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 consul’s wife, 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.
People found fault with the incoherence of the landscape in Joan of Arc; here it is worse. There it flickered, but nature flickers. Here it is heavy. Dagnan told him the figures ought to stand out more. He repeated this to me, adding that he did not quite understand what Dagnan meant by it, and that in a subject like his one could, so to speak, not care a hang about the effect (his very words) — to which I cravenly replied that he had cared a good deal about it all the same. He also claims to have painted the fall of evening. I defy you to tell me at what hour it is happening. The sky is grey and white, the steeple is black, the background is a pitiless green, and all this takes the substance out of the figures. Haymaking, the Pommes de terre, Joan of Arc, even Père Jacques did not show this fault to such a degree. Joan of Arc has stayed in my memory as a marvel, and if one is surprised at first by the flicker of the background, that is quite simple: nature itself gives that impression in broad daylight.
But here… That young man clearly needs me to guide him… If only he would be very fond of me as a friend, while keeping Mackay… But after all, why, why, why?
Does one ever know why one loves or does not love? So I ask why, as a protest against the negligence of heaven. Why is it someone else, and not that one?
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, everything is in full swing, 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 silly objections. And I, without losing my temper, explain to her why it is all necessary — as if she did not know — and that this twopenny affair is doing me harm in Paris. She answers that these are inventions of mine, that nothing does any harm, and that she has no wish to go and stay out there for two years. Two years, that is to say two months. That is her way of putting things: when we are going to the theatre, say, and it is eight o’clock and I am not ready, my aunt sends word that it is ten minutes to eleven. So I send back word that if it is ten minutes to eleven it is too late, and I am going to bed. And I am not caricaturing — that is how it is, exactly, and about everything. In short, she will not go. Why?
— Because they may keep me there a long time.
Observe that she had begun by denying that the affair existed at all. “And how did it end, then, without your going?” I asked.
— I have no idea; I only know that they no longer summon me.
Since that innocent little trick did not succeed, she says they will keep her a long time. That is a confession. It is like having to deal with lunatics. These women are mad, or rather stupid. But what suffering!
— What does it matter if they keep you a long time?
— But I have not the slightest wish to languish out there, and besides, at the Consulate they know that it is an affair concerning my brothers, that I have nothing to do with it, and that…
— At the Consulate they know it, perhaps we know it, but everyone imagines it is still that same lawsuit, which prevents you from going back to Russia, and that you are a criminal. Come now, think — how can anyone believe you! So I am to be harmed like this, deliberately and for nothing?
— I shall not go.
— You will not go?
— No.
— Then I shall jump out of the window!
And I burst into nervous tears, noisy, magnificent, like everything that is true, sincere, irresistible.
The truth is, it is really beyond belief. And if I did not know everything as well as anyone, one would suspect dark abysses behind it. The same objections and the same puerile, childish, idiotic scenes were made to stop Maman from settling that stupid affair. It took her two months. And if they had listened to me, it would all have been forgotten years ago. No, I feel that even those who read me will not believe in so much harmful stupidity, so much childish silliness, so much stupid cowardice!
When they see me sobbing like a lost soul, my aunt cries out that very well, she will leave tomorrow, but that it will be the end of everything, that we shall never see her again, that she never wants to come back. As if I were doing her a mortal injury by sending her there. There must be people like that at Charcot’s.
And now I wager they are telling each other that it was the bad weather that set my nerves on edge and that, luckily, by tomorrow I shall have forgotten all about it!!!

Notes

Marie’s coinage: consulesse [sic] in the source text. ↩
Pommes de terre (“Potatoes”): Marie’s short form for Bastien-Lepage’s La Récolte des pommes de terre (1879), “The Potato Harvest”. ↩
Père Jacques (“Old Jacques”): Bastien-Lepage’s painting of an old woodcutter (1881). ↩