sole reason to live. Oh! To become celebrated! When I picture myself celebrated in imagination it is like a flash of lightning, like the touch of an electric battery — I spring up and begin pacing the room. People will say that if I had been married off at seventeen I should be like everyone else. A grave error: for anyone to have managed to marry me off like everyone else, I should have had to be a different person. If Larderei² had been willing — would I have married him? I believe so — but it would not have lasted; I should have left that drunkard and gambler, and what would I have become? I should have worked. He was the only one to whom I inwardly consented to marry — for I believed he had three hundred thousand francs and was a relative of the King, and he pleased me. Had only that last consideration existed, I would not have thought of marriage. Do you suppose I have ever loved? I do not believe so. These passing infatuations have the appearance of love, but that cannot be what it is. So Bastien-Lepage... I have explained it to you — it is like the approach of a great city... the sight of a museum... How could all that not be mine? And these impressions give me emotions of every sort, as this morning, for example... It is grandeur that moves me deeply... Well, perhaps I am on the eve of being part of it.³ If I become celebrated — young, elegant, and pretty — shall I not belong to it? I am sufficiently of society for a great talent to give me a matchless place. Ah! If only... it were possible. In the meantime I go to see Julian... Why? I have no idea. It did not even amuse me. And then he persists in saying that someone who understands Bastien as I understand him ought to do more... I am also of the opinion that the urchins still need a few days more of work. Very well, agreed. The architect was optimistic, for that matter. I continue to feel this great weakness... Like the loosened strings of an instrument — why? Julian says I look like an autumn landscape, an abandoned avenue full of winter mists and desolations... "Precisely what I have just been doing, dear sir." Old Julian is sometimes exactly right. "Will you show your painting to the great man?" "I had rather jump from a fifth floor." "Well, that is proof that you feel it is insufficient and that you can go further." Very true. He knows that the other is going to America and he says that it means emptiness for me — equally true. For when all is said, it was not complete, but it was something — and now there is nothing. Still true. Little Canrobert⁴ comes to spend his Thursday here, and we take him to the Musée Grévin.⁵ And then... What next? In the end, what have I done, and why am I displeased? It ought to be summed up in one clear phrase. Well: I am displeased at not having known how to wrest Jules Bastien-Lepage away from that woman. And on that subject — do you think I bear Mother Mackay any ill will? Or that I am jealous? Not in the least. I read in novels that one suffers saying to oneself: "they are together." That feeling is unknown to me. I am simply enraged that he did not find me sufficiently amazing to drop everything. Is it love? I do not think so. Perhaps it is my way of loving? No — mine will be like others'... only better. What is it, then? A great void. Boredom. Why?! One must look for what would change this atmospheric situation. I see only this little artist. It would not be everything — but it would be something... My feelings are not whole and do not merit Divine benevolence. I could have wept today. I see only this little painter! I truly do not even know what I think! But a truly fine painting would cast me into a wild joy — if only I could do it!