Sunday, 9 January 1881

This evening we hang la crème ailleurs — that is, we give the housewarming — at my place, at number 37. A dozen of my fellow students are gathered there. (The Zillardhts, Amélie, Amixe, de Daillens, de Villevielle, Richards, Simonidès, Magdeleine, etc.) The teachers are absent.
The atelier is hung all over with fabrics of every sort, odd lengths of backdrop, Oriental silks and paintings; two large tapestries! On the whole it is charming, plenty of refreshments, punch. Bojidar, who has been helping me arrange everything since ten o’clock this morning, is at the buffet. De Daillens calls him and Alexis my team of well-trained ponies. They are indeed very kind. The princess gives a length of Turkish fabric. As for Mme Nachet, she sent me this morning an exquisite vase with enamelled roses in relief, holding a beautiful plant.
I am quite ashamed to receive so pretty a present for that portrait.
Potain refuses to treat me, since I do not follow his prescriptions. Ah! how I should like to leave, to go away to Italy, to Parma. Ah! the clear sky! Ah! the blue sea. Ah! the beautiful calm nights!...
The mere idea of Italy drives me mad. It is like something... very beautiful for which one is not prepared... No, that is not it... I cannot explain myself... It seems like some great and final happiness, towards which one would wish to go only when freed of every care, of every vexation.
When I say to myself: come, let us go, I think at once: no, not yet, I must still struggle, work, and then afterwards, I do not know when, the final rest, Italy... I wonder what there is there... But on me the effect is dazzling, magical, inconceivable to others...
Oh yes, to leave, but with the family pulling this way and that... for Potain, Charcot and all the others to tell me to go, I would have to be very ill indeed... I feel that the warm air down there would cure me at once. But it is their fault. Why does Maman not come back too?
They say it is a whim on my part. So be it, but that is how it is, and since they love me so much... Well, it is all over. One more year, perhaps. 1882 is the great date; in my childhood dreams it was in 1882 that I placed the culminating point... without knowing of what. Perhaps it will be death.
This evening at the atelier the skeleton was dressed up as Louise Michel, with a red sash, a cigarette, and a palette knife for a dagger. There is a skeleton inside me too; we all end up like that. Horrible nothingness!

Notes

Metalinguistic, left in the original: Marie’s pun on pendre la crémaillère (“to hang the pot-hook”), the French idiom for giving a housewarming; la crème ailleurs is “the cream elsewhere”. ↩