Thursday, 23 December 1880

As it was getting late, I left the portrait and set about making a sketch, still hunting for a Salon subject. Julian arrives and finds it very pretty, so I go out with him into the antechamber and ask whether it might do.
Why, yes, very good — only it is a calm subject, a young girl’s subject, 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 to oblige, that the model has nothing striking about her, that I do it because in a moment of expansiveness I promised. This idiotic expansiveness that makes me give everything and rack my brains to think what I could possibly offer and how I might best 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, once I am carried away, silly fits of tenderness! You did not know that, and I am thought selfish — square that as best you can.
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. That, he says, it looks as if it is meant to make sure I exhibit nothing — I say it looks because it would be too cruel for me if you thought it were true... And then always this refrain about the portrait, which I would do well, he says, to paint at the atelier — I shall do it better that way. So much for my exhibition.
That said, you will not be surprised that I came home with my jaw clenched, afraid to move for fear of bursting into tears, and that I am now blubbering like a baby. I must have been mad to believe anything at all was possible for me.
O nothingness.
And now it is poisoned, and the question of the Salon would make me scream.
So this is where I stand after three years of work. “You would have to burst on the scene as a phenomenon,” Julian said.
But I could not. Three years now, 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 a 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 tip of a thought without its 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 heartbroken over 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.