Thursday, 6 December 1877

It is two months since I began drawing. Had I started at sixteen — sixteen is nothing extraordinary — at my present age I should have had three years of work behind me.
No — listen — I am a wretch, an unhappy woman, a failed creature!
At twenty I shall still know nothing! I am nineteen, exactly, or rather nineteen less a month, since I came into the world on 12 November, 24; and I was not due to come into the world until two months later. Let us say 14 November, and for the public it will be 24 January. So I am nineteen! Nineteen! And I have done nothing yet, and I am nothing yet! Mercy and horror! It is enough to die of.
In the spring of 1880 I shall go to Italy, in two years, perhaps sooner. But... this is how it is. If... I knew beforehand that my studies would lead me only to something passable, I would not pursue them at all, and that is very understandable. I am giving them my first, my best youth, which I might have spent amusing myself... how? Going into society? A great success that was, eh? Travelling the world, going to England, to Spain, to look for a husband.
Instead of that I work, which may lead me to glory, and which may also merely put off by two years what I have just described. The latter is not possible, whereas the former is probable.
At twenty-one I shall still have time, whereas if I spent another two years like the last ones I should go mad or commit horrors.
Everything has turned out so badly for me, truly... Rome, Russia, Alexandre... and what is most terrible is that I foretold, I suspected all these defeats. Yes... yes, all this happened so that I should throw myself into Art; otherwise I might never have understood how one works; it would not have been necessary. And besides, I adore my craft, but I could not separate it from vanity. It is so natural: nobody in the world would paint pictures if they were told it was so that they should remain unknown for ever.
The envious and the fools give the name of Vanity to the feeling that produces every remarkable thing. The brutes!
The painter Tofano came.
Come, come, two years more, two years. It seems so simple to me that I am afraid; that is natural enough: one is frightened when one has had nothing but kicks.