Monday, 27 December 1880

Amelie decides to do the studio at number 53. But this Julian is unbearable. He thinks he is playing at work by bantering. It infuriates me. You understand, with all these students coming and going, I need to know what plan I can... besides, here it is — I ask Amelie to whistle for Julian through the tube; he answers that he has nothing more to explain to me and that people who want to work find the means.
At least that is what Amelie, her ear to the tube, tells me. Then I protest that I must know whether one can make an opening in the partition that was discussed, and this girl says into the tube that I am asking if I can count on the partition being taken down. Naturally he answers no, and I had nothing more to have conveyed by this obliging Amelie... No, it is revolting! For nearly a year now, not counting before, I have done everything in the world to get her well-disposed toward me — little attentions, treats, I have her lunch with me every day — in short, I am everything kind to her, and this base nature cannot overcome her stupid envy and hostility toward me. To hell with all that! Ah, how wicked, envious, and perfidious I would be with pleasure, if I had the means!
So I write this to Julian and place it myself on his desk, before which he was seated. But this man will surely tell the maid or Amelie. Ah, ugh!
Sir,
You refuse to give me any indication. Yet I cannot compose my sketch without knowing where I must position myself and what space I may have. It is essential. The sketch will be entirely different depending on whether I place myself at one end of the studio or the other. You understand this very well. I have never asked that the house be demolished, but I must be granted a certain space. With the most furious desire to work, one can do nothing without that. But if, upon reflection, you think I cannot do this painting, tell me frankly — that is kinder than leading me to give it up myself by bantering, which discourages me entirely. Etc.
That is also true, but I am quite mad to believe that anything good can happen to me.
The Nachet portrait is going badly, obsesses me, annoys me!
And I have a devil in my fingers; I no longer know how I used to do it — it seems I am someone else.
But my child, you will say, you are ill. I do believe that if something good happened for the Salon or some other joy, there would be no more illness.
Collignon always told me to take care with my handwriting; it seems, she said, that you do not dare make your letters slender — they appear restrained, as if something weighed on them, an effort and then a flattening... That is my whole life.
[Blacked-out word: Look] carefully at my handwriting — do you not find something violent, repressed, squat? I feel this as in a nightmare: one cannot cry out, one suffocates.
I do believe that Amelie has done some underground work against me, or that she is certain I cannot have enough space for my large canvas; she was too pleased and laughed with a wicked air. I have the misfortune of being very strongly affected; wickedness freezes me, discourages me. I sense ill will in the air, so to speak, and am paralyzed.