Saturday, 2 August 1884

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Five days. I have finished my painting. A canvas of 1.40 m by 1.15 m.
As you see, it is considerable.
The Bièvre celebrated by Hugo, a farmhouse in the background, on the bank a girl sitting and talking to a boy standing on the other side of the river. Claire will copy it and send me both canvases to Paris. If by some miracle her copy is passable, it will go to the Salon; if not, I substitute my painting for hers — whether she notices or not, I care nothing. You understand, I would rather give five days than have her in the studio and correct her work for three months, five or ten minutes every day.
Yes — but what if what I have done is very good??
That is not possible — besides, in the feeling of the figures there are things that are too commonplace, but I wanted to work quickly.
It is so funny... One says: but here is a corner that has come off rather well... What a pity... Then: and that other part is worth nothing — bah! it isn’t by me, it will be good enough for her anyway — then again: but actually it is very good, a genuinely pretty painting! — and a moment later: what if they refuse it...
So now I am free! On Monday I thought it would never come. Free to run back to my painting... That is why I have a passing desire to do a landscape for myself... Another five or six days...
The only thing is, the Marshal’s wife must not remain standing behind my back as she has done every day from five to seven — the best hours of the day. To begin with, it is irritating to feel a person following every brushstroke, appreciating them, judging them as one goes; one is nagged by the thought: what does she think? And then it is even more irritating to hear: why are you making this so green? or: you ought to put a stone there; or: that tree cannot stay like that.
Inspire me, Muse! I would sing of what I admire above all things!
I admire people who dare to make observations like the Marshal’s wife — even to the most insignificant of daubers!
I admire Claire, who sees that I am working and nudges my elbow or the bench in fun, with no malicious or even merely mischievous afterthought.
When I see Angélique sewing I feel a kind of shadow of respect — and the idea would never occur to me to amuse myself in that way... How dare one... In short it is incomprehensible. Bojidar making a sketch — I should never dream... In short, they do not understand.
But Good Lord, how many things shock me! There — Bastien is like me. And... almost all artists — those who actually work. The others cannot understand.
I also admire people who eat mutton chops, all fat and blood, in good big mouthfuls.
I admire the happy souls who swallow raspberries with pleasure, unconcerned about the tiny near-invisible worms one always finds in them.
I turn them all over, so that the trouble is greater than the pleasure.
I admire also those who can eat all sorts of minced, stuffed things whose composition escapes one. I admire... or rather I envy simple, healthy, ordinary natures... In short...

Notes

The Bièvre, a tributary of the Seine flowing through the valley of Jouy-en-Josas, sung by Victor Hugo («Bièvre», Les Feuilles d’automne, 1831). ↩