Tuesday, 12 August 1884

In short, my friends — all this means I am ill. I drag myself about and I fight on, but this morning I truly believed I was on the point of giving in — that is, of taking to my bed and doing nothing more. Then a little strength came back at once, and I went out yet again to search for things for the painting.
My weakness and my preoccupation detach me from the real world — I have never understood it with such lucidity, lucidity beyond what I ordinarily possess. Everything appears in detail and with a melancholy clarity.
I — foreign, ignorant and after all too young — I pick apart the badly turned phrases of the greatest writers and the stupid inventions of the most celebrated poets. As for newspapers, I cannot read three lines without feeling revolted. Not only because it is cook’s French, but because of the ideas... There is nothing true! Everything is prearranged or paid for!
No good faith, no sincerity!!! Nowhere. And when one sees honourable men who, in obedience to party spirit, tell lies or talk nonsense they cannot possibly believe!! It is... enough to make one sick.
He had reached that point in his monologue
When a great noise suddenly rang out — ‘Twas very skilful sailors all Coming along in their pirogue
The whale, seized with dread, Cast the prophet adrift, And went off — though full of distress — And swam quick to another shore. So ends the adventure quite. Then Jonas, who was a clever fellow, Had it put in Holy Scripture And sent a note to Le Sport.
I composed this remarkable verse at dinner, in front of Saint-Amand, who is delighted.
We came home for dinner after leaving Bastien’s — still in bed but with a tranquil face and clear eyes. He has grey eyes whose ravishing beauty is naturally lost on the vulgar.
Do you quite understand me? Eyes that have seen Joan of Arc. We speak of it. He complains of not having been sufficiently understood... and I tell him that he has been understood by all those who are not brutes, and that Joan of Arc is a work about which one thinks things it is impossible to say to his face. Ah! if only I could hear properly!!
He speaks to me differently from the way he speaks to Maman, Dina or my aunt — he speaks to me of [word crossed out] elevated things, and I... For sometimes I do not hear!!
That is so atrocious that I can say nothing.
He speaks to me of my painting and I see it afresh — only, as he thinks as I do, he advises me to do what I already intended to do, and that is embarrassing: he may think I follow him blindly.
— Do not indoctrinate me too much — I might listen to you, and I do not want to.
I was in white with a small gathered batiste bonnet. But he does not see me.

Notes

Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc (1879) is his most celebrated painting, showing the young peasant girl receiving her visions in her garden. Now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. ↩