Wednesday, 30 July 1884

Maman and Dina lunch here; there is also young M. de Bourgoing, whom the Marshal has just taken on as aide-de-camp. A tall, handsome boy. Well then — how can one, how could one concern oneself with a man like that, or all the others? I speak only of the handsome and the sufficiently intelligent. What? A nose, eyes, flesh by weight. And then?
Can there really be women who... Come now, I am being foolish — it is perfectly natural. If one only loved men of genius the world would cease to exist.
Yet these people seem so little to me — barely more than a tree or a horse. Their opinion is dear to me only because, after all, it is what constitutes reputation in this world, and it reaches the ears of the one who is... someone. You will never guess what I sought in order to decide to come here. For it is, after all, cowardly to paint the young girl's picture, and I would just as soon not be the friend of Marshals of France... Yes, but this friendship impresses a great many people — the most intelligent, the most... And it is precisely those who are most susceptible to the vanities of this world... And it is for them that I decided to come to Jouy, and it is for them that I shall always decide to do what my conscience might condemn — that is my excuse. At present the excuse is named Bastien-Lepage.
I believe it is part of the educational system the Marshal's wife applies to her daughter to give her, among other things, a foreign friend. These are glimpses of various countries and customs; she wants Claire to be like young diplomats — knowing everything, able to make a sketch, speak of Wagner, and so on. Claire has passed her examinations at the Hôtel de Ville.
She is very happy to have found in me an extraordinary person who initiates her daughter into a peculiar way of seeing, who speaks of art as an artist — one from whom she will retain all the worthwhile words — and who is at the same time a true young woman [Words blacked out: extremely prim and proper], despite having read Zola and Flaubert and everything. And who will never say a word that ought not to be said.
In short, Claire is an extraordinarily finished young girl — her mother has suggested even her emotions to her, I would swear to it. Thus this evening she made us walk in the woods by moonlight, probably to harden Claire against the agitations of a beautiful summer night. One could not dream of a more beautiful night — but I remained absolutely unmoved, walking between the Marshal's wife and Claire.
These people like me well enough, and the Marshal's wife has a high opinion of her daughter's painting — at moments I truly believe she thinks Claire is painting the picture, and that does me good.
Only this afternoon I took Claire aside and said to her roughly as follows:
— Look. You do not work enough and this painting is not going as I wish. We must therefore find a solution. If you worked, you would do very good things. But you are right not to sacrifice yourself to it entirely — look at me, everything goes into it, so... A push would be needed. How? I shall finish my painting and leave it to you; you, in my absence, will use it and send me the two canvases to Paris, and then we shall see. You understand, I like to establish everything with clarity — I need complete tranquillity for my painting, so all this must be settled, for I take an interest in you and shall not let you go. That is settled.
— That is settled.
But next year? Let us hope she will be married by then. It is not even from cowardice that I do it, but from weakness. I feel... Well, you know — I did the same with Bojidar and Villevielle. Come December they will send Claire, and since until now we have worked together, since I admitted her to absolute intimacy, how is one to say she is in the way without quarrelling? But once they have their painting I shall say I work outdoors, and since they will have no further interest in coming, I shall easily be rid of them.
Claire's education is so perfect that she would be wounded to the heart reading how I speak of all this — she is sensitive and even original, for her mother has very broad, very liberal ideas.
Yesterday I went through agonies... and today and every day.
Sometimes I think this painting will be remarkable and do me honour — and that I am letting another sign it. Sometimes that it will be detestable and they will refuse it at the Salon. Can you picture that.
Ah! misery.
I love no one in the world; no one to speak my language with. I should think they were the ideas of an old maid if I had not been this way for a long time.
No friends. There are people who have friends, or one friend to whom one says everything. School or convent companions, or simply childhood friends. I have no one.
I found some stupid, others cowardly, treacherous and spiteful. Never an honest heart. At Nice the little Howard girls... and before and since, in little girls and in young women — all the ugliest sides of humanity.
Lying, cowardice, stupidity. When we fell out with the Howards, the young girls told everyone that I spent my time saying I was only waiting to grow up in order to go play roulette and amuse myself at Monaco.
The truth was that even then I was distrustful, and that even if I thought such things I should have been very careful not to say them.
Ah! misery.
So I am different from others — other, particular?
I am almost vain of it, and would gladly sing like Moses:
Lord, you have made me powerful and solitary
Had I known a great many people, it is likely I should have found friends — unless I had found still more numerous disillusions... But my acquaintances have always been very limited...

Notes

From Alfred de Vigny's celebrated poem Moïse (1822), spoken by Moses as he stands before the Promised Land he will not enter — a lament on the loneliness of exceptional greatness. In French in the original.