Thursday, 23 December 1880

As it was getting late, I left the portrait and set about making a sketch, still searching for the Salon. Julian arrives and finds it very pretty; then I go with him to the antechamber and ask if it could do the job.
But yes, very well — only it is a calm subject and one for a young lady, and he thought I would find something more... And then he reproaches me for at least the tenth time for not having done Madame Nachet on a larger canvas and with more dress — in short, for the exhibition. I must tell you that this refrain comes up every time I speak of the Salon. But for you to understand the effect it has on me, I must tell you that this portrait does not please or amuse me, that I do it out of complaisance, that the model has nothing gripping about her, that I do it because in a moment [blacked-out word: of expansiveness I] promised. This idiotic expansiveness that makes me give everything and rack my brains to know what I could offer and how I might better please anyone and everyone. And if you think this rarely happens to me! It is almost always like this, except when I am too troubled... and even then.
It is not even a quality; it is in my nature to want to make everyone happy, and then, carried away, foolish tender moments! You did not know that, and I am thought to be selfish — reconcile that.
So this portrait that I am eager to finish — they thrust it under my nose every minute for this exhibition that has preoccupied me for a year, that I dream of and on which I build such mad hopes. [Blacked-out words: That, he says,] it seems that it is so I exhibit nothing — I say it seems because it would be too cruel for me if you thought it were true... And then always this refrain about the portrait that I would do well, he says, to do at the studio — I shall do it better that way. Well then, there is my exhibition.
This said, you will not be surprised that I came home with my jaw clenched, fearing to make a movement lest I burst into tears, and that I am crying like a calf now. One had to be mad to believe anything possible for me.
O nothingness.
And now it is poisoned, and the question of the Salon would make me scream.
So there is where I am after three years of work. "One would need to arrive as a phenomenon," Julian said.
But I could not. Here are three years, and what have I done, what am I? Nothing. That is to say, here I am a good student and that is all, but the phenomenon, the thunderbolt, the brilliance... there is no one left. This strikes me like a great unexpected disaster... and the truth is so cruel that I already try to believe I am exaggerating. It is painting that stopped me; so long as it was drawing, I "astounded" the professors, but I have been painting for two years now. I am above the good average, I know; I even show extraordinary aptitude, as Tony says, but I needed something else — in short, it is not there. But I am stunned as by a great blow to the head, and I cannot touch it even with the edge of thought without it hurting me horribly. And the tears!
That does wonders for the eyes. I am lost, I am finished, dead — and what dreadful rage! I am devastated by myself.
Ah! My God. I am going mad thinking that I shall die in obscurity!
I am in too much despair for it not to happen.