Thursday, 6 March 1879

Well — I am doing a still life. But yesterday’s ideas... I recall a letter from Marcuard in which he told me: This winter we have a young Polish girl here who rules the roost — Mademoiselle Tanska — she goes in for sculpture.
By the end of winter this young woman had married. It is clear and straightforward, this adventure. She went into society, naturally. To go to Florence, take up sculpture, and marry — well and good; at least it does not drag on. What if I went to Florence? It would be less to marry than to see society — I have an idea we would be happy in Florence.
Well then — that is it: next winter we shall go and spend two months there.
At present it has become an illness — society; two months would be enough; I would come back here to work... at what? I think as though painting did not exist, and I cannot understand what glory means... In fact, why torment oneself when there are heaps of people who have everything, who are adored, and from whom neither talent nor learning is demanded.
I detest Paris beyond all expression; in Paris one sees all those odious faces from Nice, from Rome, from everywhere.
I am ashamed of myself; I would like to go out masked, and then something else... ever since that article in the Figaro about the Nice races, about the base doings in Nice, the idea that everyone takes me for a bad woman has not left me. If only you knew how terrible it is, this humiliation at every moment. I am sure it is an illness, but I do not know how to treat it.
I shall go mad if I do not order myself to think of nothing before next winter and to work until then, since there is nothing better to do.