Saturday, 22 January 1881

It is cold, snow everywhere; I go out before eight o’clock every morning. The picture amuses me. Cot has seen it but told me only insignificant things, such as “it is shaping up well”, not bad, etc., and then some encouragement.
It is true that this is the first time he has corrected me. Once Cot had gone, Tony arrived — I had asked him to by letter — chilled to the bone; it is very kind of him.
I asked him to come because, for me, Cot does not exist; I put up with him out of politeness, and that is all. Tony finds there is nothing to change, that nothing is wrong, that it is coming along quite nicely, that it may be very amusing, and that I have only to go on.
Julian, who comes afterwards, is just as kind, and I see that my work amuses him, for he often comes to look at it and encourages me with good advice. He is an excellent teacher. It is all going so well that I cannot believe it.
So that takes care of two months: oblivion, amusement, happiness.
After which I shall take a trip to Italy until the opening of the Salon: three and a half months of the good life, and it seems impossible to me, so good would it be.
Marie Delsarte came to see me. I had asked her to give me lessons in perspective. What a worthy and interesting woman! She adores her sister and speaks of her so sweetly; she would like her to be happy, all the more because hers is a nature that could do with a little comfort. Instead of that, they work for their living and support their mother.
And it is terrible, for in their situation they do not dare go and ask for work, and sometimes they would have to! I have never met two girls so interesting, modest, distinguished and kind!
Magdeleine Delsarte is the wife Julian ought to have; he would like it well enough, but there is Amélie, with her dyed hair fallen out in places, dishevelled, dirty, with her reddened eyes, her thick joints, her bony hands and her implacable love.