Saturday, 3 December 1881

Last evening Julian came with Tony. Is it not kind of them to come and bore themselves with my sadness? True, there was Dina — cheerful, plump, merry and flirtatious. But when there is no talk of painting, these two men hold little interest for me. I like them well enough, only — at Tony's, for instance, I arrive, I show my studies, and after that we talk and it is charming. In the same way with Julian: I bring him, if not a finished picture, then a project, an idea; we discuss it at length; most often he encourages me, and then the conversation broadens and lasts two hours. But like this, without painting, without plans for the future, without hopes for a good showing at the Salon, without dreams of reward — I am dead. Had we been alone with Julian, he would have lifted my spirits by putting his finger on the wound, speaking to me of all my griefs; I would have complained, I would have wept. Even so, he understands well all that I suffer, and it troubles him — I am certain. And Tony and those

studies we were to do!... Ah! what sadness, my God... They did not even try to console me... except with platitudes: who has not lost a month of their life! Do some illustrations; it will pass so quickly! Each Salon is a stepping-stone — and I am about to lose this year...

[In the margin: Bojidar came two or three times; the illustrious mannequin continues to be a friend.]