Saturday, 25 May 1878

You know that Cassagnac has not even replied. Before I had resolved to leave him in peace as Cassagnac — this time I shall leave him well and truly in peace, as a man who has been discourteous towards me. Amen.
— It is not going well enough for you, Robert-Fleury tells me.
I felt it myself, and had he not encouraged me about my still lifes I should have fallen from the heights of my hopes, which would have been serious.
We went to the Français to see Les Fourchambault. The play is much admired, but I am not very taken with it.
I had a hat... but that no longer interests me... what I seek is to look distinguished... I had rather forgotten that of late.
I shall decidedly be a great artist... every time I stray from my studies I am driven back to them by blows
of every kind.
Have I not dreamed of political salons, then of society, then of a rich marriage (Multedo is not rich), then of politics again — all in moments when I was dreaming, when I hoped for the possibility of some feminine, human, natural arrangement? But no — nothing. This constant, unflappable, astonishing streak of bad luck even makes me laugh. From it I have gained a great coolness, an enormous contempt for everyone, reasoning, wisdom — a host of things, in short, that compose in me a character cold, disdainful, insensible, and at the same time restless, brusque, energetic.
As for the sacred fire — it is hidden, and the vulgar onlookers, the uninitiated, do not even suspect it. To them I "don't care" about anything, I have no heart, I criticise, I scorn, I mock.
And all the tenderness suppressed in the depths of my being — what do they say of this haughty display? They say nothing... they murmur as they hide themselves still further, offended and sad.
I spend my life saying wild things that please me and astonish others... It would be fine, were it not that they take on a bitter tone — were it not the fruit of this unimaginable bad luck in everything.
Thus when I made the famous petition to the good Lord, the priest gave me the wine and the bread, which I took — then the piece of bread without wine, as is the custom. And this bread fell from my hands twice. I was distressed but said nothing, hoping it was not a refusal... It was one, apparently.
All this proves that there is my art, to which I must devote myself... In fits and starts I shall still no doubt stray from it — but for hours only, after which I shall return, chastened and wise.