Thursday, 31 January 1884

Finished Jacques! And since his brother came to collect him — a baby of three — I make a sketch of him.
Oh! in twenty minutes, as befits a superior genius. Afterwards...
Bastien was born in November 1848. He is thirty-five.
He was already a painter in 1870 and could consequently have fled to England like the gentle Tony.
But he served in the campaign, and his brother too, though barely fifteen or sixteen years old.
But the brother has less merit — he was following an example. He is an... interesting man, Bastien... I think of him constantly, and the crystallisations form admirably.
Then dropped by Albert Wolff.
He hid under the name of Adolphe...
It is very fine to have fought — he must truly have a noble character... His brother says: if you knew him, if you knew what a heart he has — says he is extremely sensitive to the miseries and injustices of Paris, and stays in the country so as not to be overwhelmed by them.
At last — and this crowned it all — He was dropped by Mme Makay...
in Montmartre...
And as I exclaimed:
— What a lucky creature!
— He, the architect answered me, is the most unhappy fellow there is...
I did not ask why... but! Brave, sincere, illustrious.
When, dropped by Mme Makay, He’d take himself to the barkeep’s, Having green absinthes bought for him in Montmartre —
But apart from his never thinking of me, we could never love each other virtuously — there are insurmountable obstacles... When he died like an old rat —
I may well marry Saint-Amand.
Only his brother wept for him —
That is the only possible arrangement in the event that this illustrious, brave, unhappy, and sincere man should deign to ---
For Émile is a tender soul...
But if he were to deign to notice the author — the rival of Victor Hugo — he would be accused of wanting to feather his nest... I am rich... And I do not want the slightest shadow cast upon divine and celestial feelings... etc.
If he were to say to himself merely this: I adore her — and besides, she has a fortune, which is no bad thing. That alone would be horrible for me. And so I would never marry for love... There is only Saint-Amand.
Rue Legendre!
Because I dream of love — and not of living together always. However superior and angelic one may be, that must make hearts bourgeois... And so when two guilty ones find extreme happiness in spending a fortnight together, it is like the pleasure of going in a hired cab when one is accustomed to a private carriage... But always — no.
I see it so clearly... I have lived it, so to speak... And it must be true.
Note that I have no pretension to speak generally or to propose rules of conduct — I speak for myself; and if what I want lies outside the common rules, so much the worse: it suits me, serves my purpose, and I am perfectly free to dream of a happiness of my own... We would never bore each other with ordinary things, and we would see each other only to exchange what is finest, most elegant, most tender, and most witty in human nature.
It would be like hours of rest in a poor workman’s day... In any case these are possible things... And what would be needed for it to be real? That I be loved. That is all.
We both have enormous talents and stand apart from the common run of humanity... It could be a beautiful existence... for two... But...
Since he had paid the dealer in flowers The dealer refused him colours.
One sees guilty lovers who are happy for twenty-five years... I would deceive no one.
Provided I do not die between twenty-eight and thirty. I tell you, things are going badly.
He could have committed murders.
So I love him, then? in Montmartre

Notes

Tony Robert-Fleury (1837–1912): French academic painter who left France during the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71). ↩
Crystallisation: Stendhal’s term in De l’Amour (1822) for the process by which the imagination clothes a beloved with imagined perfections, like a branch coated in crystals when left in a salt mine. ↩
Albert Wolff (1835–1891): powerful art critic for Le Figaro, known for championing or destroying careers with his reviews. ↩
The street in Paris’s 17th arrondissement where Bastien-Lepage had his studio. ↩