Wednesday, 12 March 1879

Madame Gavini came. Her husband has no tickets for tomorrow, so I asked Rouher for some, writing him a word on my card. But it is too late; he answers at once and very politely.
In a word, all this bores me — I want to go and hang myself! However grandiose and impossible and stupid this idea of doing away with myself may seem to you, it will have to end that way. The painting is not going well. I could say, it is true, that since I began to paint I have worked only anyhow and with interruptions — but no matter: I, who dreamed of being rich, happy, fashionable, surrounded... to lead, to drag out this existence!
Mademoiselle Oelsnitz accompanies me as usual, the poor girl is so tedious. Picture a tiny body, a big head with blue eyes... have you seen the wooden heads at the milliners’, with pink cheeks and blue eyes?
Well — that is it, features and expression alike. To this exterior add a languorous air (found, moreover, in all the dummies I have just described), a slow gait, yet so heavy that hearing it one would take it for a man’s. A weak, drawling voice — she swallows her words. An astonishing slowness. She is always elsewhere, never understands at once, then stops in front of you and contemplates you with a seriousness that either makes you burst out laughing or infuriates you. Often she gets to the middle of the room and stays there, rooted to the spot, not knowing where she is. What is almost the most exasperating is the way she opens doors — the operation lasts so long that each time I want to rush over and help her. I know she is young — nineteen — I know she has always been unhappy, that she is in a strange household where she has not a friend, not a soul with whom to exchange her thoughts... often she makes me sorry for her, touches me with her gentle, passive air, and then I resolve to talk with her, to... but just try! She is repugnant to me, as the Pole and Bruschetti were. I know it is wrong, but that idiotic air paralyses me. I know her position is sad... yet at the Anitchkoffs’ she was the same.
To ask me the smallest thing — to beg me to play something on the piano, for example — she goes through the hesitations and tortures that I would go through in asking for an invitation to an evening party or a ball.
I have the excuse that I talk to no one here, so she is no exception. My aunt is almost stupid; she always says things wrong, and it is silly of me, but it irritates me, above all because she never admits it, and goes on and on in front of people, telling things she has heard any old way and that the others know a thousand times better. She will argue with Gavini about a Parisian salon or about — in short, I work at the atelier, and when I eat at home I read the newspapers or a book; it is a habit I shall find hard to break; I even read while practising the mandolin.
So the little thing sees herself treated no worse than the others, except Paul, who is here on a visit — but I feel remorse, and yet I cannot help it!
I feel deeply unhappy in her company; the drives I have to take with her in the carriage would be a real torture to me if I did not look out of the window and, by thinking very hard of something else, manage to forget her... One forgets her easily — nothing is more imperceptible than that poor creature, but nothing more exasperating either! I do so wish she would find a position where she could be happy, and go away from here. I am ashamed to say it, but she spoils my desert and my life of desolation
Oh! This painting! If only I could succeed at it!