Wednesday, 13 June 1883

Cards arrive in great numbers. Mme Gavini has sent a telegram from Agen; Odette came, and M. Eschmann, a Russian, and old Géry, who arrives with a face from the other world, in tears... I found it hard to strike the right note...
One ought to have wept... And I did not weep, even during the service at the church, which took place at five o’clock. No one was invited, and there were only Saint-Amand, Bojidar, the Englehardts and Tchernitsky. If I had been truly grief-stricken I should not be recounting it, for there is a modesty in that which it seems to me I would be wounding; all the same, I am too calm... I had a model this morning, Edwige, who poses at Suchetet’s, and Suchetet, learning yesterday that she would be posing for me this morning, sends me his sincerest compliments on my Salon picture.
He was walking with Saint-Marceaux, who showed him my pictures, with which he is very pleased. I have never seen this Suchetet; only, we often have the same model, through whom I asked him for some information about modelling tools, stands, etc.
That is exceedingly agreeable to me — is it not agreeable?
Among other cards we receive that of Jules Bastien-Lepage, one of the first, and a letter from the architect, who says: “Dear Mademoiselle, if I were not afraid of being opportune etc. etc. which strikes so violently your whole amiable family, whom I have the pleasure of knowing...”; then he begs me to believe in the sincerity etc., in his respect and his admiration. Perhaps one ought not to mock the form when the substance comes from the heart, but all the same it is almost a concierge’s letter. Does the elder brother not write better?... I should like to wring a letter out of him.
What worries me is that I am too cold; it will give rise to comment...
If he, my father, could see me busy with my mourning and the cards and letters of condolence, he would have put on one of his mocking, contemptuous looks, as if to say: is that all? It is his fault! His nature was very congenial to me, far more so than Maman’s, and he took pleasure in making himself... indifferent to me and often detested, by doing nothing but hurt me and speak to me in a manner I would not tolerate from anyone.
He made it a point of pride. “Ah! you grovel before her — well, you shall see!!” Here in Paris he was violent in the extreme; one day he very nearly threatened to beat me; my manner had struck him as insolent, and he cried: “You’ll see what I’ll do to you, you’ll see, you’ll remember it all your life.” Maman took him away, afraid he would throw something at my head. And what had I done to deserve it? Nothing but say to him: “I beg you not to shout at me; I am not accustomed to being spoken to like this!” That calm manner of mine exasperated him. When I think now of that abominable tone he took to get the better of “my bravado”, the blood rushes to my head.
And yet I tried to be nice to him, but he was always afraid of being under my “domination”.
I could have loved him very, very much, but that, and that business about Maman... Well, I am telling you things as they are.
He lived on his side, reigning over those about him, and I on mine, reigning over mine; then we were brought together, and he put a kind of childishness into proving his independence. Very often he would take offence and imagine that I wanted to “give orders” when I was a thousand miles from thinking of it. Well, one must put his irritability down to his illness...
Well... At a moment like this, in the face of death, in the face of this end of everything! I ask myself whether I was in the wrong. And I do not believe so... He treated me like heaven knows what; I wept over it and even thought of leaving, of going away, to show clearly that...
I picture Maman — if I had the misfortune to lose her, well, I should reproach myself a thousand times over and feel a thousand pangs of remorse, for I have been very rude and very violent... With good reason and out of an instinct of self-preservation, I know, but all the same I shall reproach myself for all those intemperate words...
Besides, Maman... There would be an immense grief there; merely thinking of it makes me cry. However much I acknowledge her faults — we should not get on if we were not related — however much I tell myself... But with her all that is inconsistency, frivolity and ignorance; she is a child, and a child in those conditions is a hateful being, I know; I would rather she had lovers and knew how to live like other women...
She is virtuous, but she understands nothing and has no confidence in me..., and always believes that everything will sort itself out, that it is better “not to make a fuss”.
I believe the death that would grieve me most would still be my aunt’s, she who has devoted her whole life to everyone and has never, not for a single minute, lived for herself, except for the hours spent at the roulette tables of Baden or Monaco.
Only Maman is nice to her; I have not kissed her for a year and say nothing to her but indifferent things or reproaches about a heap of trifles. It is not out of spite; it is that I too have been very unhappy and still am, and all these discussions about our affairs with Maman and my aunt have accustomed me to a curt, hard, cutting tone. If I began saying tender or even merely gentle things, I should cry like a fool.
Well, without being tender, I could be more amiable, smile and chat sometimes; it would make her so happy and cost me nothing, but it would be such a change in my manner... that I dare not, out of a kind of false shame. And yet this poor woman, whose story can be written in one word, Devotion, moves me, and I should like to be nice to her... And if she were to die, there is a death that would leave me with remorse! Take Grandpapa: he sometimes made me impatient with an old man’s fads, but old age must be respected; I happened to answer him sharply, and when he was paralysed I felt such remorse that I came very often to sit with him, to efface, to soften, to atone. And then Grandpapa loved me very much, and now, thinking of him, I am crying.
But my father... After twenty years of separation he tried to win me over with coarseness and brusqueness!...