Tuesday, 5 March 1878

Do you realize that I have been drawing for five months now.
Etienne wants me to do his portrait. I am doing it in the afternoon, and consequently go to the atelier only in the morning and evening. And already it seems to me that I am no longer working. He poses badly; I am always afraid of boring him — it unsettles me. Now that I know something, I see plainly that I do not know how to paint.
I went to Alexis to find Pincio, and Alexis refused, saying he no longer concerns himself with anything but illnesses. I showed him some of Breslau's hair, and he described her illness so accurately that one is truly forced to believe.
I am grieved. Pincio had nothing of those detestable lap-dogs women keep — he was above all an original dog... Walitsky is dead, Pincio is lost... and I am bored and sad. Whatever conviction I may have that I can begin again at twenty-one, I am at bottom furious — furious at being buried, at seeing my best years pass as though in a tomb.
Berthe, Yorke, and Dina are at the theatre — the others too. Alexandre and I talk politics until eleven.
Poor Pincio — when one thinks what may have become of him.
That man, whose name I refuse to speak for fear of soiling myself, said in front of grandfather and in front of Alexandre that Marie is angry with me. To which Alexandre replied that he was deluding himself — that the time when one was angry with him was
past, and that Marie was defending herself since there is no one else to defend her. Two days ago, I believe, there was a scene — people arriving to claim this man's debts. Alexandre, who is a Hercules in both spirit and body, could not recover from it; he came back into the dining room trembling all over with indignation and could only say: Poor people! You suffer all this! The most wretched peasants are masters in their own homes and respected! I never had any idea such scandals went on in your house!
I was glad that this man of regular habits came to bring sound words and sound judgment. After all these miseries I no longer knew quite clearly whether I was right to revolt.
These horrors tire me, overwhelm me, and I am even more enraged with humiliation at being forced to endure all these impressions that come to me from others — that disturb my intelligence, that dull my outward appearance!
And I can do nothing about it. I isolate myself, I study — but I am angry at the thought that I am forced to do so, and I rage because all of this reaches me and grieves me.