Saturday, 12 October 1878

My academic study was judged very good, very good, very good.

“Ah! you are gifted by nature, you are, and if you work you will do whatever you like.”

I am blasé about praise — (I say blasé for form’s sake) — and the proof that Robert-Fleury is not lying is that I am envied on all sides. And it is stupid... but it pains me. There must be something to it for them to say such things each time — a man as serious and conscientious as Robert-Fleury. As for Julian, he says that if I knew everything that is said about me it would go to my head.

“It would intoxicate you, Mademoiselle Marie,” said the maid.

I always fear that those who read me will think I am flattered because I am rich. That matters nothing — I pay no more than others, and others have connections, friendships, kinships with the masters. Besides, at the hour when you read me there will be no more doubts about what I am worth. Ah! I must at least be compensated in that respect!

It is good to see the respect accorded to one for one’s personal merit.

Robert-Fleury is beginning to play the Carolus: he comes and goes (he has received a great medal at the Exposition Universelle), he chats after giving corrections, lights a cigarette, throws himself into an armchair. None of that matters to me — I know he adores me as a student. Julian too. The other day the Swedish girl gave me some advice; whereupon Julian called me into his study and told me I must follow my own nature — that the painting would be weak at first, but it would be mine; whereas “if you listen to others I will no longer answer for anything.”

He is willing for me to try sculpting, and will ask Dubois¹ to advise me.

For the first time in Paris I enjoyed my drive. I was properly dressed, properly coiffed; I had taken my time, had not hurried. Dina staying with Maman, I had the seat of honour — sitting with one’s back to the horses is a torment rather than a promenade. Every Saturday I shall do likewise. It is so stupid to go to the Bois any old how. Today I found myself again; I was a success — everyone looked at me. A mourning dress and a feathered felt hat: an elegant, proper, and chaste ensemble. Alexandre has the prettiest horses and prettiest carriage in Paris. He is truly very chic.

The ignoble Blanc was also there — I had to bow to him. Then...

Shabbily dressed, distracted, stooping —

M. Gautier approaches;

A Niçois — not even in his Sunday best — affecting elegance.

Yes, it is he — Pépino, from the days of the three graces. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us; we bowed to each other several times, and he had his cab draw up to ask for our address, just as Alexandre passed us driving his delightful black horses.

If I were someone, I should take Pépino under my wing and make a great man of him — he is barely twenty-three, and is extremely intelligent, with the kind of intelligence that could be shaped into a most remarkable mind. But the poor fellow is employed at the Crédit de Nice, and his only ambition is doubtless to marry a 100,000-franc dowry in due course. It is sad, for he is handsome too. Very tall, slender, supple — we used to compare him to a palm tree in Nice. Since I draw academic studies I divine his, reconstituting him from his neck and hands: a round neck like a column, surmounted by a head of antique proportions — that is to say, small by our standards, accustomed as we are to seeing ugly creatures of no more than six or seven heads’ height. I wager that Gautier’s academy has eight heads, like the ancient statues. Enormous brown eyes, slightly surprised, intelligent and naïve.

A mouth just large enough not to be too small, surmounted by a twenty-three-year-old’s moustache.

A matte, creole complexion, and in the whole aspect of his face an air of candour almost childlike — combined, remarkably, with an expression of finesse and even of uncommon strength.

And then in the whole being there is something laughing, nonchalant, good-natured, southern.

And see, good people — this boy of whom one could make a marvel! He is nothing: a little Niçois, too tall, and that is all. He has as much aptitude for becoming a celebrated man as I have to become a great painter.

What a pity I began so late! What a pity he will never begin.

At thirty this boy could have been admirably handsome, had he taken to living cleanly — I do not even say elegantly — and set his face toward ambition. He is still too tall, too uncertain, and later he will become a Nice horror. What a pity.

I find the Deceased so admirable that by way of a compliment to Albert Gautier I shall say that physically he belongs to the Cassagnac type. But the Deceased is thirty-five, fat, married... Still, we are bound to come face to face somewhere this winter. That will not be amusing.

Would Pépino be eloquent? He was not brought up with that in view, and has doubtless never even read Demosthenes and Mirabeau, the little wretch. And now here it takes hold of me as it did a year ago — then I was in a rage to spirit away and elevate little Alexandrine. Today I want to regenerate Albert Gautier and make of him everything I cannot be myself. When I complain of being a woman, I am told that women can exert enormous influence and govern intelligent men. Yes — but for that one would have to see someone, speak to someone, and not be condemned to a mother, an aunt, a cousin, Mlle Oelsnitz, and a promenade in the Bois.

Even supposing I am a genius — is it written on the pink-and-white face of a young girl driving round the lake in the company of her noble family? If I had but 200,000 francs a year — you see I am not extravagant — I should ask no one for anything. But as things are! Ah! life is hard for certain people.

I should like to be limited — to understand nothing!

“My dear, your mind has been unsettled by bad reading!” you will say. Say it, say it as much as you like. All fools say I am mad... and are ambitions, misplaced talents, not a kind of madness?

I place myself high. Well, so much the worse; if I succeed they will say I was right; if I remain unknown I shall have been a vain little fool, extraordinary, whatever you like. I shall be the first to admit it.

“Be a good daughter, a good mother!” you tell me. “Limit your horizon there.” Yes — that is it, cretinise yourself. I am one, and if I am not it is not my fault; I shall be the other come what may — but I am too much for that to be enough for me. And then, I care nothing for all your considerations; I am not everyone; I have the courage to say this phrase that is in almost every mouth.

Ah! Do you see it... the Trevi Fountain on the terrace of a hotel on the Champs-Élysées.

What is odious is this powerlessness! And this fury at deserving good advice until I shall have proved I am capable of something... Perhaps I am capable of nothing — but I suffer.