Monday, 10 November 1879

I went to church yesterday; I go from time to time so that people will not say I am a nihilist.
It is a punishment for me to see all these Russians and to be so alone. I often say, as a joke, that life is only a passage. I should like to believe it in earnest, to console myself for all these miseries, all these brutal sorrows, these ignoble slights.
And the whole world is so gossipy; it is by feeling this disgust and this astonishment at the gossip of every day that I discover myself to be untouched by all this nauseating pettiness.
It was only today that I saw Amélie’s drawing: the eyes are crooked, and it is done from imagination.
A pretty state of affairs. And my drawing is all rubbed out; if the professors saw it in that state, I am no longer surprised. Perhaps Amélie or her friend the maid [has] put [her] paws on it... that seems impossible and monstrous to you, and to me too... But the world is so vile... How curious to be shocked by all this — am I honest, then?
I am beginning to believe it.
That drawing, which is not even a whole figure — but it is more sensible than what she usually does, so they seized the opportunity. It is disgusting all the same. And I believed in competitions! How the devil did they ever give me the medal, with Amélie setting them all against me?!
I shall take my drawing, repair what has been rubbed out and send it to the Salon under a false name; if it is accepted, it will be a fine slap in the face for the atelier’s verdicts. I am always afraid my remarks will be taken for jealousy — no, it is not that, you know; only, every injustice revolts me. I say nothing about Madeleine Delsarte’s or Wiik’s medals, but Amélie’s is a bad joke.
Oh well.

Notes

In French in the original: de chic (studio slang for drawing without a model). ↩