Sunday, 3 December 1882

It is snowing. This whole month will be horribly grey — I should so like to be in the south. But it is impossible.
I have the foolishness to let this wish escape me in front of Dina... And my family is already talking of travel, which instantly disgusts me with the idea.
With them it is that preoccupation with illness — despite my having grown round — and above all the happiness of lounging about indefinitely at Monaco. And the very considerations that enchant them repel me.
Travelling again — more lost time, setting up house again... I don't know. It smells in advance of a weariness fit to weep over, and I am exasperated by it as though I already felt I would be forced to leave...
These people are insupportable, and in spite of myself I always think of the conversations in Le Roman chez la postière when I listen to them. I can only speak to them in a harsh tone — which quite rightly shocks outsiders when it escapes me — and yesterday my father began to shout at me, exasperated by my contemptuous and hard way of [words blacked out: speaking] to Maman and my aunt. [Words blacked out: But as I do not admit that anyone should] raise their voice at me, I tell him so with a ravishing calm.
I adore myself when I adopt that tranquil and sweet manner to call people to order. So he left the table. The very idea of thinking one can shout at me — I was not even angry about it; it seemed to me so mad.
If I appear hard it is because I am absorbed in nothing save this consuming preoccupation with work. The calm Julian remarks on is nothing but detachment and preoccupation. There is nothing left but the insane desire to arrive... Provided that, as usual, I do not scatter myself along the way.
Breslau has done her sister's portrait, in the open air. Ah, my God — give me the strength to do nothing but studies, since everyone's opinion is that I must make myself mistress of the craft first, and then one does as one wishes. I reason so well, and I have no strength... Well — [word blacked out] Breslau does me justice... It is vague — and besides... When one knows one's craft well, everything one does is good or nearly so; whereas in my hands at present... What are six months, after all — could I not be patient for six months [word blacked out] everything I would enjoy painting, and do nothing but studies, and waste no time? Continuity of effort — and then, after...

Notes

Le Roman chez la postière: a popular novel (1876) by Hector Malot, satirising provincial bourgeois sentimentality and the reading habits of the lower middle classes. Marie's invocation of it is cutting: listening to her family she is reminded of the conversations that novel parodies.