Saturday, 13 August 1881

Well then, I work at it — barely two hours — and then: give it up! The question is: suppose I abandon it, and then I say to myself: who knows? Perhaps it would have been very good. So I decide to go on, and immediately I tell myself: it is pretentious and says nothing.
Indeed I dislike my models. And then I picture the canvas exhibited on the boulevard just after the elections... And then it is such an unfeminine subject — which is precisely what attracts me most.
If I had the certainty that there was no chance of it being good — that I am not capable of doing it well enough for the subject to achieve grandeur — but then who knows, if I apply myself, perhaps? There is the “perhaps” that is driving me mad.
Julian’s opinion — but Julian was wrong about Zillhardt this year: he had predicted good things, and the result was a disaster.
I am going to leave it to chance — but if chance does not say what I say... and what do I say?
It is my illness, I swear. I absolutely need Alexis for the painting, and I don’t know when he is coming back, and I have only eighteen days left. You’re mad.
No — I have time.
Yes — chance! Well then: I open this notebook at random, I place my finger at random, and if the number of letters in the line on which my finger falls is even, I give up the painting.
Very well — it is even. But...
You are not unaware that I have a diseased right lung; well, you will no doubt take pleasure in learning that the left is likewise affected. None of these idiot doctors has yet told me so — besides, I felt it for the first time in the relic catacombs at Kiev, but I thought it was a momentary pain caused by the damp. Since then it returns every day, and this evening so strongly that I find it painful to breathe, and there is a real pain between the collarbone and the breast — the very place where the doctors tap their little taps. And the painting.