Sunday, 19 June 1881 – 7 June

Life flows gently on; Saint Agathe replies to my letter; the Princess also.
I paint; the others come to chat or play cards beside me. Well... my father irritates me. I do not know why I think of my journey five years ago, which he made me pay for, swearing to Alexandre to reimburse everything — then the five hundred roubles I gave for the horses, total a thousand roubles — and now the journey as far as Berlin, a hundred roubles — total eleven hundred roubles.
And he will certainly find a way to quarrel with me at the moment of departure so as to pay nothing and give no present. Anyway, it is quite disgusting, and I am cross about it all day. The tiresome refrain about my illness too. Is it not being said at the atelier that I fell ill and am still in Berlin!
I wrote to my aunt to the effect that a wealthy titled young man had gone to call on a lady, who told him — and this she had from my own family — that I have no health and that she does not advise him to ask for me; that when the young man replied that I seemed in excellent health, the lady — his own aunt, he told me — said she collapses at the slightest thing; moreover her family does nothing but consult physicians and complain that she will not look after herself and wants to die, having an unhappy love.
“I know,” I write in closing, “that you will continue your gossiping all the same — only you will add: do not say it, very probably, and perhaps my dear aunt will restrain herself — but no, she will do as I say!!” It is utterly hopeless. Suppose I am more ill than I am, suppose I am very ill — is that a reason to go and complain of it to the entire universe and make my life intolerable?
written across the page
When one objects to my family that I look radiant, the reply is: “Marie is of such a nature that she will never look ill — but she is, I assure you. One hour less sleep and she is on the ground (literal words)!”
in the margin
When you know perfectly well how I bear the fact that... In short!]
This evening I was recounting these comic dramas... and we were laughing — but Maman arrived and made a scene, saying I had truly been at death’s door, etc., etc., etc.
My aunt wrote to her that I did not take to my bed, but that I could barely stand, and that my head was drooping, etc.
I am left dumbfounded by all this. You cannot judge the matter, for you might well believe they are right, and that it is an invalid’s habit not to acknowledge one’s condition. But if you knew!!! Ah — Lord Jesus! In short it is a point of honour; and then when we speak of it in company (I do so to destroy the refrain with jokes) Maman forces me to leave — it is a duel — and she proves to me that I am ill by allying herself with outsiders, as in front of La Brimont — as if the honour of proving that the physicians have condemned me were at stake. Let us say it is true — but since I beg them on my knees not to tell!!!! Oh — no doubt there are days when I can barely stand, but it is from rage, rage, rage!
And then, you see, they will stop speaking of it to me, or will say in front of me that I am well. But in my absence they will complain of my illnesses and of my not wishing to look after myself (I follow the treatment to the letter) and will say as I wrote: “as long as she does not know — it irritates her!” It is like religiously concealing from me that Georges is making us infamous in the eyes of the whole neighbourhood — as if it were I who needed to be kept in the dark. Then they think they have saved everything.
While I am at the atelier, scandals occur — the neighbourhood in uproar, the police, etc., etc. They conceal it from me and then all is well. And they are not mad! And am I not cursed to be with people who love me in this way!
Yesterday I broke my mirror — it gave me hot and cold shivers. It is a bad omen... I break them often enough; it is true that I do not live on a bed of roses... What is in store for me now? My summer ruined — that is possible and probable; the winter too. I shall die of rage if I am always to be buried... Oh! when I think of what has been done with the best years of my life.
I used to write pages about all this — now I can say nothing more.
I work in the street, and yesterday I received a visit (outdoors) from the venerable priest who gave me holy baptism. I had broken the mirror and told myself: if he looks me in the face I shall die — and it seems I may.
I had hoped he would be content to talk with Maman. This holy man tried to seduce his daughter-in-law, telling her that his son being young would abandon her, while he, though old, would be a much better... husband. But the woman, I believe, slapped him and left.
Then he turned to his own daughter and succeeded. At the present moment this worthy man is defrocked but still lives here. I entered my religion through a sacrée door.

Notes

Sacrée means both «holy» and, colloquially, «damned». ↩