Friday, 23 November 1877

At half past eleven Grand-papa was paralysed in the arm and leg, so that on coming home for luncheon I found everyone in tears — Walitsky having declared it might be the end by tonight. I did not believe it for a single instant: it had not been foretold to me, and I had dreamed nothing.
That rogue Breslau has made a composition — Monday morning, or the choice of the model. The whole studio is there, the models on the table, Julian beside me and Amélie, and so forth. It is correctly done — the perspective fine, the proportions, the likenesses, everything.
When one can do a thing like that, one will be a great artist.
You can guess, can you not? I am jealous. That is good, because it will spur me on. But I have already been drawing for six weeks!
Breslau will always be ahead, having begun before me — no, in two or three months I shall be able to draw like her, which is to say very well. Besides, I am pleased to have found a worthy rival; with the others I should have fallen asleep.
Ah! It is dreadful to want to draw like a master after six weeks of study.
Grand-papa is ill and Dina is at her post of vigilance, devotion, and care. She is twenty-two or twenty-three, I believe — much improved in looks, and so good! If heaven does not send her some happiness... Good heavens! I should be impertinent to the good Lord.