Saturday, 17 November 1883

And here I am back in Paris to repaint a section of the picture tomorrow. I have had a magnificent organ for the past few days. My family finds the toy somewhat expensive but says nothing about it, and I am grateful to them for that. Perhaps I was wrong to buy it... One could have done without... It is true that it is exceedingly beautiful, but... I shall play it with soul... At twenty-four and eleven-twelfths¹ that is not surprising. Jouy, the countryside, makes one feel very keenly the beauty of Bastien's paintings. He is a great artist. Parisians cannot adore him — but if only they would take the trouble to look at the countryside, so vast, so simple, so beautiful, so poetic... Each blade of grass... The trees, the earth, the glance of women passing by, the attitudes of children, the gait of old men, the colour of their clothing harmonise with the landscape... And one is tempted at every moment to exclaim: Bastien-Lepage! How lamentable are those who imitate him, who paint any peasants at all — female woodcutters or salad-gatherers! Those who see everything except what cannot be seen: what can only be felt, and what only he has understood — with Millet; I add Millet on faith, and for others' benefit. Millet's figures are not worth Bastien's; [word blackened] Bastien's landscapes are worth Millet's — so the superiority lies with Bastien. They say his backgrounds are flat... That is sometimes my view too... but... for another day. Jouy sets me to writing; I bring back pages from it every time... When shall I ever make a book of them...