Friday, 12 March 1880

Julian came to see my painting; he found the plush-covered table, the book, and the flowers very good. The rest will come; the whole has style, it is bold, almost brutal. In a word, I, who was crying this morning, come home at six in the evening comforted and confident... and I find Maman in tears with two telegrams, the first from M. Bashkirtseff:
Every time there is any question of leaving you are ill; you are pitiless, Paul suffers terribly. - The other from Alexandre to my aunt: - Marie’s (Maman’s) arrival more than essential, she must leave immediately, Paul very unhappy. -
That is how these idiots answer our telegrams of yesterday. No other explanation. If Paul is only unhappy, Maman can just as well leave in a week; if he is wounded or dying, they must say so!
If Maman leaves tomorrow, Dina will leave with Maman; I have only seven days left; I could never find a model now, and even if I found one tomorrow I would have only six days, and that is not possible! So I am lost, and I will not hide from you that I weep from vexation and also because nothing ever goes right for me. I have hold of an idea, a sensational subject that would make its mark despite imperfect execution, that would give me this year what I could scarcely win in a year’s time by real talent with an ordinary subject... and it is all over. Everything collapses. The work half done, the topicality, all is lost beyond recovery. That is what I call misfortune.
Judge me as you will; Paul’s dramas have left me calm, and this drives me to despair and exasperation. The thing is, I do not know how to explain it; there is a motive behind it other than selfishness. And even if it were selfishness, I am unhappy enough, abandoned enough, to be selfish.
So all the dreams for this year vanish; to wait again... a whole year, do you think that is nothing? I suffer from so many things every day; I thought I would find consolation in my painting, and you see how things turn out.
And my poor painting sacrificed, my ambitions disappointed, the satisfactions I might have lost or postponed -- will that console or save them, over there, Paul and his fiancée?! Useless sacrifices, useless misfortunes, are triply painful.
When M. Bashkirtseff made that scandal at the church -- at least when I learned of it yesterday -- my first thought was to write to the young lady, or that Maman should go there, or that they should come here to be married and go and live on the property Maman is giving Paul.
Whereas now everything is ravaged, spoiled. But for them everything will work out; they will marry, a month sooner, a month later means nothing, and if the marriage does not take place it will perhaps be fortunate for both of them -- Paul is twenty and who can answer for him in five years? Whereas for me, here, speed is everything; a week’s delay and I am a year behind. Well, what do you expect? It is absurd perhaps, but I am in such despair over it that I cry as I did for the Prince Imperial. They will think my eyes are red on Paul’s account, the idiots.
Each of us has his interests here below; his are his fiancée, love, a little estate, and Poltava...
For me it is something else, something else that seems to contain all that I desire and all that I lack... all human joys, all happiness, all revenges. Another year, then, when for me more than for anyone in the world life is a race.