Thursday, 6 November 1879

What shall I tell you? Must I still complain of the cowards who surround me? I can do nothing! For a moment my mother thought of going to Russia and settling everything. How naive of me to have believed it even for a moment.
I am condemned. And no one wants to save me. This dreadful feeling of talking to the deaf, of crying out in an underground passage where no one can hear me.
Art. Why, good Lord! I know, but where have you ever seen anyone famous after two years of study! Art will give me a place when I am twenty-eight or thirty! For all these little great men who were known at twenty-five began going to the ateliers at fifteen or seventeen. What I need is something immediate; I am twenty, nearly twenty-one.
It is stupid to struggle. There is nothing more to be done. Yes, I know that perfectly well, but I am weak, I suffer and I weep. It is absurd, since it is useless. It ought not to be, since it does no good.
I should defend myself against it... but I am a coward and I weep for myself.