Saturday, 6 November 1880

Saint-Amand came.
In the evening we go to see Charlotte Corday together; I am feeling fairly well. During the day we had Wodzinski, Miranda, and the Juvisys.
My hair is done... and my little ruff of Irish guipure lace gives me the air of a sixteenth-century engraving. Hair pinned up.
With the people I see I can achieve nothing! They have no faith in me! A whimsical young girl, a foreigner, a Russian.
They do not believe I can work seriously. Madame Gavini says it leads nowhere to daub canvases. Her husband is less foolish, but he does not believe in me. Saint-Amand thinks I am wrong to compromise myself in an atelier with women who are not of my rank. And he understands painting as much as I understand Greek. I am worse provided for than an Amélie, than a Breslau.

Notes

A play about Charlotte Corday, the young woman who assassinated the revolutionary leader Marat in 1793. ↩