Friday, 17 August 1877

I have convinced myself that I cannot live outside Rome... Indeed I am quite simply wasting away. But at least I want nothing. I would have given two years of my life not to have been to Rome yet. Unfortunately one only learns how to do things when there is nothing left to do.
Painting enrages me! Because within me there is material for wonders, and I am in the matter of study more wretched than the first little girl who comes along in whom aptitude is noticed and who is sent to school. Well! I hope at least that, enraged at the loss of what I could have created, Posterity will decapitate my entire family.
You think I still want to go into society? No, no longer. I am embittered, vexed, and I make myself an artist as the discontented make themselves republicans. I believe I am slandering myself.
Besides, I should be afraid of going into society — one would only need not to have success... oh! that...
Waléry has just sent me my photographs; one would think the poses were imposed on me, yet they are natural. I was waiting for him to come and place me; he called out to me not to move, saying it was perfect. Perfect or not, I am what I am at present. But what do you say to a Greek coiffure with a pointed bodice? I hasten to explain that I intended to pose only for the head and neck, and wore that bodice only because it is my only low-cut one.
I allow myself to speak of myself poetically!
I eat almost nothing and am in excellent health! I love myself so dearly that my vulgar style seems to me a crime of lèse-majesté.
Rémy had the stupidity to bore me while I was painting Hall, who had to make her escape since I was having her pose almost nude.
After all... in every century it was the same... one went there, one worked... and then... why do it, or rather why not do as the others do? Bury myself? If God...
Marcuard is dead perhaps.