Tuesday, 25 April 1882

Tony came to visit... naturally Maman and my aunt kept him a few minutes in the drawing room to say half a dozen foolish things that made me want to hide under the table.
My own anxiety was quite enough, and I had no need of seeing my family's anxious faces watching me to gauge my emotion. In short, here is what he said. The pastel of Dina — very, very good. The old man at the sea — very good, very good, likewise. The head of Thérèse — not bad at all. Only the tonal values of the landscape in relation to the dress not quite right. The small landscape — very good. The old man's clothing very good, the old man well drawn, but not simple enough and not enough something else — in sum there is good in it... Well, you will say, you should be pleased... Ah! He also added that I must do a very, very close study and that he will follow me very attentively and that he is at my disposal whenever I call him.
Well... afterwards they had him take a cup of broth in the drawing room, fishing for a long speech about my immense talent. But as at five o'clock he was expected at the Salon committee — it was precisely for that reason he chose this day to come, having to go to the Salon which is nearby — being in a great hurry, he contented himself with addressing warm thanks for the glass of Marsala and the broth and made off as quickly as possible. So my aunt says he is an imbecile and understands nothing, and Maman adds that it is really astonishing that I should be thus crushed, since in sum he is a man like any other — word for word. It is true that I looked put-out because of their prying anxieties; apparently all mothers are like this, but it is no less tiresome for that.
Then a quarrel starts over nothing — these words, detours... Ah, damn! In short I am upset to the point of tears and come to pour out the overflow of this poor heart here. I should be pleased... no, I am almost crushed, and Maman is almost right. It is not enough... I do not know what I wanted that man to say to me... For me not to be crushed, he would have had to say: that's it, this time you've got it, that's the thing, you are as strong as Breslau and have more qualities than she.
Anything short of the aforesaid words could not only fail to satisfy me but could not even lift me from the despair in which I have been for more than a year. He did say, on seeing the old man by the sea, that it was very very good, very good — then, indicating the tonal value of the clothing in relation to the horizon, that it was very fine. He said several times that it was very good, as also the small landscape which he looked at several times, and the pastel of Dina, and mine which is half-good. And the head of Thérèse, which is not bad at all... Well, what more do I ask, then???
I don't know... And to begin with he was too pressed for time, and it seems to me he did not look long enough... I should have liked him to give me a long speech about my extraordinary gifts.
How can all these 'very goods' not satisfy me, when I still carry in my heart the 'very good' bestowed on Breslau for a small painting she did in Brittany two years ago?
And when he says the same to me about my small painting done in Nice, it seems to me it does not carry the same weight — why? Before I left Nice he told me that Breslau's fisherwoman is very good. Now that this same fisherwoman has been admitted with grade 2, he tells me it is not bad, merely. In short... I am not pleased.
Why? First, because my family had placed such extravagant hopes on these few studies that only the wildest compliments could have satisfied them; and secondly, the spring effect, nerves. When I am in this state of over-excitement my arms burn above the elbow — rather amusing. Learned doctors, explain...
And this evening there is an ultra-elegant ball at the Hôtel Continental in aid of the night shelter, and I am not enchanted with my dress. I am wretched.
A bad moment to get through — I am at the point of believing I know not what... if at least I were in love, that would fill all these empty places in the heart... In my wretchedness I search — in love with whom? Julian or Tony? But no, I like them well enough only not in that way? Bojidar then?
Is it possible to say such imbecilities even here, even in jest. I am horribly jealous of the good opinion Tony and Julian have of Breslau.
Tony says she is dirtier than a comb... but that does not console me in the least. I should like to hear them say that they believe in my future, that soon I shall be somebody... Ah! Oh! I should like to meet Bastien at the ball... but even of his talent I dare be jealous... ah! I am wretched.