Sunday, 20 May 1883

Maman arrived during the night from Thursday to Friday; we received a telegram on Saturday in which she says my father’s health is wretched. Today his valet writes that his condition is hopeless.
I shall grieve only as much as will be necessary. One lays down one’s arms before death: peace and contemplation. They say he is suffering greatly. I am glad Maman arrived in time.
It is tomorrow that the Salon closes for three days. To vote the awards. Thursday, reopening.
I dreamed that a coffin had been placed on my bed, and they said there was a young girl inside. And it shone like phosphorus in the night.
When I have talent I shall occupy people’s minds, as Bastien now occupies mine.
I admire myself: the little Swedish woman married to Chadwick asks me for my impressions of the Salon. So I write to her, and I am obliged to speak of her picture, which shows the everlasting fishermen at the seaside. The colour is pleasant, but the subject repels me. I cannot tell her so. I am quite obliged to say that her picture is better than last year’s, which is true. That the background is of a truly charming colour — that is true too, and I add: “and the rest as well, I am quite sincere.” And since I do not think so, I am troubled as I write it and turn red, red as a guilty woman. Will this so very absolute probity last?
I know only that for the moment I am beginning my letter again, to leave out the underlined words.
Villevieille sat for me, and then we go to the Bois, but the Bois is so green, so green that it is like a sequel to Love in the Village; that green is really too green.
If the place was as green as all that, he had only to look for another. It is green and it is heavy. Oh! That green, that green, that green.
Nasty creature, that Bastien.