Friday, 30 November 1877

I have at last brought my mandolin to the studio, and this charming instrument has charmed everyone — the more so since, for those who have never heard one played, I play it well. And in the evening, as I was playing during the break while Amélie accompanied me on the piano, Father came in and stood listening. If you could have seen him, you would have seen a man in rapture. Like all painters without merit, he usually mocks Italy — after the mandolin, he almost agrees with me that it was the most beautiful country in the world.
— I who thought the mandolin was a sort of guitar one strummed! I did not know it could sing like that — I could not have imagined that such sounds could be drawn from it, and it is graceful! Good heavens, I shall say no more ill of it. I spent there — would you believe it — a fine moment. Ah! it is beautiful. People may laugh if they like, but I assure you it... scratches something in the heart. It is a strange thing.
Ah! Wretch — so you feel it then.
While we were at Amélie's sister's — who gives Dina lessons in fan painting — Marcuard came to see us. I forgot to tell you that yesterday he had sent me a rather fine bouquet.
That same mandolin had no success one evening when I played it before Doubelt, des Perrières, Zurlo, and so forth — though those were people who ought to have paid compliments in any case. Too much light, heart-shaped waistcoats, and rice powder — all of that destroys the charm. Whereas the studio banisters, the calm, the dark staircase in the evening, the fatigue — these dispose one toward all that is tender, strange, gentle, charming in this world.
Mine is a terrible trade — eight hours of work a day, the journeys, and above all work that is conscientious and intelligent. By God! Nothing is more stupid than drawing without thinking about what one does — without comparing, without remembering, without studying — and that would not be tiring.
Let the days be longer and I shall work more — it is so as to return to Italy.
I want to succeed.