Tuesday, 25 October 1881

Well, let us try to account for one's time… I am getting muddled. Well, I have seen the cathedral — one of the most beautiful and largest in the world, in my opinion. The Alcázar with its delicious gardens, the sultanas' baths. And then we took a walk through the streets; I exaggerate nothing in saying we were the only women in hats — and it is to our hats that I attribute the astonishment of the population. If only I had been elegant — but I was wearing a gray wool skirt, a tight black coat, and a black traveling hat. But foreigners are regarded here like learned monkeys — one stops, they jeer, or they say pleasant things. The children jeer at me but the grown-ups tell me I am pretty and salada — it is, as one knows, very chic to be salty. Seville is all white, all white; the streets are narrow, carriages cannot pass through most of them. And with all that, it is not as picturesque as one would wish. Ah! Toledo — I see my barbarism now: Toledo is a marvel. Seville, with its low whitewashed houses, is of a slightly bourgeois character. There is something in the lower quarters… But in every country in the world the poor quarters are interesting. What there is, is a harmony and richness of tone such that one would like to paint everything. I am greatly annoyed at not speaking Spanish — it is a dreadful handicap especially for working, making studies… These women and half-wild children are of a prodigious color as are their rags. It is ravishing despite the crudeness of the white houses. But it rains constantly, and besides I am with family. I can understand being
happy living as a family — and I would be miserable alone. One can go shopping as a family, go to the Bois as a family, sometimes to the theater; one can be ill as a family, take a cure as a family — in short everything that belongs to intimate life and necessary things. But to travel as a family!!! It is as though one took pleasure in waltzing with one's aunt. It is mortally dull and even somewhat ridiculous. One struggles not to fall into stupor and becomes an object of self-pity. Yesterday I made a study of a beggar, in four or five hours, life-size. One must from time to time attempt very rapid sketches to loosen one's hand. Then we went to the Marquis Pickman y Pickman, to whom we were directed by our consul at Biarritz. They are good porcelain manufacturers of English origin who enriched themselves here and became marquises. Señora María del Rosario Gutiérrez y thirty-six other things is a round, fresh little bourgeoise — in short, straight to the basket. Off to Granada — but I think of Paris with such pleasure… I would like to be there. You do not know — I have dreamed of Cassagnac and thought of him constantly in Seville… Besides, more or less everywhere — it is now only a habit — my daydreams are divided between him and the artistic glory my Immense Talent will bring me. And yesterday! I tried to sing for the first time in perhaps a year, and those few passable notes made me leap for joy. Ah! If I could sing. I feel as though in exile; the days are so long under this gray sky, and sleeping little because of the mosquitoes I am on edge and cannot work. I must return to Paris — what am I doing in this province. It is enough to weep. If I could work I would forget everything — but to be there for three days in a hotel, alone, sad… And I have just read a touching story that recalls Paul and Virginia, that sublime novel whose very memory sends gusts of youth and poetry through the soul. It was even to speak of it that I opened this notebook… Ah! Yes, speak to me of Andalusia — I walked through the streets once with my aunt, and another time with a guide to see the old Jewish quarter. I hoped to find a heap of amusing old things, and instead found corridors without ceilings, whitewashed! And here and there small doorways opening onto very neat and tidy little courtyards with fine plants in the center. O Toledo, O Córdoba! I had imagined Seville and a heap of amusing adventures — but
I am so bored that I stay locked in the hotel — farewell to adventures. And it rains. And Paul and Virginia… the Paul who… you know… no doubt — it is mine. No love, no poetry, not even youth. Nothing — truly there is nothing in my life, and in Seville it seems as though I were buried, as in Russia that summer. All these travels!… Why? And painting. It is five months since I was at the studio; of those five months, with all these travels, I have lost three. And I have such need to work… Breslau's Honorable Mention awakened a whole world of thoughts — or rather brought closer to me, made possible… transported into real life that dream of Salon medals which had seemed so remote that I dreamed of it in my pipe dreams as I dreamed of having the Legion of Honor or of being Queen of Spain… When Villevieille came to tell me of the probability of Breslau's mention, she seemed to think it moved me… In short, others — in allowing that I might dare to contemplate a prize for myself — gave me the audacity to contemplate it; or rather to tell myself that since others think I can dream of it, it must therefore be possible… In short, for five months now I dream of it as much as of Cassagnac… And I wonder if it is possible that he will occupy me my entire life and that I am for him merely the little girl he saw twenty times and has entirely forgotten? For after all, while I live with his thought — while all my actions, all my dreams relate to him — while I link him intimately to my life — he does not so much as think that I exist and is entirely a stranger to me, that is to say I am entirely a stranger to him. And I would like to possess the "technical mastery of words" of Théophile Gautier to analyze this phenomenon. This gentleman, with whom I have never been alone for ten consecutive minutes, has entered so thoroughly into my imaginary life that were he to arrive at this moment and call me Marie, I would find it perfectly natural. I have never lived so intimately with anyone as with him since we have stopped seeing each other. His marriage has not presented itself for a single instant as an obstacle — since I think of it as I think of my medal, that is: in the realm of the impossible, the dream, a sort of heaven where everything happens according to my fancy — where I marry kings, where I become a widow, and where the young deputy from Gers loves me to distraction. His wife dies too — for a married man… never in one's life. Well, someone… now when Julian speaks to me of … that gentleman, it seems quite strange to me — as though one were speaking of raising the dead. I live so retired that I see him once a year, not
even that… So he remains in the clouds, and the medal or mention becomes… I would dearly like to be able to say: becomes palpable. In any case at the moment I have nothing this year — it will be one of those terrible blows that are hard to imagine. And my ill-luck is such… and think of it — I have not yet the least idea what I shall do… Well, one ought to prepare oneself in advance for this disaster… Merely thinking of it I catch fire — and besides I think I let myself be cheated by master Lorenzo (I seem to be rambling — but everything is connected: the study from Lorenzo's shop could make a painting).

Notes

Paul and Virginia: the celebrated 1788 novel by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre; a romance of innocent youth in Mauritius, ending in shipwreck and death; widely regarded as the paradigm of doomed romantic love in French literature.
Breslau's Honorable Mention: Louise Breslau (1856–1927), Swiss-born painter, a fellow student at the Académie Julian; her Honorable Mention at the 1879 Salon inspired Marie to hope for a prize of her own.
Théophile Gautier (1811–1872), French poet, novelist, and art critic, celebrated for his exact and vivid vocabulary in describing works of art; Marie admired his art criticism enormously.