Thursday, 22 November 1883

L'Illustration universelle (of Russia)¹ publishes on its first page the illustration of my painting. It is the largest Russian illustrated journal, and here I am as though in my own house. It was Maman who, being in St. Petersburg, went to bring the photograph to the director of the magazine; he asked for a week to make enquiries, and at the end of a week wrote that he accepted with pleasure. There is scarcely an intelligent corner of the world to which that journal does not reach. And it gives me no joy! Why? It is agreeable to me — but it is not joy. Why? Because it is not enough for my ambition? In any case... If I had received an honourable mention two years ago I should have fainted. If last year they had given me a medal I should have wept into Julian's waistcoat. But now... Events follow a logic — alas! Everything links and follows in sequence; everything is prepared little by little. A third-class Salon medal next year will seem natural to me; if I receive nothing, I shall be outraged. One feels a truly keen joy only when an event is unexpected — when it is in some sense a surprise. A second-class medal at the next Salon would make me very happy, precisely because I do not count on it. (If certain of my explanatory additions seem to you unnecessary, forgive me — fools are in the majority, as are the half-fools,² and I should like to be understood.) And then it is not the medal that counts — it is the greater or lesser success that accompanies it. I went to the Salon this morning; there was no one there. It would be impossible to see a more abandoned Exposition — one can scarcely say it has been visited even during the first three weeks. This morning there was: myself, Rosalie, two ladies, three gentlemen, and the attendants. I naturally looked again at the Bastien-Lepages. I will concede Les Foins³ if you wish, but Saisons d'octobre — popularly known as The Potato Harvest⁴ — is a masterpiece. And yet I am less seized by it; might that be a sign that I am growing stronger?... For if I could ever [crossed out: surpass] equal that great painter, he would no longer matter. Friday, 23 November 1883