Saturday, 22 December 1883

I had Julian come to see my statue, which is finished as a sketch. He is delighted with it and said the exquisite words — charming, very good, gripping, etc., etc. "Admirably well constructed." Which is why I no longer esteem him, Julian. "Admirably well constructed"! One must be an idiot to find it so very good... or at least that is the effect it has on me. Formerly his praises would have set me dancing. Why then? I tell myself: he finds it admirably constructed — therefore he sees no further, therefore he is not strong; for I despise what I do, while... Oh, subtleties! For my large landscape he also finds it, [crossed out: very] good. The laughing head of Armandine makes him laugh; he says it is contagious and that it is a very good and very solid painting, etc., etc. — so I give it to him. The baby is also very good, very delicate, very artistic. Bojidar and the little girl. Everything is good. Very well, then? When such things are said to me, the person seems either stupid or dishonest — yet he is neither the one nor the other... He says he was right all along: "At first it improved a little, then a great deal, then very much, and we are now approaching the moment when it will be entirely good." And are you not wild with joy?! No. Why? Because it is not my opinion — because I am not myself very pleased; I should like to do better!... It is not the scruple of a genius-artist; it is... I know not what... In any case... What do others' views matter, provided they find it very good. Agreed... up to a point... But what I should like to know is what Julian would say to someone who asked him... A stranger, on the boulevard, at a café... In short — what would make me happy and which sums up my feeling is Julian encountering Tony, or Lefebvre, or X or Z, and saying to him: "I saw today some paintings and sculptures by the Russian woman — it is truly very good; she is astonishing," etc., etc. You can picture it. Ah! I am forgetting something quite delicious. I had modelled a life-size arm and had it cast, and Julian took it for a plaster cast from life. It was only at the fingers — which were not formed at all — that he looked at me in astonishment, no longer understanding how a cast could have barely-formed fingers. When I explained that it was done by me, he did not pay me excessive compliments — saying only that it has very true aspects. If I were inclined to jest I should say it is the counterpart of Michelangelo fabricating a head, burying it, and having it discovered as an ancient marble.¹