Monday, 26 November 1877

I have at last taken my first anatomy lesson, at half past four, directly after drawing. It is Monsieur Cuyer who teaches me — sent by Mathias Duval, who promises to arrange a visit to the École des Beaux-Arts. I began with the bones, naturally, and one of the drawers of my poetic writing-desk is full of real vertebrae.
It is hideous when one thinks that the other two contain scented paper and visiting cards from Naples, and so forth.
The Countess de Fayet called on the day of Grand-papa's accident, and today she sent to inquire after him, as did several others.
Berthe and her sister-in-law came.
Madame de Fayet (not much, that one) reports that I have been cutting quite a figure at the Chamber, and that I have apparently charmed the son of the Count d'Aquila, Prince of Bourbon, uncle of the King of Naples. His younger brother is married to a courtesan's daughter — you remember?
It was on coming home from the studio that I found my Cuyer waiting in the twilit drawing room, and on the sofa opposite I found Maman and the most Swiss of all commanders.
Marcuard, back for ten days, who kissed my hand — full of charcoal — and who had been handling vertebrae, since I had slipped away from the drawing room to take my lesson.
The thing is, you see... one must not know what flowers grow out of.
I lap up the words of that rogue of a professor... how fortunate he is to know all that. Without it one cannot attain what I want — which is, as you shall see, quite simple.
First — by a special dispensation that my talent will procure for me — to be admitted to compete for the Prix de Rome. Then to win the prize; my competition painting causes a sensation and is purchased by the State. I arrive in Rome, received by the Académie Médicis, the embassy, the court.
I paint portraits of Princess Margherita (that rogue) in a stupendous fashion. I am paid 50,000 apiece. The English court invites me — the Queen, the princes, and several great Englishmen; I bring home a great deal of money. After a certain time, my talent being too fabulous... wait! — having won the Prix de Rome, I am decorated with the Légion d'honneur; consequently my fabulous talent turns the whole world's head; I am given a triumph at the Capitol and granted the title of princess of the city of Sorrento, whose inhabitants I have overwhelmed with gifts.
Then... finding no one worthy of me, I return to Alexandre, who will have fine teeth — and as I shall be furious at coming back to so small a thing, I shall send him away, and I shall end my days mad with vanity and happiness.
You know that for me happiness does not mean the same thing as it does for everyone.
How do you expect, how do you expect, a mind that dreams of such things to be satisfied with ordinary things — even the finest of them!
The frigate captain plays piquet. Popaul has sent tickets for the Chamber tomorrow.
Julian has strongly encouraged me not to leave my sketches as they are — "it is not too bad."

Notes

The Prix de Rome: France's most prestigious art award, granting a residency at the Villa Medici in Rome. Women were not officially eligible until 1903.