Eugène BOUDIN (1924-1898) - Lot 178

Eugène BOUDIN (1924-1898) Lot of three autographed letters -A moving letter. Boudin had spent two months in the South of France to treat the stomach cancer that would take his life the following August. But he knew he was irretrievably afflicted; he knew he would never be able to take up his brushes again. He was taken back to Paris, where he stayed only as long as it took to oversee the classification of his paintings. He is so weak that we despair of being able to transport him to Deauville: ... I'm still in the same state of weakness, despite all the care I'm getting here. ... Well, I've lost my health, but it was at least for a useful purpose, and I don't know if I'll ever get it back...at the age we've all reached! Which is the age when we lost our parents. This reminds me that it was pre It reminds me that it was on Pentecost that our poor old father died. A Pentecost as beautiful as today's. ... We're waiting for me to regain my strength so we can leave for Deauville. When will that be? In June, however, we'll be able to take him home and he'll be able to wait serenely for death. Through his open window, he will see the sky and the sea, his two passions. -A letter from his youth. Boudin lives and works in Paris, thanks to a pension of I200 francs a year provided by the city of Le Havre for three years. First of all, he talks about his family, his mother's health and his father's fishing: "... Dad is quite right to say that his fishing business is better than mine. I hope that will change, though. We have Vals here tormenting me so that I give him some paint to take away to confound our Le Havre people who are relentless after poor Boudin ... One must prepare one's career from the start and not rush or aspire to fame too soon. As for me, I wish I didn't have to produce before overcoming the great difficulties I encounter at every step. It's a hellish torment that brings discouragement to be forced to produce. The fruit is still in bud. -The painter's reflections on the past year "... What is past is only a memory, and yet we have lived these years, we have spent hard labor.... and those to come promise no less hard labor. And yet, if we didn't feel the weight of these past years too much ... well, despite the frequent return of pain ... we can just about stand upright, and yet right now I can barely hold back a scream as I turn around in my chair! But we've been through so much..." He talks to her at length about their family affairs, mutual friends. " ... What's new in this Havre? I'm writing a note to Madame Martin, who sent me a long letter. But it's so hard for me to pick up the pen, after all my brushwork all day, that I'm only answering under duress. I've barely seen St Albin, who is very busy with his play Panurge, which is doing very well... That's all I know about literature, since I don't go to the theater..." etc.