Tuesday, 11 March 1884

It is raining.
It is not only that... but I am unwell. All this is so unjust. Heaven crushes me...
Well, I am still at an age when one finds intoxication even in dying. It seems to me that no one loves everything as much as I do. Art, music, painting, books, society, clothes, luxury, noise, calm, laughter, sorrow, melancholy, banter, love, cold; sun, every season. Every state of the atmosphere — the calm plains of Russia and the mountains around Naples; snow in winter, the rains of autumn, spring with its madnesses, the quiet days of summer and the beautiful nights with their brilliant stars...
I adore and admire everything; everything presents itself to me in interesting or sublime aspects; I should like to see everything, to have everything, to embrace everything, to merge with everything — and to die, since it must be so, in two years or in thirty, to die with ecstasy in order to experience that final mystery: this end of all things, or that divine recommencement.
This universal love is not the sensation of a consumptive; I have always been like this, and I remember that exactly ten years ago I wrote (1874), after enumerating the charms of the various seasons: in vain would I choose — all seasons are beautiful, the whole year... all of life! One must have everything! The rest is not enough — one must have nature; before it, everything else is wretched!
“After all, everything in life pleases me; I find everything agreeable, and while craving happiness I find myself happy to be wretched. My body weeps and cries out, but something that is above me rejoices in living, all the same.” (September 1875)
A recent book by Zola, La Joie de vivre, develops something similar.
I understand everything [and come to terms] with everything remarkable... but I am going to die. Children who are too clever die young...
Tony dines here this evening; he says that my street children, entitled Un Meeting, have improved greatly, and that on the whole it is really good and will count at the Salon.
Good, kind Tony made me a little speech about how little confidence I have in him and about my modern tendencies, which he is far from opposing: “I have no prejudices,” he says, smiling, “I may be conventional, but I can also give useful advice, for after all there are immutable principles,” etc.
“But why are you telling me all this, Monsieur?”
“I assure you I have the greatest confidence in you, and if for three months I have not disturbed you, it is purely out of discretion... etc.”

Notes

Marie explicitly defends herself against the Romantic cliché of the tubercular invalid who loves the world with a feverish, morbid intensity — she insists this boundless appetite for life has been hers since childhood. ↩
Émile Zola’s La Joie de vivre (1884; the title means “the joy of living”): a novel in which the selfless heroine Pauline Quenu sacrifices herself repeatedly for those around her while maintaining a stoic acceptance of life’s suffering. ↩
Un Meeting (1884): Marie’s painting of working-class children gathered in a street, submitted to the 1884 Salon. The title alludes to political street meetings (meetings being an Anglicism current in French republican discourse of the period). ↩