Friday, 17 August 1883

A little distraction by way of a semblance of hope — my aunt goes here and there, and I write to Cabanel and to Lefèvre. But it is not worth the trouble: the jury has concluded its deliberations, and they will not reconvene for a single picture. I am consoled, in any case… I shall finish that picture properly. Tony has seen it and finds it good. He is surprised I did not speak to him about the Exhibition… I did not dare.
No one believes in my timidity — yet it is explained by excess of pride. I have a horror, a terror, a despair of asking; it must be offered… In a moment of impulse, it never succeeds — it is almost always too late and wide of the mark.
I turn pale and red several times over before daring to say that I intend to exhibit or to paint a picture — it seems to me that people are laughing at me, that I know nothing, that I am pretentious and absurd…
When someone looks at my painting — an artist, that is — I slip away into the third room, so afraid am I of a word or a look. I would like to have enough talent that… Besides, neither Tony nor anyone suspects how little confidence I have in myself; since I speak with such bravado, he thinks I hold myself in high esteem and grants me great talent.
Consequently he does not even feel the need to encourage me — and if I were to tell him of my hesitations and fears, he would laugh; I spoke of it to him once and he took it as a joke.
That is the formidable error I lend myself to. Jules… he knows, I believe, that… that is to say, he knows that I am dreadfully afraid of him, and believes himself to be God.
In any case, seeing the thin and humble appearance of a Breslau, one might say to her: well, Mademoiselle, that is not at all bad — you ought to exhibit it; it would be good for you.
But how could he say it to this luminous blonde woman, full of mocking, insolent pride, who treats nine-tenths of artists as rascals and manufacturers of atrocities?
In any case… For heaven to be just, it must send me Jules…
All these injustices of heaven and earth restore my calm. Persecution is a beautiful thing — I straighten up, strong in my innocence and in the contempt that fortune's such treatment inspires in me. I shall struggle on regardless. My luck will turn.
It is impossible that I have no genius — it has simply not yet found the right path… I would need to be three people, to devote myself with passion to the three things I adore: painting, sculpture, and… writing. All by myself I run from one to the other, exhaust myself, and accomplish nothing.
As for music — it is so much a part of the life of any civilized being that I do not even speak of it.