Sunday, 9 March 1879

Do you know that writing is a great consolation.
There are things that would destroy you if you did not intend them to be read and therefore "divided to infinity."
Do you know too that I cannot recall ever having obtained a hundred francs without drama? Every time I have to pay at the studio I must endure a more or less animated dialogue. Bills get paid because there is nothing to say to tradespeople — but when I ask for cash in hand... These ladies are amusing: they often urge me to buy a completely useless hat, or encourage me to produce a masterpiece like my last trip — and when I ask for 300 francs to pay what I owe Julian for three months' studio, they raise a heap of objections as though this payment could be avoided.
Do you know too that it is a devilishly crushing existence!
Goldsmid and his wife came and spent an hour here. As for the others, we have let no one know we are back and receiving. I have not gone to see Berthe because she is at her mother's, and her mother has never come since that fine marriage.
I am pleased to find that a man like Dumas cares about the quality of paper, ink, and pen nibs. For every time some accessory prevents me from working I tell myself it is laziness and that the great painters had no quirks. Wait — I understand that, suddenly inspired, Raphael drew the Madonna della Sedia on a barrel bottom; but I do believe nonetheless that this same Raphael, to paint and finish that same picture, resorted to all his favorite tools — and that if one forced him to take a place against his will he would be irritated, as I am, mere mortal at the atelier Julian.
Here is a thought — I would very much like to make a book of it, because this one is so long that no one will be able to read it.
Do you not understand that with three hundred francs outstanding it is disagreeable to go to the studio without having paid them?
Fortunately I pay them tomorrow. Do you not understand either that having my sketchbooks mixed in with books and rags and planks the carpenter is laying down, I am little inclined to sketch?
Well — what does it matter to me! Go to the devil.