Friday, 12 April 1878

As I was falling asleep it seemed to me that I had written nonsense, and today I am afraid again.
Yesterday Julian met Robert-Fleury at the café, and Robert-Fleury said that I was a truly interesting and astonishing student and that he had great hopes for me. It is to this that I must hold fast, especially in the moments when all my
intelligence is invaded by that inexplicable and dreadful terror, or I feel myself sinking into an abyss of doubts, shames, torments of every kind without any real cause!!
Very often of late there are three candles in my room. It is a sign of death. Is it I who am to pass into the other world? It seems to me that yes. And my future and my glory? Oh! Well, they shall be done for.
If there were any man in the landscape I should believe I was in love again, so anxious am I — but besides there being none, I am disgusted... and why? It is again the most convenient thing, these fancies... but they humiliate me... yet there are days when I find that one does not demean oneself by following these caprices — on the contrary one demonstrates pride or contempt for others by refusing to constrain oneself. Oh! But they are all so base and so unworthy that I am incapable of giving them a moment's thought. To begin with, they all have corns on their feet — and I would not forgive that in a king! Imagine me dreaming of a man with corns on his feet!! Multedo must have them. But I have told you that Multedo only presents himself to my mind as a husband — I do not know why. Perhaps it is because he answers the description made by my fortune-tellers and because he comes from an island.
I begin to believe in a serious passion for my craft, which reassures and consoles me. I want nothing else, and I am too disgusted with everything for there to be anything else.
Were it not for this anxiety and this fear I should be happy!
Fear of whom or of what — ask the devil... Among other unknown causes I trace my blushing to hearing Cassagnac speak of that letter. I did not even have the wit to point it out to him with a laugh.
The weather is quite fine — spring at last; one feels it as much as is possible in Paris where even in the most charming woods, beneath trees that seem mysterious and poetic, one is always sure to find a waiter with his white apron rolled up and a glass of beer in hand. I rise with the sun and am at the atelier before the model. Provided only this fear does not return — this accursed superstition which I had already forbidden myself to compare anything to. I recall that in my childhood I had a presentiment or fear very much like this; it seemed to me that I could never learn anything but French and that other languages would prove unlearnable. Well! You
see that it was absolutely nothing of the kind, and yet it was a genuine superstitious fear, just as now.
I hope that this example will reassure me.
Yes, it reassures me, and I defend myself against this folly as I defended myself against the compulsions I was subject to at every moment and which went so far as to make me speak to Victor-Emmanuel, as I defended myself against the patience games that quite stupefied me, and several other obsessions that made existence genuinely difficult. Now that I am rid of them... Alleluia! And if it were to return — it generally comes once a year and that is too often...
Enough! I am done with it; it is worn to threads and it will not return... I am sure of it... I say so to embolden myself. Oh! From the moment I can joke about it all is well, and God be praised — it is truly over.
I thought that La Recherche de l'Absolu was something altogether different, because I too seek the Absolute... but the absolute of feelings and the absolute in all things — it is that which makes me think and write forty thousand gropings, at the end of which I arrive well enough but always slightly off, never exactly right.
Tomorrow they bury Prince Lucien Murat, son of King Murat, at Saint-Augustin, the Bonapartist church. It will be interesting. But I do not like attending spectacles from behind the rope.