Monday, 10 July 1882

Rosalie is going to leave me — it is a grief. I have had her for five and a half years and had grown so accustomed to her that she knew everything — I told her quantities of things, almost everything, laughing with her; she will stay another month, we have exhausted every fine argument to dissuade her from marrying, but when a thing takes hold of someone... nothing to be done. A woman recommended by the Duchess arrived this morning; she has just spoken to me — very gentle, very humble, begging me to be indulgent at the start, that she will do anything in the world, that she asks nothing better, that if she fails at anything it is because she dare not in front of Rosalie — in short, quite touching, and kissing my hand like a Russian servant at the close of her little speech.
Well, it is like a funeral oration for Rosalie — this girl, through living with me and listening to me, had acquired delicacies of feeling and refinements that I shall not find in another. Here I shed a few tears. Servants have no heart... and mistresses are selfish... Not I — I am better than the rest... Ah, I adore and appreciate myself... You think I am joking... I am very sincere. So, to speak of something else — Tony with his Italy and the Isle of Capri and my aspirations... It appears that is just right — aspirations felt while sailing round the island alone in a boat... and it was beautiful... Ah, I feel it as if I had been there. Well yes, it makes me want to sail round the island in a boat alone — that is to say, with someone: yes, it is Tony who gives me the idea of sailing round the island in a boat with Cassagnac... Simply.
I thought it was finished... It will be finished when I find another. And if I had continued to see him, and if it had not been finished before it began... If he... I should not have married him... Not then, nor afterwards, nor now... And he perhaps owes his prestige only to distance — like politicians who lose popularity in office — he would have worn thin with use. But for four years now he has been in the clouds for me, like someone who dies young... One preserves an eternal and charming memory of them.
And then Rosalie adores Coco and Coco adores her, and they play morning and evening in my room, and I am accustomed to this girl — in the evening when I write or work I call out: Rosalie! Mademoiselle? Stay there. What is it? Wait — nothing... In short a habit, and then when I don't hear anything... she knows that... Ah, it is maddening. So I return to saying that I have kept — a ridiculous memory... of the Deceased, for four years. For four years. He passed very quickly and left a deep trace, and as nothing else touched me... Or could it be because of him that I have remained insensible?... Insensible in a way... for otherwise there have been hours when Gabriel, for instance, seemed charming to me, and then sometimes things... Ideas... Material, how shall I put it? But at these... Vague impulses of... Youth — at all these confused feelings I look on as a spectator; I examine myself with curiosity... It amuses me, and when I see that I please... I should like, without soiling myself, to share what I inspire... Besides, so far as I am concerned at least, I submit to the influence of the feeling I arouse, and then my imagination settles into a comfortable armchair and watches this fugitive spectacle of uncatchable impressions. Ah, I have great talent as a writer!... I adore myself from a need to love someone — it is excusable.
No — tell me, what is one to do?
We are neighbours: the rue Ampère leads into the Boulevard Malesherbes at number 155, I believe, and the Hôtel Acard is at 161.
My aunt encountered him two days ago and it affected me. But art is the thing — I am in the vein, I am working; God grant it lasts.
I have made an exceedingly fine pastel — charming, etc.
Tony asked me for it and said he would sit for me — you know that for a master to sit for a pupil is the height of elegance... And this happened before dinner, before Capri, and therefore in cold blood — as he has no doubt returned to this evening... I wonder where I get the idea that I caused him a passing agitation yesterday... Well, I may be mistaken, but I say what I think. Besides, it will not last — it is purely nothing, almost nothing: the charm of an elevated conversation after the drabness of daily life, the petty models, Irma, Reine; the sadnesses of an artist of forty-four who looks only thirty-five... who has lost a tooth — on the front, at that... But I desire no greater damage than that — to be found charming, amusing, compelling, and now and then to pluck an intimate string, a deep note, a flash that for a moment reveals what love might be in this refined, various, complex, capable being... Even capable of sentiment... This strange being that is myself...
O Carolus, master of vanity, come to my aid. I love myself. So I work — this pastel is simply exquisite; artists spoke of it to Villevieille and she absolutely insists I make hers. Good.
Besides, Tony is an excellent master — not indulgent — and he esteems me, so I have confidence.
So — thanks be to God, whom I adore and thank — I am at peace for the moment. You see that one does not always complain. And I am very afraid of falling back into discouragement; I am preparing my picture — I shall also do a portrait, God willing that I keep well.
You will see that I shall end by producing a book — it has obsessed me for years, but the form is not yet there... There is I know not what, of which my head is full, that will come out one day — it is inevitable...
In short, it seems to me that everyone ought to love me and I bloom... You will see — come, enter, look at me: I am charming; if not with love then with friendship or sympathy, but I will not admit indifference before my twenty-three years that open their arms to the universe.