Thursday, 13 July 1882

[Written across the page: Between this day and the 5th of May 1883 an enormous step has been taken... One does not paint such a picture as that simply like this. I suspected nothing.]
But that cannot be — so I shall allow myself three months, for one must count the days of bad weather and the passages that fail. But I shall do it faster, for my composition will already be settled here — it is engraved there, in my head. From the 10th of October to the 15th of December is sixty-seven days. Now I need thirty days of ordinary work — yes, thirty days. Yes, thirty. Let us deduct: thirty-seven remain. Take away seven days of illness. Thirty remain; fifteen days of bad weather, and fifteen days to redo what will have gone wrong. Not counting that if I need more I can stay past the 15th of December... Ah, you shall see!
No — but if I re-embark on the 15th or the 20th I shall be in Paris on the 1st of January and could paint a good portrait in the two and a half months that will remain.
My calculations are very accurate. Take Thérèse — I said fifteen days exactly and it took me thirty; and note that I had ill-luck throughout with the head.
So by allowing three times what is needed I shall come out right, for this picture is far more difficult and one will have to find the effect and so many things... Well, if I do not achieve it at the first attempt it means it will be bad... Yet... Oh, these explanations and this pen...
Enough, enough, enough.
We go to Julian's with the Duchess, then to the Bois where there are still many people. And for dinner we have Saint-Amand, Mlle Cerny, Géry, and the two Engelhardts — all of this impromptu.
And the cook being dead drunk there was no dinner at all — we had to send to the dairy shop next door for food. But we laughed greatly. Géry had brought christening confits for his little daughter. We show him over the house, and there in the studio he all but put his arm around my waist; I thought he was about to ask me something, which Maman's entry interrupted, and on the staircase I asked him: what?
Nothing, if you please — he laughed and said he had wanted to ask for a kiss... But as Gavini, he, and Saint-Amand are all like fathers to me... I take it as such... Yet this little jest from this species of Bonapartist left a disagreeable impression.
I always think someone is about to show me disrespect and take me for a person of little honour... It is absurd, for Géry has seen perfect company at our house... And then... Never mind — it is tiresome and here I am vexed... Especially as we have taken this house in this artists' quarter... And my picture... If you only knew — I shall be obliged to go away to paint it, and I rage in advance because my family will assign a health motive to this journey, so that I am almost inclined to stay... It is infuriating.
Tony must see the sketches and give me his opinions. I shall bring them to him on Saturday if he has not come by tomorrow.
And then I am in love with Cassagnac — my heart is bored. This journalist of thirty-eight and a half, married to the daughter of an old adventuress, no longer knows whether I exist. No — you see, what I need is independence; I am burning the candle at both ends as a girl and champing at the bit.
I should be too wretched marrying a man who will naturally want both the dowry and the wife. It is impossible that I should love such a person... And to wait for some millionaire prince in Russia perhaps — and even then... One would lose too much time seeking the opportunity.
What I need is a special husband... One who will give me a name, a position, who will be honourable and leave me in peace. To be married and entirely free; I see no one but Saint-Amand. I am tempted to let it drop into conversation, confidentially and with the most adroit circumlocutions possible... That I would rather seek a friend, a brother. That the art to which I devote myself requires... And then, by way of a childish detail, that several fortune-tellers have predicted I shall die at the birth of a child... No — it is too delicate. Saint-Amand is not like everyone else but it is impossible to make him understand that such an arrangement suits me...
He cannot marry... But it is impossible to tell him that is precisely why I want to marry him. And then he will fear that he... or that I shall do something foolish... Ah, if only he would make up his mind. It would be delightful. I should be so tranquil — and as there is now divorce I could later make a grand marriage.