Friday, 22 June 1883

Bojidar is there from nine o’clock. He is a very curious creature; the main trait of this Slavic character — capricious, heedless, and wizened — is a love of lying, or rather improvisation. About everything and nothing he invents a host of incidents, recounts them, gets caught out, does not always extricate himself, and starts again with fresh effrontery. Besides, when he is in this vein, all this imagination serves to glorify his friends; he attaches himself passionately to people for a fortnight, two months, six months — now it is such-and-such a woman, then the daughters of such-and-such a man, then such-and-such a man himself, or some nondescript little person. And during those two weeks or six months there is no one but this person or that; then suddenly anathemas, horrors, atrocities, thieves, assassins — and a week later everything is patched up and all is calm. At the moment we are on the best of terms, and he does not detest me, though I often speak to him of his improvisations and check him from time to time.

In deep mourning, naturally: I have a skirt entirely of crêpe with a scarf of black grenadine forming at the back a large bow with very long ends; a grenadine bodice with a sailor collar in crêpe. Hat with a long crêpe veil. I tried to compose an ensemble that is very youthful. But the effect never came off — they did nothing but read out the names of those mentioned; with a medal I should have been warmly applauded, being very pretty and in deep mourning.

Mme Dumont-Breton¹, who received a second medal, was dowdily dressed, but she is the daughter of Jules Breton and very well known to all this public — and, all told, she has a certain talent.

Those poor artists! Some of them were very affected — men of forty-five, quite pale, quite moved, in frock coats or poorly made suits, going up to collect their medals and shake the hand of Jules Ferry², the Minister. One worthy sculptor, having carried off his little box, began to open it as soon as he reached his seat and broke into a lovely, happy, involuntary smile, like the smile of a child.

I was a little moved too, watching the others, and it seemed to me for a moment that it would be a frightening thing to stand up and approach that table. My aunt and Dina were seated behind me on a bench, for award recipients are entitled to chairs.

Toward the end, Mme Olympe Odouard — a lecturer and editor of La Silhouette, an old woman with dyed hair — introduced herself and spoke to me of her cousin Mme Clovis Hugues and her friends the Engelhardts.

She would like to publish my portrait and a biography etc.

Tony comes to say hello, and at the exit, Carolus — and that is all. On leaving, we go to track down Julian in his lair, the big men’s ateliers. It is immense and he is building still more. The number of aspiring painters is frightening. After half an hour of very lively and very amusing conversation, as always, we carry off this Marseillais to lunch at home — there Bojidar spreads the wings of his imagination.

As for my paintings, they are there — the street children are good, lively, but the little that is painted seems dry to him. As for the Magdalenes, he likes the effect — he would like me to preserve it... And as for the sculpture, he says, as Tony does, that it is very good and that for the next Salon I shall be able to do what I like and carry off an award.

Besides, he is not surprised, knowing my drawing. I was wrong to show him the children — he knew them as a painting, he should only have been shown them when half finished... In the end his impression was not favourable... And I was there in the garden waiting for the end of his examination when Bojidar came running, crying that I am still the same, and that it is truly dreadful. What?! Why, she has kept her ravishing brand-new shoes on to drag them through the garden gravel! It is insane! Rosalie! Quick, quick — the old shoes for Mademoiselle Marie. For it is a fact that I forgot. When he has championed someone’s interests, he has the solicitude of an old nurse — he wants to know everything, recounts all manner of intimate stories, almost meddles in your laundry arrangements, puts on the airs of a child, then a father, then a doctor, then a nurse, then a steward. In short, the fly on the coach-wheel³. So long as it lasts it is only amusing — and then...

Well, there it is — that day of the award is over.

I had not pictured it like that.

Oh! Next year — to carry off a medal!... And let everything come at last as in the dream!... To be applauded, to triumph! That would be too beautiful, and impossible as such if I were not so wretched in another respect... For that wretchedness makes possible... Perhaps this dreamed-of triumph. And when you have a second medal you will want the medal of honour?! Without a doubt. And then? The Legion of Honour? Why not? And after? After that — enjoy the fruit of one’s labour, one’s pains; work always; keep oneself as far as possible at that height; and try to be happy; to love someone.

Whom? Marry Saint-Amand and love... the great what’s-his-name? We shall see later — there is no hurry. He will be neither uglier nor older in six years than today. And if I were to marry like that today... I might perhaps regret it... But in the end I must marry — I am twenty-four. And people take me for older — not that I look old, but at thirteen in Nice they gave me seventeen and I looked it... In short...

Marry someone who will truly love me — without that I should be the most wretched of women... But that someone will also have to suit me at least...

To be celebrated, very celebrated, illustrious! That will arrange everything... No... One must not count on meeting an ideal being who will respect me, love me, and be a good match...

Celebrated women frighten people... Ordinary people and geniuses are rare...