Saturday, 20 October 1877

Breslau received many compliments from Monsieur Robert-Fleury — I did not. The life drawing was rather good but the head was not. I ask myself with terror when I shall ever draw well.
It is exactly a fortnight since I began working — excluding the two Sundays, of course. A fortnight!
Breslau has been working at the studio for two years and she is twenty. I am eighteen. But Breslau had drawn a great deal before coming here.
And I! Wretched creature.
We were at the theatre, to hear Paul and Virginia.
A stage box with the partition removed. Maman, my aunt, Dina, myself, Mme Doubelt, Mademoiselle Dolmatoff (relative and lady’s companion), the Baroness Lisinger — old, odd, and plain. Comte Pousslowsky, Prince Zurlo of Naples and his son, the little Vasconcellos, and another gentleman. Bonbons, elegant dresses. I wore the gown of the Naples races and of that so charming explanation with the handsomest of all the Larderels. You know that all that business was conducted, consummated... whatever you will, to the accompaniment of Paul and Virginia. It would have been charming had it not been so unpleasant.
Just imagine! I chatted, I talked, I comported myself at last like a well-bred young lady.
I believe the dandies in the stalls noticed us, and were even intrigued — and then a certain impression which I do not claim for myself! Oh no.
I have lived — and now I no longer know what is happening. I have had vexations every time, which has robbed me of the capacity to enjoy any of it.
I have been drawing for only a fortnight...
I fear that Mme Doubelt and company may be dangerous society for young girls.
How well this Breslau draws — and into the bargain she resembles Larderel so greatly. Maman wept, imagining that the airs of that opera recalled amorous things to me... tedious things, yes.
Everything went against me. I rage until I could gnaw iron... all the more so because it is past, and nothing will ever remove that wretched piece of my existence.

Notes

Victor Massé’s opera (1876), after Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s novel. ↩