Friday, 4 January 1878

Berthe continues to come at half past one with me and draws for two hours — I think she has an aptitude...
How strange it is that the old creature is so soundly asleep. Scarcely anything remains of her — a memory now and then that reawakens past bitternesses, but I immediately think of... of what? Of Art? It makes me laugh. That is the definitive machine. I have so long and so desperately sought this end or this means of existing without cursing oneself and cursing the rest of creation all day long — that I can scarcely believe I have found it.
In my black smock I have something that recalls Marie-Antoinette at the Temple.
Poor woman.
I am beginning to become what I wished to be. Sure of myself, outwardly calm, I avoid quarrels and petty disputes; I do few useless things — in short, I am improving little by little. Let us agree on the word "perfection" — perfection for me.
Oh, time! One needs it for everything. Time is more horrible, more nerve-racking, more crushing than ever when there are no other obstacles.
Whatever happens to me, I am better prepared than I was — than in the days when I raged at being compelled to admit that I was not perfectly happy.
I still rage at it — but since it is irrevocable, and since it is no longer possible that I was perfectly happy all my life, given that I have already been the opposite, and since one cannot begin life over, let us continue in another direction, one whose aim will not be the vanity of being able to say that one has always been happy. I shall say it all the same — but to others, not to myself. It enrages me a little — but I shall manage, since it is no longer a question of being perfectly happy. You may think I am joking, or saying this "with bitterness." I assure you I am not. What can one do — I have my own views on everything.