Monday, 1 January 1883

Gambetta, ill — or wounded — for several days, has just died.
I cannot express the strange effect produced by this death. It is impossible to believe it. This man was so thoroughly a part of the life of the entire country that one cannot imagine anything without him. Triumphs, defeats, caricatures, accusations, praise, jokes — nothing stood without him.
Perhaps... The papers speak of his fall — he never fell. His ministry! Can one judge a ministry of six weeks? What a farce, and what bad faith! One demands of a man to be fully effective within forty days, with the perpetual threat of being overthrown over a matter of india-rubber soup tureens with double catches.
But I am far from that agitation — isolated and stupefied by this wretched painting...
Dead with seven doctors — and what interests around him, what desires to save him! What is the use of taking care of oneself, of tormenting oneself, of suffering. Death terrifies me now as if I could see it.
Yes — it seems to me that it is coming... Soon. Ah, how small one feels! And to what end? Why? There must be something beyond; this transitory existence is not enough, not in proportion with our thoughts and aspirations. There is an afterlife — without which this life cannot be explained, and God would seem absurd.
The life to come... There are moments when one glimpses it without understanding it, and one is terrified.
A sad New Year's Day with the Princess, Alexis and Dusautoy — sad to the point of death — who plays Chopin's incomparable Funeral March. The other day I fell on the staircase; this morning I nearly fell by my bath; people say this presages the end... So the card-readers would have lied... Possible.
What a wretched, wretched, wretched existence.
And I am so slandered into the bargain. How does it happen? Ah! I shall never believe what people tell me about others. The world is infamous.
And what is atrocious is that everything anyone may wish to invent about me will always seem possible and credible... Try as I may... And I don't know how it happens. There are masses of people who occupy themselves with me, and as always they embroider and invent in order to make their conversations more interesting... Oh! sometimes I do this myself when speaking of others... Rarely — and now never again. I had a dream I cannot remember, but which left me with an impression of emptiness, nothingness, cold.
I wrote to Étincelle to tell her that this year I would willingly do her daughter's portrait — [word blacked out: last] year I left for Nice, as I was bound to do. She replies with the most amiable and sympathetic of letters, saying she will send Mimie on 3 January. If I do it well, [crossed out: and a painting with] my fortune would be made. Breslau is doing the portrait of Mlle de Rodays, daughter of the managing director of the Figaro. Étincelle being the chronicle-writer of the Figaro, one would have first the worldly publicity, and then she would show it to Wolff.

Notes

Léon Gambetta (1838–1882): the most celebrated French Republican statesman of the Third Republic, hero of the Franco-Prussian War and founder of the moderate Republican consensus. He died on 31 December 1882, aged forty-four, from a pistol wound (accidental or possibly suicide — the circumstances were never fully explained). His death was a shock of the first order to French political life.
His ministry: Gambetta formed his "Grand Ministry" in November 1881, with great hopes — but it fell after only seventy-three days in January 1882, brought down by parliament on minor procedural grounds. Marie's mockery of the pretext is accurate: the opposition was searching for any occasion to defeat him.
Chopin's Funeral March: the third movement of Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor, Op. 35 — one of the most famous pieces of funereal music in the 19th-century repertoire. Dusautoy playing it on New Year's Day, after Gambetta's death, was entirely appropriate.
Étincelle: the pen-name of Comtesse de Martel, Marie-Mathilde ("Gyp"), one of the leading journalists and society chroniclers of the Figaro. Her daughter "Mimie" was a potential portrait commission.
Albert Wolff (1835–1891): the powerful art critic of the Figaro, whose approval or dismissal could make or break a Salon career. Marie had been watching for his notice since her first exhibitions.