Tuesday, 22 May 1883

The Maréchale and Claire come to collect me to go and see Detaille’s Panorama — the evening of the Battle of Gravelotte.
It is not finished yet; it is quite good, there are astonishingly real things in it, but these military panoramas… We are overwhelmed with them…
The little one stays to paint with me. And I am waiting. I hope they will… send me a telegram… I work until half past seven, but at every noise, at every ring of the bell, at every bark from Coco, my soul sinks into my heels. How right that expression is! It exists in Russian too. It is nine o’clock in the evening and no news. There’s excitement for you. If I get nothing it will be very annoying. They said it so much in advance at the studio — Julian and Lefèvre and Tony, all of them together — that it is impossible I should not get it. So it really is not kind; they could have telegraphed it to me; one never learns good news soon enough…
If I had got something, I should know by now. So?
It has given me a bit of a headache.
Not that it is so very important, but it was announced, and besides, uncertainty is odious in all things.
And my heart beating, beating…
Wretched life. Everything and the rest and nothing… And for what? To end in death!
Madame X passed away after cruel sufferings, surrounded by her grieving family. Monsieur Z died suddenly at his château of… Nothing gave warning of so untimely an end… Or again, Madame Y has been taken from the love of her family; she was in her ninety-ninth year…
And no one escapes it! And everyone ends like that.
Ends. To end — to be no more, that is the horror. To have genius enough to live for ever… Or to write nonsense with a feverish hand because the news of a wretched mention is slow in coming…
Ophelia. I despise him!
Someone brings a letter; my heart stops. It is from Doucet, about a bodice…
I am going to take a little more opium syrup and be calm. To see this agitation one would think I had just been dreaming of my Holy Women. The picture is roughed in; when I work on it or think of it, I am in a state like tonight’s.
Impossible to occupy oneself with anything whatever…
Read a novel by Dumas and smoke, and the syrup with it.
A quarter to ten.
Impossible that the prudent Julian should have committed himself to that extent and that it should not happen. And on the other hand, this silence.
The result was to be known at five o’clock. A telegram would have come by now.
It takes you in the legs like a flame that wraps the whole body and burns the cheeks… I have had bad dreams…
It is only twenty-five past nine.
Julian ought to have come; he would have come; he knew by about six, he would have come to dinner. So, nothing?
I thought I had been rejected, and yet that was not admissible. But here it is quite admissible…
I have just been watching for carriages; they go by… Oh! It is too late now.
What if I did a portrait of the Cartwright woman? She has… indecent eyes. They say that at moments one is ashamed to look at her, her eyes are so… They are blue eyes, a brunette’s, with a very black, small pupil, black lashes and black hair. A bacchante’s eyes, eyes… quintessentialised; it is true that one is sometimes ashamed to look at them. Dina has something of that, but Dina is not beautiful. It is astonishing how I try to talk about indifferent things…
There is no medal of honour for painting. And for sculpture it is Dallon who has it. What is that to me.
Would I have given it to Bastien? The medal of honour. No.
He is capable of more than this Love in the Village, so he does not deserve it. They might have given it to him for his sublime Joan of Arc, whose landscape displeased me three years ago. I should like to see it again.
Rosalie has news from Marie Dubois, the studio maid. She said she knew nothing, the gentlemen not having come back when she left the studio. We shall know tomorrow…

Notes

Marie’s projected painting of the holy women at the tomb. ↩