Monday, 27 November 1882

I am not doing the competition, but I work at the studio all the same — a fellow student poses for me willingly, as I shall give her the study.
Annihilated by Julian, I did not dare ask anyone, thinking it would be ridiculous on the part of someone who is in disgrace, who no longer does anything, who, etc., etc.
Now that he can no longer say I do nothing, since I am working in his wretched establishment, he says I am pretending. It is becoming a refrain. The day before yesterday he said it has only been two years that I have done nothing.
Of those two years, I was ill for five months and convalescent or feverish for six. In the time that remains I painted the Salon picture, a life-size woman in the open air in Russia, the old man of Nice, Thérèse, Irma, Dina. Those are the major works; I am not counting the studies, of which there are quite a number. That they may be poor — I am willing to grant it; but it was not my cobbler who spent his time on them.
In short, he thinks this ought to spur me and that it may be clever of him. It is exasperating. No doubt I am not as fortunate as Breslau, who lives in a small artistic circle where every word, every step, contributes something to one's studies. But I swear to you that I do what I can in the stupid, nerve-racking and ignorant surroundings in which I find myself.
People doubtless make me waste time in the evenings — time that Breslau, for instance, employs in drawing, composing, etc.; whereas I am distracted and pulled in all directions by the imbeciles who surround me.
One's environment is half of talent, during the phase when one is a student. All of this gives me the bearing of cold rage, or one that appears detached through having a fixed idea.
If I were not afraid of attracting further horrors I would say that God is not just... But no, actually, why... I am horrified by myself: I have grown fat; my shoulders were already broad enough without that; my arms are heavy without their former firmness; and my bosom is enlarging. I am becoming repulsive, dreadful — I hate myself.

Notes

The works Marie lists: the Salon picture (La réunion au jardin, 1881); the open-air woman in Russia (a painting done at Gavronzy in summer 1882); the old man of Nice (a life study); Thérèse, Irma, and Dina — all large canvases from her primary working years at Julian's, each representing weeks or months of labour.