Monday, 31 March 1884

Almost nothing done.
I spoke again of the necessity of my aunt’s journey and of other indispensable arrangements — but it has been so long since I first raised it that I can no longer do so without weeping with exasperation...
Then I lay in a very hot bath for more than an hour, and spat blood.
Foolish, you will say — perhaps, but I have no wisdom left; I am discouraged and half mad from my struggles against the obliviousness of my family.
These people do not understand. So, at the end of their arguments, they say: “There is nothing we can do — get married.” Then I reply that I am willing enough, but in that case give me a house, set me up properly. Get married to go on living with them — and with a man I shall not love, into the bargain!!
But to establish me properly, one must go to Russia, sort out all manner of financial affairs — and these ladies prefer to drag out a quiet little existence here, leavened with my tears to which they are accustomed. I should prefer peers or honest loose women. And since they are decent women who do not live for themselves and who adore me, everyone will say I am in the wrong if I despise them publicly. They tell themselves: it will sort itself out, everything will sort itself out. And they do nothing. If at least they dressed up, went out, had some passion or some vice, it would be sad for me but would at least constitute some explanation for my misfortunes, and though distressed I would not feel the atrocious rage of thinking as now when I suffer for nothing, and because of the stupidity of these creatures. “No one is stupid to that extent,” you will say, “and by now you have been explaining things to them for so long...” You see, however, that they are: it is a complete lack of energy and an enormous, selfish trust in chance — they are still waiting for Prince Charming to come and marry me; I swear to you it is literally true.
Well... What to say, what to do?
If this goes on I have perhaps eighteen months; but if I had a little peace I could live twenty years more. Well, no doubt they are saying to themselves now that it is my number 3 that has put me in a bad humour.
Yes, that 3 is hard to swallow. Zillhardt was no better supported than I, and she got a 2 — I am not certain, but I am certain Breslau got a 2. So what about me? There are forty jurors, and apparently I had so many votes for a 2 that people thought I had it. Let us say I had 15 votes. And 25 against — the jury being made up of 15 or 25 known figures and 20 scheming nonentities who paint atrocities.
This is common knowledge.
Well, all this is true — but it has always been so and always will be; consequently my case is not a deliberate injustice.
I submit to the common law; I have no particular enemies, and I am no less supported than Breslau or others.
It must be, then, that my painting does not impose itself — that it is not good, that it is inferior to Breslau’s or even Zillhardt’s. To Breslau I am willing to concede... But...
Well, it is so. And it is a tremendous blow.
Come — I am lucid enough, and I see myself... No, there is nothing to say... I have not suffered injustice.
Indifference or chance — these gentlemen chat away; 2 or 3, what does it matter — in a word: if my painting had been very good, like Bastien’s portrait of his grandfather in 1874, there would have been no number 3...
Yet in 1882 Breslau had two canvases — a painting and a portrait I would have been very happy to have made — and she got a number 3 and was hung high. And last year the same Breslau received no number at all.
Oh, go on then — I know very well I must find consolations, otherwise...
Ah! Never, never, never!! I have never touched the bottom of despair as today. As long as one is sinking downward it is not yet death — but to feel with one’s feet the black and viscous floor... To say to oneself: it is neither circumstances, nor my family, nor the world; it is my lack of talent. Ah! that is too horrible, for there is no appeal, no human force, no divine one.
I no longer see any possibility of working — everything seems finished.
Well then, a complete sensation? Vexation to the bottom? Yes. Well, according to your theories it ought to be a pleasure. Take that. I don’t care — I shall take bromide, it will make me sleep; and then God is great, and some small consolation always finds me after profound miseries.
And to think that I cannot even tell all this — exchange ideas, console myself in conversation... Nothing, no one, no one...
Blessed are the simple in spirit; blessed are those who believe in a good God to whom one can appeal. Appeal against what? Against my having no talent?
There, you see. This is the bottom. So it ought to be a pleasure. It would be, if my miseries had witnesses... The sufferings of those who later become celebrated are recounted by their friends, for one has friends, people one talks with. I see no one. And suppose I lamented! Suppose I said: no, I shall paint no more! And then? It would be no loss to anyone — I have no talent. If I were to take up crochet instead of painting, no one would complain.
So all these things one must keep locked within oneself, which matter to no one... there it is — the worst of torments, the most humiliating. For one knows, one feels, one believes oneself to be nothing.
If this lasted one could not survive it.

Notes

Bromide (potassium bromide): widely prescribed as a sedative and anticonvulsant throughout the 19th century; essentially a general nerve-calming drug. ↩