Wednesday, 28 November 1883

I am painting Dina's portrait — a white harmony¹ — it is superb. The young woman from yesterday, leafing through my albums, made me rediscover an old sketch: the murder of Caesar. It seized me. I had some green tones to note — four hours out of doors, for the past three days there have been northern lights² making Paris blaze. And so — in a cab, I painted while the cab moved along... I was looking only for the tones... That done, I come home and leap upon Suetonius and Plutarch. Montesquieu loves the account of the murder in Plutarch. What an academician. It is arranged and eloquent, while in Suetonius it makes one shudder — it is an official report that sends a chill down the spine. What astonishing prestige great men possess, that after several [words blackened: centuries, their] life and death still make us tremble and weep. I wept for Gambetta.³ Every time I re-read history I weep for Napoleon, Alexander, and Caesar — but Alexander died badly, whereas Caesar — there is the true Jules! I shall paint this picture. For my own sake, for the emotion; and for the crowd, because they are Romans, because there is anatomy, blood, and because I am a woman, and women have done nothing great in the classical mode, and because I wish to employ my faculties of composition and draughtsmanship. And because it will be very beautiful. What troubles me is that it takes place in the Senate — indoors — which is one difficulty the less... and I should like to have them all. When I feel that I am attacking the most difficult things, I suddenly become very cold, very decided; I gather myself, concentrate, and do far better than in works within the reach of my inferiors. There is no need to go to Rome to paint it, and I shall begin it as soon as... Yet in March and April the spring gives beautiful tones outdoors, and I had intended to go to Argenteuil to paint blossoming trees. There is so much to do in life! And life is so short! I do not even know whether I shall have time to execute what I have already conceived... The Holy Women... the great bas-relief Spring... Julius Caesar... Ariadne. One feels seized with vertigo. One wants everything, all at once... And everything will be done slowly... in its own time, with delays and cold spells and disenchantments. Life is logical. Everything links. And when Brutus, haunted by phantoms, kills himself, I find myself exclaiming: serves you right, you scoundrel — serves you right, you vile wretch! The Zarondy ladies dine here this evening, as do the Engelhardts, the Princess, Bojidar, and Julian. These Karageorgevitches are envious — the mother was very displeased to see this lady from St. Petersburg, wife of a senator who moves in court circles... She knows no one of quality herself, and cannot bear that we should be otherwise. There will be no end of commentary with her neighbour the odd princess whom we have refused to see... Foul world. And Bojidar — how exhausting to hear him lying constantly right and left! Well then. Julian says that Breslau⁴ came to see him and, after many circumlocutions, spoke of me: "Is the Russian doing a painting?" "Yes." "Large?" "Yes." "What is it like?" "There are people who find it exceedingly good." "And you?" "I find it good." "Ah!... Are they children?" "Yes." "What are they doing?" "Politics." "Are there six or nine figures?" "Yes — at least six." "Then it is significant?" "Yes." "Ah." "She is making you uneasy," says Julian! They also spoke of Bastien-Lepage; Breslau says that Mrs Mackay is furious because that artist is always hanging about our house. "He never leaves?" "He is there sometimes," replied the prudent Julian — and he added (to me): "I let her keep that idea to torment her a little; I also told her they were speaking of a very virtuous conclusion to the Bastien-Mackay situation." But Breslau assumed her profound expression and, after a silence: "He is far too intelligent to do such a foolish thing." Ah! The charming creature. It was Cartwright⁵ who spoke to her about my painting — they are friends again!?!? How carefully I shall attend to this painting — I shall redo things again... Would to heaven the painting were beautiful and Bastien too intelligent. Ah! What does it matter. Art and glory. To be illustrious! When I think of it!... No — no logic of events, no preparation, nothing will be able to blunt the stroke of mad joy if I triumph... In grand... Mme Gavini came with Gabriel; I received them in the studio. The young man is leaving in a few days, and as on other occasions it will cause me some pain... Very little — but still... It always seems to me... that he would like to say something; the other evening at the theatre he took me to see another box, whether I found it better, and instead launched into a conversation that... But I went back to join our ladies. In any case... To triumph in grand — do not think I am thinking of next year, nor even the one after, but later... It would be so maddening that I dare not think of it... It is impossible! It would be too beautiful... And then I myself shall be my own Jules Bastien-Lepage. I despise him.