Saturday, 9 June 1877

I got up at seven, but it was already hot. Three books started, a notebook, two canvases — but I seize the mandoline, and after a few plaintive notes I start to read, but I have forgotten to note something down, and with the mandoline under one arm and the book under the other, I write.
Brunet arrives; then I paint; then I lie down; then I go out with everyone — but it is tedious. We encounter Galula, and further on Soroka — but the latter went by, seen only by Maman. I wonder why she greets that Nicois oaf.
Nice is the place I come to to meditate on all my travels of the year.
A girl has the right, does she not, to wish to see her mother. Well — I wish to see mine. It is truly strange: I no longer love Alexandre at all, but his mother is mine, and I love her.
And what if Mme Tutcheff were to continue her persecutions in Paris? She is acquainted with Mme Smelsky, née Basilewsky — these Basilewskys, cousins of Mme Kondareff, have a great house in Paris.
That is a truly terrible anxiety.