Friday, 30 March 1883

From today I wish to mark the days with a white, grey, or black dot, and at the year's end I shall do the tally.
Today I worked until six o'clock — at six, since it is still light, I opened the balcony door to hear the church bells and breathe the spring air while playing the harp.
It is not a grey day nor quite a white one — a further term is needed. Let us see. Black, grey, white — and then today's kind, and the beautiful kind will be rose. Good. Yes, it is white today. I am calm, I have worked well, then washed, dressed in white, made music, and now I write — tranquil, satisfied, enjoying this interior arranged by me where everything is to hand. It would be so beautiful to live this life... While awaiting greatness — and even if greatness came — I would sacrifice two months a year to it, and the other ten months I would remain shut away and working... It is after all the only way to obtain those two months in question.
What torments me is that I shall have to marry.
Then there would no longer be any of these base vanity anxieties from which I cannot escape.
Why does she not marry? She is no longer young. They give me twenty-seven years and it enrages me. Whereas once married... Yes but with whom. If I were as before... but now it must be a good and delicate man. One can wound and torture me so easily now... He must love me, for I am not rich enough to marry someone who leaves me entirely in peace.
If I had two hundred thousand francs a year, I would take an Italian prince and for fifty thousand a year I would be free. But as things stand... He must have fortune, and that is horribly difficult. Chance might well arrange that I please some rich man — but then he will marry me for love and I shall have to be always there... And fame? And painting? The ideal would be a very busy man, and very intelligent. But besides that one needs an aristocratic name, or one illustrious enough to dominate the aristocracy. Of those I see very few. And then — why would anyone wish to marry me? I work all the time, I am tired in the evening and dream of what I shall do the next day.
And if I travel it will be for my painting. The man would need either to share the same tastes or to devote himself. The same tastes — an artist? There are none in the aristocracy, and a true artist... No. But you will say — those are not sentiments worthy of you. Yes they are. Because I wish to dominate.
And if I married an artist it would be a triumph for the majority of this imbecile yet so powerful world. It would be a sort of declension — (after so many pretensions) — a tumble, a sad ending. It would at the same time be a very agreeable life, but I am too proud not to feel the world's quasi-contempt in the charming retreat where we would be busy creating masterpieces.
A celebrated man marries — he takes a woman he loves or a housekeeper. This complement to his settled life, the crown of the edifice; he organizes his household so to speak and the woman belongs to him. An ordinary man marries, and it is the same thing. But I... [blacked-out words: I do not wish] to be that woman — it is I who am the illustrious man, and then... What to do? To remain free is to be in chains; or else to lose one's class and give credence to all the slanders.
And I need to go to Palestine for my painting. How do you expect me to drag everyone after me? If I were married I would go everywhere freely and there would be nothing to say about it.
There is Alexis... if only he had fifty thousand a year, it could happen. Otherwise I fear he would eat through my income, and without money there is no independence.
And then I shall perhaps not be very agreeable. What interest will he have in marrying me?
To see me at table? And elsewhere... And besides, he must not love me too much, for the work would suffer.
And yet male artists have mistresses... Bastien himself — and it does not hinder his work; no matter, I believe that... ah, if one could find someone who reconciles everything... Let us consider this as well: suppose he loves me greatly — it will be a year of disruption; after that, either he will love elsewhere, or he will love me calmly — or at least as I would wish. And there must be money, in the event that he loves elsewhere. Da
In all of this I do not account for my own heart. One cannot foresee everything — and then it depends... and then it may perhaps never happen. And it may be Cassagnac... And if I am married? Well, I would break with the husband without leaving him if I love the other enough to... And then perhaps my husband will have deceived me — which is highly probable — and then I have no better reason for remaining his mere shadow, for I would forgive on that condition; there it is: for him and for my conscience, his treachery will release me from my vow.
It seems to arrange itself quite well like that... and the unforeseen?