Thursday, 3 May 1883

The two brothers are to dine here tomorrow — unless…
I feel I shall be stupid, awkward — I shall not know what to say. Ah, it is tiresome. And then, should I invite someone else or not? If it is only them I shall not know what to do, and Maman and my aunt will be so foolish… But who to invite? Dusautoy can play the piano to provide some sound… Ah — one must leave everything to God's grace…
I should need someone like Julian to help me shine… Alice will be there; she is very pretty and what if she were to overshadow me… No, that is not to be feared. How to make him find in me the woman who understands him — and at the same time does not throw herself at his head. Saint-Marceaux? I am preparing myself so much that I shall be a flop — or he will not come.
Bojidar being incapacitated, I work on my portrait. And during the rest breaks I can tell you that… Mme Mackay was at the vernissage with Princess Massalsky, the wife of the Russian consul in Paris. They met at the charity sale, where I saw both their names printed. Mme Mackay offered cards for the vernissage; the little princess — who is neither particularly fashionable nor particularly aristocratic, and who is after all only the wife of a minor consul — accepted. It is not difficult to reconstruct.
All the same I should very much like to be seen walking with the aforesaid consulesse [sic], which would establish me far better than being seen with Mlle Canrobert. Maman will not understand that nothing will help until we have the protection of our own people. Mme Massalsky will have told Mackay that no one from our embassy comes to us. And people suspect the worst — for we cannot very well announce that we are merely country squires, moderately well-off and nothing more. We have set ourselves up here as great lords; it is evident that everyone wonders why we know neither the embassy nor any notable Russians…
I really can play the innocent… But the fact is that Bastien's painting makes me think more and more. It is unfortunate that he does not see the harm done by that background where every leaf is individually rendered. It positively lacks air. And the houses in the background cling to the figures.
And yet — the Jeanne d'Arc was another matter entirely. That painting had air; the background breathed. One felt the open country, the sky, the girl listening to her voices. But this latest one? He is going backwards. Why does he not see it? Why does nobody tell him? And then there is Jules — why do I torment myself about Jules? What is it about him? I cannot answer. I simply cannot.
What does it matter to me in fact? It is not exactly amusing that he comes here for his brother's sake.
Well, there it is. We leave on the 15th or 20th of May and there goes a month to waste. From June 20th to August 20th — no, to September 1st — I work on the children. September 1st I begin the Choir Boy. It will take six months. That will be the first large painting.
Émile has told me he spoke of it to Jules, who said he would be very happy to have thought of that subject himself. And that he guarantees the most brilliant success if I set about it with time enough to finish. This architect is so carried away and urges me so strongly to do this painting that I do not know what to think — there may be something behind it, but what?
So there is my time arranged. What is going to prevent me from carrying out these plans? For something always happens. Yesterday we were saying: Lord, how this pantomime will amuse us! Everything is devised, everyone is in spirits, nothing can delay it, everything is foreseen. Crack — Bojidar sprains his knee in the middle of the drawing room.
This evening I spoke to my aunt about her journey. She raises thirty-six petty objections — it is not altogether unreasonable, all things considered; two years, that is to say two months. But she will not hear of it. She says that the family scandal will prevent her from ever returning, that she would be going to her death, that I am asking the impossible. I wept, I argued, I very nearly threw myself out of the window — I was quite beside myself. In the end she agreed to leave tomorrow. But she declares she will not come back; she treats it as a sentence of exile, a mortal offence against herself. And they probably think it is the bad weather that has set my nerves on edge.