Monday, 27 December 1880

Amélie makes up her mind to paint the atelier at number 53. But that Julian is unbearable. He thinks he is making light of work by mocking. It infuriates me. You understand, with all these students coming and going, I need to know what plan I can... anyway, here it is: I ask Amélie to whistle down the tube for Julian; he answers that he has nothing more to explain to me and that people who want to work find a way.
At least that is what Amélie, her ear to the tube, tells me. Then I protest that I really must know whether the opening that was talked of can be made in the partition, 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 send through this obliging Amélie... No, really, it is revolting! For nearly a year now, not counting before, I have done everything in the world to put her in a good humour towards me — little attentions, treats; I have her lunch with me every day; in short, I am as nice to her as can be, and this base nature cannot overcome her brute envy and her hostility towards me. To the devil with all of it! Ah, how wicked, envious and treacherous I would be, and with relish, if I had the means!
So I write this to Julian and put it on his desk myself, while he was sitting at it. But the man is sure to tell the maid or Amélie about it. Ah, pah!
Sir,
You will not give me any guidance. Yet I cannot compose my sketch without knowing where I am to set myself up and how much room I shall have. It is essential. The sketch will be entirely different depending on whether I place myself at one end of the atelier 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, on reflection, you think I cannot do this picture, tell me so frankly — that is kinder than bringing me to give it up of my own accord by mocking me, which discourages me completely. 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 came my way for the Salon, or some other joy, there would be no more illness.
Collignon always used to tell me to take care over my handwriting. “It looks,” she would say, “as if you dare not let your letters soar — they appear restrained, as if something weighed on them, an effort and then a flattening...” That is my whole life.
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 Amélie has been working against me underhand, or that she is certain I cannot have enough space for my large canvas; she was too pleased and laughed spitefully. I have the misfortune of being very easily affected; wickedness freezes me, discourages me. I sense ill will in the air, so to speak, and am paralysed.