Wednesday, 13 February 1878

Signed: Suzanne, Georges.
We went to the Italiens, and he did not come —
— naturally. But I have a sheet signed by Berthe which I can make use of; she has authorized me to tell Cassagnac everything and to do as I please with her signature.
They were singing La Traviata — Mme Albani, Capoul, and Pandolfini. Great artists, but I did not enjoy it; yet in the last act I had not exactly a desire to die, but I said to myself that I was going to suffer and die at the very moment when everything might arrange itself. It is a prophecy I make to myself. I was dressed like a child — which is very graceful when one is slender and well-made. The white bows on my shoulders, neck and bare arms made me resemble an infanta of Velázquez.
To die... It would be absurd, and yet it seems to me that I am going to die. I cannot live — I am not made in the ordinary way; I have too many things in excess and too many that are lacking, and a character that cannot endure. If I were a goddess, with all the Universe at my disposal, I would find the service poorly rendered. One cannot be more capricious, more demanding, more impatient — though sometimes, or perhaps always, I have a certain foundation of reason, of calm.
But I do not express it well — I say only that my life cannot continue as it is. My plans, my hopes, my small vanities crumbled... I have been wrong about everything — or else it is... well, as it is?
My drawing is not going well, and it seems to me that some misfortune is about to befall me. [Words blacked out: As if I had done something] wrong and feared the consequences — or some injury — I feel sorry for myself, but I am somehow afraid.
Berthe arrives during dinner; she has intercepted a letter from her Englishman making an appointment with a lady for tomorrow. He is deceiving her, she is spying on him, she says what she believes are harsh things but at which he laughs; he is playing with her — is she entirely stupid, or merely playing stupid before us?
I knew something was going to happen to me... great financial difficulties have arrived; my mothers know only how to cry out and say useless things — old recriminations that drive me mad.
Maman makes herself entirely miserable through her own fault. There is one thing I beg, implore, command her not to do: it is not to tidy my things, not to empty my crockery, not to put my rooms in order. Well — whatever I say, she does it with an obstinacy that is like a sickness. And if you knew how maddening this is, how it increases my
impatience and my abrupt ways of speaking — which have no need of increase.
I believe she loves me very much; I love her very much as well, but we cannot remain together for two minutes without exasperating each other to tears.
Nothing drives one madder than being scolded at every instant; one does wrong — but if it is hammered into one's skull like a blacksmith with his hammer, without ceasing, without respite, one does worse still; and as for me, I become absolutely enraged, stifle, and flee, hurling some fine curse as I go.
Or else, when I try to be good, I am spoken to indirectly — through Dina, or in general terms... In short, we torment each other greatly together, and would be miserable apart.
I want to deny myself everything for the sake of drawing. I must remember it — that is life. Through it I shall win my independence, and then whatever is to come will come. Thus the best way to enjoy Popaul's company is not to invite him, but on the contrary, to stop receiving him and go draw — the more sacrifices I make, the sooner it will come.
Ça ira, ça ira, the aristocrats to the lantern.
Returning from the atelier I called at the Boyds'. Mme Boyd and her eldest daughter are working on a tapestry. Berthe dressed herself up and went to our house with Yorke. I return — they have not even been seen.

Notes

Velázquez's portraits of the Spanish infantas show the young princesses in elaborate court dress with wide skirts and formal hair — the "baby" effect comes from the stiff, doll-like styling.
Revolutionary song from 1790: "Ça ira" ("It'll be fine") — the full line continues "les aristocrates à la lanterne!" (hang the aristocrats from the lampposts). Marie quotes it with ironic gaiety.