Monday, 7 March 1881

It seems to me that the daughter knows, despite what the mother told me. She is sitting for me this week.
What a damned existence! Ah, a pretty situation I am in. Enough to go drown oneself in a sewer. First, having to look Mlle de Villevieille in the face all day; then, harassed by yesterday's events, I make a mess of things that I scrub out at five o'clock. Julian is not pleased and, since I am a good sport, he feels obliged to deliver a tirade and tells me:
"You see, this canvas could be finished and well finished — and it will always lack one quality."
"Which one?"
"The quality of painting..."
"I can do nothing about that, Monsieur."
"...and that comes from your not finishing things in a single go..."
But the damage was done, to Amélie's supreme jubilation — explanations were useless. That great fool Julian understood as much himself, from my pale face and the way I was setting up my palette. One may be as strict as one likes, but one does not say such things; he has been telling Amélie for six years that her drawing is poor — but he does not tell her "you will never be able to draw."
He may have said this to please her — it was she who got Léon Say, her relation, to award him a decoration — and to make up for Tony's severity. On Saturday she said she did not care at all for Tony, who said one thing when the pupil was present and another when she had her back turned. That was a small drop of poison in the pleasure I had taken from what Tony said to me. But if Tony is really like that, why does he not wait for Amélie and the others to turn their backs before telling them their truths?
All of this is stupid and ridiculous — but I cannot help raging when I think of Amélie's delight now, and the satisfaction she must be taking from confiding this to her maid, to whom she will exaggerate everything; she is so dishonest it is frightful.
So I pay for the punctured canvas, I pay for the frame of the picture I am making for Julian and for which he said this to me today. On top of that I must see Villevieille. Her mother is mad. To ask me for five thousand francs — and where am I to find them?
Does one make such requests of young women? Is it delicate? And then these promises of support — is that delicate either?
What can she be thinking? O these hard-up, fallen marquises! I do not know whether their foolish pride is odious or miserably ridiculous. After all, it is she who attempted the exploitation, and it is I who feel ashamed and upset. I have telegraphed M. Bashkirtseff, and if he sends the money I shall give it to them, all the while telling myself I am an idiot. Generally my greatest pleasure is doing favours for people; I have often dreamed of the happiness of extricating people from their difficulties. Why then am I revolted and disgusted in this case?
And what need did Julian have to explain my faults in painting to Villevieille, there in front of me! The man is mad — is she my mother, or am I an imbecile? Well, father Julian has done something I shall not forget; it cannot be undone. I am humiliated and disgusted with the canvas, which I would puncture with delight if it did not give Amélie such pleasure.
It prevents me from being pleased to see my article printed in La Citoyenne. Read Hubertine's as well — it is very remarkable.
And what need did she have to add that her daughter was on the point of making — two chances out of three — a very grand marriage? Who is going to believe that? And the way she spoke... this woman must be accustomed to such things... besides, I cannot get over it!
Now I receive another letter from the marquise — I should say that I had written to her saying I had made an approach and hoped to succeed. This upsets me completely. She should have put this to me after the canvas is done.

Notes

Marie had contributed an article on art to Hubertine Auclert's feminist paper La Citoyenne, launched in early 1881. Hubertine Auclert (1848–1914) was the most radical French suffragist of the period, founder of the Société du droit des femmes.