Wednesday, 12 October 1881

And this morning he scraped his copy and abandoned the work, and looks like someone who has received a blow to the heart… These are moments of sweet suffering one recognizes in others from having passed through them oneself. One's head is dizzy — it seems as though something has broken inside you; one could weep at nothing, and with that an indifference resembling lassitude and despair — yet one is not unhappy. It may very well be painting alone or some other thing… but I imagine myself to be the cause of his distress… I finish my copy of the Forge of Vulcan by Velázquez; judging by the public, it must be good. The poor devil artists who make reduced copies of famous paintings for sale come several times a day to watch me work — and the art students, and the foreigners — several English, French, and Spanish among them, speaking to each other — have said the most flattering things. And when I step away they climb the ladder to look at my large brushstrokes and see how it is painted — in short my poor
little [blacked out: there would be reason to be] puffed up with pride if one were [blacked out: less] ambitious. The Spanish are amusing — two or three painters, by the look of them, came to view my work, then went to speak with a copyist at the left who told them who was making that magnificent copy (I was at the other end of the room); whereupon they, in passing before me, bowed deeply and made a very approving gesture toward the canvas, murmuring something — besides, these immense triumphs do not let up, they even prevented me from working well. Escobar accompanies us to the Retiro, which is decidedly more elegant than the Bois. Escobar is amiable and gallant as a Spaniard, but I do not think I have turned his head. That Paris — I have always detested it physically, always, always. How much more [blacked out: sympathetic] Madrid is, despite its irregular streets and its poor appearance in comparison to Paris. You see Paris — it is what it brings you. When it brings you something… and then that stupid Europe tacitly recognizing it as its capital — but I detest it as a city: its wearisome elegance, its shops, its courtesans, its new houses — it is terribly anti-artistic. Only Rome and Madrid resemble it a little. Ah! The South. I am of the South myself — born in Ukraine, grown up in Nice — and I adore the South.