Wednesday, 13 February 1878

My drawing is not going well, and it seems to me that some misfortune is about to befall me. As if I had done something wrong and feared the consequences — or some insult — I feel sorry for myself, but I am somehow afraid.
Berthe arrives during dinner; she has intercepted a letter from her beau making an appointment with a lady for tomorrow. He is deceiving her, she is spying on him, she says what she imagines are cutting things, which he laughs at; he is playing with her — is she entirely stupid, or merely playing stupid in front of us?
I knew something was going to happen to me... great money troubles have come upon us; my mothers can only shout 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, order her not to do: tidy my things, empty my dishes, 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 way of speaking — which hardly need increasing.
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 at his anvil, without ceasing, without respite, one does worse still; and as for me, I become absolutely furious, choke, and run off, hurling some pretty curse as I go.
Or else, when they mean to be good, they speak at me by talking to Dina, or in general terms... In short, we torment each other dreadfully together, and we 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, not to receive him and to go and draw — the more sacrifices I make, the faster it will go.
Ça ira, ça ira, the aristocrats to the lamp-post.
On my way back from the atelier I called at the Boyds’. Mme Boyd and her eldest daughter are working on a tapestry. Berthe put on a disguise and went to our house with Yorke. I come home — nobody even saw them.

Notes

Ça ira, the revolutionary song of 1790; its best-known version continues «les aristocrates à la lanterne !» (hang the aristocrats from the lampposts). ↩