Thursday, 18 August 1881

Yesterday evening I went to the women’s rights meeting — Hubertine having submitted her resignation following a heap of petty intrigues too tedious to recount. This poor woman is always at the mercy of the incompetents who surround her. The meeting takes place at the home of Citoyenne Lacorre.
We are fourteen, and we vote for the expulsion of Commandant d’Epailly and Mademoiselle Drouin, who have slandered and harassed Hubertine. It is Lévrier who sets out the facts that motivated the resignation — there were, I believe, some grievances between Lévrier, Epailly, and Hubertine, for otherwise... Imagine: Epailly writes an article about the women’s demonstration on the 14th — an inoffensive article, barely mocking; Lévrier retorts in La Citoyenne with crudities; Epailly then writes to L’Évènement a letter absolutely mocking and humiliating to the society and to Hubertine; Chapron appends injurious and ridiculous commentary; Lévrier writes to Chapron, who is at Royat... But what am I telling you all this for, and what interest will all these little stories have in fifty years? Obviously Hubertine had to return, and to that end we expelled Epailly and Drouin — without conviction. It is P. Orell who drew up the minutes, and I will say that Pauline had a fine time of it, hearing almost everything... Ah! what a misfortune...
Today... do not read on if you like cheerful things; I spent the day working, and while working addressing to myself in my heart the cruellest truths.
I went through my portfolios, in which one can follow my progress step by step; from time to time I would remind myself that Breslau was painting before I had even begun to draw... But you will say — is this woman the whole world to me?... I do not know, but it is not a small feeling that makes me dread this rivalry!
From the very first days, despite what the good studio companions said, I recognised her talent — you see that I was right. The mere thought of this woman disturbs me as... But I do not even know if any man has ever disturbed me as much; a single stroke of hers on one of my drawings gave me a blow to the heart — I sense a force before which I am shattered. When I think of her drawings or her paintings, it is so many destructions of all my energy; my arms drop. I compare myself — and she always compared herself to me. Imagine: the nonentities of the studio always said she would never paint; she has no colour, her painting doesn’t hold together; she has only drawing. Precisely what is said of me... it ought to be a consolation; it is my only one.
In February 1876 she already had the medal for a drawing. She had begun in June 1875, having already worked for two years in Switzerland. For two years I watched her struggling against the most spectacular failures in painting — then it came gradually, and in 1879 she exhibited on Tony’s advice. I had been painting for six months at that point. In a month it will be three years since I began to paint.
The question now is whether I am capable of producing something like her 1879 exhibition. Julian says that the 1879 show was better than the 1881 one — only as they were at war he did not push for success, while remaining neutral. But then... Her submission last year was placed like mine in the Morgue — that is, the exterior gallery.
Now this year she has made up with Julian, and being patronised moreover by the new school, she has been placed on the line.
Then the Reward: Julian says that after having tried whether it would work for Audrey, he tried for Breslau and it worked very well. Well... No one will certainly say more atrocious things to me today than I say to myself. And without bitterness — so that the ignominies I address to myself have a most unpleasant ring of truth. Leaving the studio, my aunt, Cerny and I go for a drive in a cab along the banks of the Seine, toward the Trocadero, the avenues of Tourville, etc. — a delightful quarter that is not appreciated enough. I feel tired as Breslau used to look; I almost believe myself as diminished as she was, and I admire the sky and the subtle tones of the distance — which is what she used to do. But I do not do it from imitation; it comes of itself, and I flatter myself that it will bring me some good painting.
She, Breslau is my constant preoccupation, and I make not a single brushstroke without asking myself what she would do... and how she would go about it. For the subject is nothing, nothing, nothing.
The quality of the painting is Everything. Unless it is a historical composition — or a drawing like Ingres.
But as things stand!... And they are quite right — a head, a hand — that is enough if the painting is good. What I do is dry! Is cold! Is hard! I shall do sculpture, I said one day. From a somewhat dry model, added Julian.
That chills the blood. But in sculpture — it is impossible to cheat; one models what one sees; there is no trickery, no colour, no optics...
And... But why do these people — Tony, for instance — why does he insist I continue? He has no interest in it, nor does Julian for that matter — the moment has come when I shall be working more at home than with him...
in the margin
There is a painting to be made at Granada — a gypsy woman seated with children on her lap, the nursing infant, others standing — in short, one of those natural and marvellous groups one finds only there.
in the margin
There is also a painting to be made: the front of a carriage at Mont-Dore — it crops very well, and a fresh subject.

Notes

Hubertine Auclert (1848–1914), French suffragist, founder of La Citoyenne and of the society Le Droit des femmes. ↩
Citoyenne: “Citizen” (feminine) — the republican and feminist form of address, consciously echoing the language of the French Revolution. ↩
«Le 14»: 14 July 1881, the national holiday. ↩
La Citoyenne: the feminist newspaper founded by Hubertine Auclert in 1881, demanding full civil and political rights for women. ↩
L’Évènement: a mainstream Republican newspaper of the period. ↩
In Italian in the original: in petto — literally “in the breast”; privately, to oneself. (The earlier note called it Latin; the phrase is Italian.) ↩
In French in the original: cimaise. The picture rail at eye level, the coveted hanging position at the Salon; in English exhibition parlance, “the line”. ↩
Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780–1867), the master of academic draughtsmanship in French painting. ↩