Wednesday, 30 November 1881

Julian came last evening; he thinks me very ill — I could tell from his slightly forced gaiety. As for me, I am in a state of deep affliction. I do nothing, and my painting! But above all, doing nothing at all! Can you understand this despair — sitting there with one's arms hanging idle! While the others work, make progress, prepare their pictures.

I believed God had left me painting, and I had shut myself inside it as into an ultimate refuge. And now it fails me, and I can do nothing but ruin my eyes with weeping.