Thursday, 13 March 1879

The poor girl is so tedious. Picture a very small body, a large head with blue eyes... have you seen the [Word blacked out: 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 mannequins I have just described), a slow gait but so heavy that hearing it one would say a man. A drawling, weak voice — she swallows her words. A stupefying slowness. She is always elsewhere, never understands immediately, then stops before you and contemplates you with a seriousness that makes you burst out laughing or drives you mad. Often she arrives in the middle of a room and stands there planted on her legs, not knowing where she is. What is perhaps most exasperating is the way she opens doors — the operation takes 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 foreign household where she has not a friend, not a being with whom to exchange thoughts... often she moves me to pity, softened by her gentle passive air, and I resolve to talk to her, to... but try it! She is repugnant to me as the Pole and Bruschetti were. I know it is wrong — but that idiotic air paralyzes 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 experiences the hesitations and tortures that I would experience in requesting an invitation to an evening party or ball.
I have the excuse of talking to no one here — so she * is no exception. My aunt is almost stupid; she always says things backwards, which is silly of me to mind, but it irritates me above all because she never admits it, and goes about in company recounting things she has heard any which way and which others know a thousand times better. She will argue with Gavini about a Parisian salon or about — in short, I work at the studio and while eating at home read the newspapers or a book — a habit I shall have difficulty breaking — I even read while practicing the mandolin.
So the little one is treated no worse than anyone else — except Paul who is here as a guest — but I have remorse, yet I simply cannot!
I feel deeply unhappy in her company; the journeys I must make with her in the carriage would be a real torture were I not to look out the window and, thinking very hard about something else, manage to forget her. One forgets her easily — nothing more imperceptible than that poor creature, but also nothing more maddening! I so wish she would find a situation 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 get there!
I detained Paul another day and after the studio we went to the theater; I brought two Swedish women with me from the studio.