Sunday, 9 March 1879

Do you know, 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 atelier I must endure a more or less stormy dialogue. Bills get paid, because there is nothing to say to tradespeople — but when I ask for ready money... 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 at the atelier, they raise a heap of objections, as though this payment could be avoided.
Do you know too that it is a devilishly tedious existence!
Goldsmid and his wife came and spent an hour here. As for the others, we have let no one know that 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 pens. For every time some accessory prevents me from working I tell myself it is laziness and that the great painters had no fads... Wait — I understand that Raphael, suddenly inspired, should draw his Madonna della Sedia on the bottom of a barrel; but I do believe, all the same, that this same Raphael, to paint and finish that same picture, resorted to all his favourite tools — and that if he were forced to take a place against his will he would be as irritated as I, a mere mortal, am at the atelier Julian.
Now then... I should very much like to write a book, because this one is so long that no one will be able to read it.
Do you not understand that, with three hundred francs owing, I dislike going to the atelier without paying them?
Fortunately I pay them tomorrow. Do you not understand either that, with my sketchbooks mixed up with books and rags and the planks the carpenter is putting up, I am little inclined to sketch?
Well — what does it matter to me! Go to the devil.