Monday, 17 January 1881

Have the patience to read Mme Mouzay’s scrawl, so as to understand how impatient it makes me.
My aunt warned her that she was tearing up her letters, which serve only to enrage me, so she addresses them to the atelier. Three days ago she wrote to me, it seems, but my aunt confiscated the missive.
She is also writing to my father, to Uncle Alexandre, to Mme Anitchkoff. It makes one’s head spin.
So here I am under an accusation of consumption.
And God knows what romances people are going to attribute to me; it is that above all which annoys me.
“She goes nowhere, spends her life at the atelier and is dying of her chest.”
People in general adore romantic gossip, and they are going to embroider on me!...
My aunt swears by all that is holy that she never asked Mme Mouzay to see Potain. Besides, this madwoman exaggerates to a fabulous degree.
And then... so affected and posturing. And always those words “Frenchwoman”, “foreigner”.
Always seeming to say that France does us a kindness by suffering us foreigners in her midst... no more than we do her, good heavens. It is stupid.
Well, let us speak of pleasant things; I went to Tony’s to show him my sketch, which he thinks very well composed; he gives me good advice, a host of encouragements and his blessing to begin tomorrow. Although it is Cot’s month, it is he who will come to see me.
— You have never done a picture, he says.
— Never.
— And you do not know a word of perspective.
— Monsieur Ingres did not know it either.
— He was lying.
— So he was a humbug?
— Absolutely... you are going to find yourself grappling with enormous difficulties; observe carefully, and take heart, take heart.
Take heart! Why, I am simply lined with courage, upon my word of honour. It makes me quite cheerful and happy.