Monday, 30 September 1878

I am making my first official painting. I was supposed to do still lifes; I therefore did, as you know, a blue vase and two oranges, then a man's foot — and that is all. I dispensed with drawing from plaster; I shall perhaps dispense with still lifes as well.
Imagine — Doenhoff came to lunch when we had already lunched.
I write to Collignon that I should like to be a man; I know I could become someone, but with skirts — where is one to go? Marriage is the only career for women. Men have thirty-six chances; a woman has only one — the zero, like the house at roulette. But the house always wins, they say — and so, they claim, does woman. No — for there is winning and winning. How can one not look with the utmost care in choosing a husband? Never have I been so revolted against the condition of woman. I am not fool enough to demand that absurdity called equality, which is a utopia (and besides, bad form), because there can be no equality between two beings as different as man and woman; I ask for nothing, because woman already has everything she ought to have — but I chafe at being a woman because I have only the skin of one.
I have remembered how Madame my mother used to promenade at Nice and Monaco with her brother's mistress.

Notes

A roulette wheel has thirty-six numbers plus zero; the house always plays zero. Marie's metaphor: men have thirty-six paths open to them; a woman has only one — marriage — and "the house always wins" is conventionally said of that too, though she contests what "winning" means.